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Chapter Text

There’s not much Caitlyn remembers about that night. When the physician asked her the next day what happened and the head of the guard the day after and she had almost nothing to tell them they reassured her it was expected. Something about the mind trying to protect itself, unwilling to relive certain memories. They told her it should become easier as she heals. 

She finds it all beyond frustrating. But over the months the night has come back to her in bits and pieces. Broken fragments cutting into her dreams. 

She remembers that it was the clattering outside her door that woke her up, not the screaming. She remembers her door crashing open with a boom and Maddie rushing in, one of the guards behind her. 

She remembers the sound of metal clashing above her bed. She remembers reaching for a knife and the feel of blood dripping down her fingers. 

She still has that knife, the exact one. It's one of the few personal artifacts she refused to leave without. She sleeps with it on her nightstand, carries it with her under her sleeves and feels ridiculous over the sense of security it gives her 

She remembers the cold on her legs getting out of bed, the feel of fear in her stomach. 

She remembers Maddie close to her, hands reaching out. She remembers how wild her hair was, that she wearing strange leather armor, that she was bleeding. Caitlyn must have struck her.  

Then there’s a blur, a cry but she can’t tell who from.  

The guard calls, “my lady!” 

That's where she gets lost. She knows there was a fight. It was quick and loud. She knows she was in the middle of it, slashing with her knife. But it’s all dark. She has no concrete idea what happened, it only comes back to her in terrifying flashes and slips through her fingers like oil when she tries to recall it. 

After that is the pain, sharp and overwhelming. The hot rush of blood down her face, her vision going red. 

She remembers striking out, almost on instinct. She hit a body, felt her dagger slice through flesh, heard them fall. After that, nothing. She passed out. 

She wakes up three days later a soft pounding at her temple spreading down her cheek, to her mother leaning over her while she lies on a thin cot, puffy eyed and stone faced. There is no mercy to be found in her mother. 

“Your secret bedmate broke into your room, and we don't know what she was looking for. Is that correct, Caitlyn?” 

“Mother-” 

“It is. You let this stranger, a strange woman at that, into your bed— into our home— and she attacked you. Broke into your chambers.” She brings her fingers up to pinch the bridge of her nose, like this is all such an inconvenience to her, like Caitlyn is a small child in need of scolding and she’s been dragged out of an important meeting to do so. “And for what purpose? We don’t even know.” 

As if the whole affair wasn’t humiliating enough. Being found with a woman in her bed is bad enough. But being played so obviously, betrayed and attacked with sword and steel? In her own rooms? It's unbearable. Not only that, it’s unspeakable. As in, if anybody ever gets word of it Caitlyn will be an eternal stain on the Kiramman name. 

The pain of the wound is eclipsed by the burning shame bubbling up in her throat. 

Quite frankly, she just wants to cry. She wants her mother to hug her and stroke her hair away from her face. She wants her to leave her be to feel miserable in peace. She's so tired. Her head aches like it never has before. 

“Cassandra,” her father says from where he sits, reaching up to grasp her mother's hand. “She needs rest. She’s had the worst day.” 

Her mother softens imperceptibly. Not that it does much for Caitlyn now, but she doesn’t move away when she feels her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “Yes,” she says, “You sleep now. We’ll speak more in the morning.” 

“I’d rather not.” 

“No more cheek from you,” her father says gently, pressing a kiss to her intact cheek. “Sleep well.” 

*** 

Her mother does indeed come back in the morning. She sits at Caitlyn’s bedside for almost half an hour before she says anything. The calm before the storm. 

Finally, “Caitlyn-” 

“Must we do this? You're being terribly foreboding and my head still hurts.” 

“The world does not wait for your aches to heal.” 

“You’d think my mother would,” she mumbles. 

“It is not a mother’s job to coddle her child.” As she loves to remind her. “It is a mother’s job to raise her child. And up until recently I had thought I’d done rather well.” 

Sorry to be your only failure . 

Her mother makes a show of smoothing her skirts as she continues. It’s like she’s working up to something. Something she knows Caitlyn won’t like. “This is going to sound harsh, but if you believe anything I say, believe that I only have you best interest at heart. This comes from a place of love.” 

