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Garden respites are fewer and farther between than ever, but Jill makes it a point to drag Tarja from the infirmary when things are relatively quiet. These days, that typically means that the Cursebreakers are out on a mission to liberate Bearers and they’ll all be lucky if the infirmary isn’t overflowing upon their return. The realm has fallen into chaos, the illusion of normalcy maintained by generals and nobles clutching flimsy concepts of power until their knuckles whiten. That the hideaway is so quiet is a miracle. Or a sense of what’s to come.
The air feels less dense under scraggly branches with half-wilted leaves. Persistent yellow flowers reach out for the sun’s diluted light, stems bending in the breeze but never breaking. Jill finds it a touch comforting—a natural analog to their plight. The hideaway and all its creaky planks. The people: clothed, fed, living for their own sakes. The garden, born of ceaseless effort and experimentation.
Tarja passes an apple back and forth between her palms. Creases on her face betray her silence. There’s plenty to say. None of it is easy, though. In marginally simpler times, the two would sit here and talk about nothing in particular: failed attempts to make the ale not taste like dirt and piss, Torgal’s distaste for bath time, whining about cramps.
Jill had offered to braid Tarja’s hair once. Tarja had hurriedly dismissed the suggestion, but just as quickly acquiesced to let Jill weave one long, thin braid that she kept until it unraveled.
It looked good on her.
“Do you remember Martelle?” Tarja finally says. Her gaze follows the apple.
The name is familiar. Martelle was among the victims of Kupka’s attack. Jill remembers that, but the woman’s face eludes her.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Tarja says. “I don’t know why I even asked. You two would have hardly had time to say hello.”
Jill’s shoulders fall into a slouch. “I wish we did.”
“Me too.” Tarja keeps the apple still in her right hand and tilts her wrist to offer it to Jill.
Jill grasps the apple delicately. Her bite is reserved. The tiny bit of apple is bitter, but crisp.
“She was a hard worker,” Tarja reminisces. “Smart. You’d have gotten along.”
Jill hides her frown with the apple. “I think so, too.”
They fall quiet again. More often than not, their shared silences are comfortable. Coveted moments of peace. This isn’t that. Their tongues aren’t preoccupied with humming; they’re stiff with fear of what’s to come. They should both be numb from it all. Death, Blight, whatever nonsense Ultima decides to pull out of thin air. Yet here at what could be the end of everything, just the silhouette of words shakes Jill to her core.
“I remember the first time we met,” Jill says through a tightening throat. “You were the first person I saw after I woke up.”
“Hope I made a good first impression.” Tarja sends Jill an inquisitive glance.
“You tended my wounds and dressed me in the finest garments you could find. I’d call it a success.”
Jill thinks back on the extra touch of blue Tarja had attached to her belt, just for the sake of looking nice.
“I felt... pretty.”
“You are pretty.”
Jill turns the compliment around. “If I’m pretty, that makes you a siren.”
“Maybe we should head back to the infirmary,” Tarja says, “check your eyes.”
The subtle smile on Tarja’s face gives Jill a moment of relief, only for that feeling to be snatched away once again.
“You’re really going.”
Jill turns the apple in her hands. “I... am.”
“Of course.” Tarja stands from the crowded wooden bench. “Fuck that false god up, will you?”
Jill grasps Tarja’s forearm before she can take a single step. She feels Tarja shaking through all their layers. Or, perhaps those are her own tremors—unspoken words finding other ways to claw their way out.
Tarja relents easily and sinks back down.
“We’ll save this world,” Jill says. At the very least, she can be certain of that.
“Damn the world,” Tarja hisses, dropping her gaze. “What about you?”
Having wished for death for no small part of her life, Jill had come to terms with the fact that she may not return from Origin with little difficulty, if any. With Ultima dead, the Blight would recede, the sun would reemerge, and the concepts of Bearers, Dominants, and blood-bathed crystals would fade into the annals of history.
But what about her?
There’s plenty to look forward to if she does survive. If she lived long enough, she could visit the ruins of the Northern Territories. Sail past the ends of the continent. See Tarja finally, finally stop needing to put her battered friends back together.
Jill eases her grip and rests her hand over a clenched fist. The only time she’s seen Tarja this shaken was after the massacre five years ago. She was pale. Working through tears and a lack of sleep. Angry. Sick from the stress of it all, mending others’ wounds while on the brink of falling over herself. Staring into the pyre until every last face burned away. Jill couldn’t do that to her. No, never.
Never, never, never. What was she thinking? There is no other option but to come back. For Tarja, for Torgal, the kids, Gav, Mid, Tomes, Otto—everyone. They’ll want to hear all about how four Dominants dared to take on a god and won.
“I will come back,” Jill says. She lowers her head in an attempt to catch Tarja’s gaze, but her eyes are squeezed shut. Jill presses their foreheads together instead. “I promise. I’ll come back to you.”
“You damn well better,” Tarja says under her breath. “I need you.”
Jill isn’t sure who started leaning closer first or whose fingers sought the other’s. It’s quick—tenderness and desperation, a shared breath, chapped lips and a stray tear. Warmth, like venom, spreads to her cheeks and ears.
Maybe Tarja’s cooled some? The tension across her features has eased, and her eyes twinkle like diamond dust. Greagor wishes she could compare.
“Don’t worry,” Jill reiterates. “I’ll be damned if I let that thing keep me from you.”
After all, Jill has long since found herself needing Tarja as well.
Terribly so.