That cannot mean anything good. The anxiety starts to roll in in massive waves. It's clear that what her mother is about to say is going to be truly upsetting if she’s getting a forewarning. 

“I know this time is going to be-- difficult for you. I believe that some separation might ease it.” 

“Separation?” She asks with a building dread. “What do you mean?” 

She knows what happens to wayward daughters. She knows separation means being sent away, somewhere where they “fix” strong willed girls. And she knows after the incident, after certain habits of hers have been revealed, she's as wayward as they come. 

“You could think of it as a vacation of sorts.” 

No, please no.  

She starts to shake her head, despite the dizzy-pain. “I don’t need a vacation-” 

“Oh please, Caitlyn. You’ve just been attacked.” 

“Okay, so a sabbatical, maybe,” she argues. “A short leave of absence—bed rest, even-” 

“Don’t be difficult about this.” 

“Difficult?” you’re sending me away after I’d just had my eye damn near gouged from my skull and I’m being-- “ difficult?”  

“Yes, as you’re wont to do,” her mother says in an agitated puff. 

“I am not-” 

“Oh, you aren’t?” She raises a skeptical brow. “Were you not sneaking a woman into your rooms for who knows how long? Giving away all manner of information, plans, details. Not to mention how you rebuke me at every turn like a stubborn child. Constantly shirking your lessons.” 

Cassandra stands up so she can loom over Caitlyn in her small infirmary cot, with a scathing look in her eye. 

“No more,” she says with finality. “No more of this foolhardy, reckless behavior. These childish attempts to escape your duties-” 

“I do my duty-!” 

“Not well enough!” she shouts. Then she sighs, like this is hurting her. “You clearly have lessons to learn that I can’t teach you, and they’ve led to egregious consequences.” 

“Mother,” she tries, feeling more than desperate. This can’t happen. “Please-” 

“No. This cannot be allowed to continue. You’ll stay here to rest, as well as you can at least. Till you’re on your feet. Then you’re going away.” 

Caitlyn’s heart is gripped in a cold fist. This cannot be happening. 

“What do you mean away?” Where am I to go?  

“Well away,” Cassandra replies quietly. “Fresh air, solitude. To... recover. You'll be brought home once you’ve proven you’re up to the task you’re to inherit.” 

“Where are you sending me?” 

She sighs again, heavy and slow. She closes her eyes, and Caitlyn does her best to brace herself. 

“There’s a convent on the edge of the countryside, along the Underwoods. The Saint Janna’s Holy Monastery. I’ve heard that the forest is gorgeous this time of year.” 

A convent.  

“Don’t say that like you’re sending me there to smell the roses.” 

Cassandra reaches for her, but she moves away. She just can’t stand her touching her right now. Why should she, when she’s getting rid of her? Like she’s a misbehaving pet in need of training, like she’s an embarrassment. She sighs, “it truly is in your best interest.” 

“Of course it is.” 

Her mother steps away, reaching for the door. “Your gather and I will be in to have dinner with you. Jayce should be over within the hour, he’s eager to see you’re alright.” 

*** 

Jayce comes over around teatime. Just after she settled in with a warm cup of her disgusting pain reliever, trying desperately not to cry. 

She can’t cry with Jayce, not about this she’s decided. She's being sent away from home to the middle of nowhere. And not to a boarding school like her mother always threatened when she was a teenager. No. She's being sent to a convent. And she can’t-- Jayce can’t know. 

Or, at least, she can’t tell him. 

He'll find out eventually. But if she has to say it, the delicate grasp she has on her sanity will slip. She can’t imagine a scenario where she explains everything—the long shameful nights with Maddie, the letters, the betrayal—to the man whose been a brother to her since she was eleven and doesn’t break. 

And as much as Caitlyn wants to, she knows she can’t let Jayce try to fix this for her. 

So, when he crashes through the door with Mel, his fiancé, right behind him she doesn't say anything. She sits still and lets him fuss over her. Lets herself find comfort in his warm smell and the furrow between his brows. 

“What happened, Cait? Are you—are you alright?” 

“Alright as I can be,” she says, deliberately not thinking about her bow or throwing knives. The skills she had to beg to earn. 

“Oh, darling,” Mel sighs, reaching a cool hand up to her unbruised cheek. “It’s alright.” 

And that does not help, despite Caitlyn feeling grateful at her saying it. It’s not alright. She was attacked. She hurts, it’s unfair, it’s her fault. She's being shipped off to a nunnery as soon as she can take three steps. It's not alright and she can’t say a word about it and not just because her throat is closing up. 

So instead, she takes a shaky breath against Mel’s palm. 

“It was an attack,” she explains. “In the middle of the night. We don’t know why.” 

And it is that second when she thinks, for the first time— why?  

She hasn’t had a moment between disgusting tonics, aching pains, and falling unconscious to think. To pay any attention to the itch in the back of her mind. That something is wrong. Her mind starts clicking, firing off sparks in vague directions. 

Why?  

Something must show on her face because Jayce leans forward and takes her tea out of her hands. He cradles her hand between his. 

“You don't have to worry about that, alright sprout?” He’s got a stern look on her face, contradicting his gentle hold. The same look he got when Caitlyn suggested a race when they would go out riding together. “You’re safe now. You just worry about healing.” 

She nods mutely, knowing she’ll do anything but. Caitlyn’s never been able to lead her mind away from its incessant press of questions. 

That’s the last she sees of Jayce for months. 

*** 

Caitlyn doesn’t heal. 

Everything was okay for two days after Jayce’s visit. Until she woke up from a nap (finally enjoying the privacy of her room as opposed to the infirmary) with the left side of her face burning .  

It’s an infection. By the end of the whole thing the physician says she’s lucky to be alive. It was a small thing but ugly. Her face swelling horribly and hurt . 

The gentle flow of blood felt like a crashing hot wave pulsing beneath her temple and cheek. She was dizzy from the infection; she was dizzy from the pain and she was nauseous from the dizziness. She spent the worst eight days of her life curled up on her bed or leaning over the side of it to vomit. And that’s without mentioning the twice daily bandage change, and the discharge and cleaning and the blood. 

Like they said, she’s lucky to be alive. Just not lucky enough to save her eye. 

Before the infection set in there were tentative talks of cures and drugs. A retention of minimal vision, lights and colors, vague silhouettes. That was no longer possible. 

They told her it had to be removed. They were too worried about a reoccurring infection due to the nature of the wound, the tender flesh of the eye unhealing. And worse, they feared the infection spreading, seeping out through her delicate nerves into her brain. They assured her it was much safer, cleaner, to have it taken out entirely. And that the care required after such procedure was much easier than that of trying to heal her mangled retina. 

Caitlyn looked to her father who had watched her take in the news with tears in his eyes. He laid his soft hand atop hers and said nothing. Not objection, not even a shake of his head. 

Her father was the wisest man she knew, a great physician in his own right. He had cared for her through all her childhood illnesses, bandaged her every scrape. She trusted his judgment, no matter how painful. 

They didn’t leave much time to discuss it after she’d agreed to the procedure, everyone already anxious over her condition. They spoke about recovery. How long it’ll take ( how long she’ll be allowed to stay home ), the healing process, the care and medicine she’ll need after. They refused to tell her much about the procedure itself, probably for fear she’d refuse to go through with it. 

She only had the courage to whisper to her father after the others had left to prepare, “my bow? Will I-” 

“It’s hard to tell,” he sniffed, rubbing comforting circles into her back. “You could make a wonderful recovery and then it’s only a matter of relearning. For some, a skill comes back slow—but you’re Caitlyn Kiramman, aren’t you? My daughter has never been slow.” 

She didn’t have anything to say to that with the fear stirring viciously in her stomach and her eyelids growing heavy from the tonic they’d given her. She'd just laid there with her father stroking her hair like he had when she small. 

*** 

She spent the next five weeks walking slow circles around her room, before a carriage was called to take her away. It took a surprisingly short time for the wound itself to be declared safe and healing “marvelously.” But Caitlyn felt... off kilter to say the least. And her mother was put off by the swelling and apparently didn’t like the idea of entrusting her one and only heir to total strangers miles away from home and trusted physicians. At least not while she’s in such a delicate state. 

Maybe she should have thought of that before sending her away to a nunnery . 

She's on her feet in the loosest sense of the word. She's up and about for about thirty minutes a day, cataloging her belongings, deciding what she can and can’t bear to part with. What she needs. Caitlyn doesn’t know how long she’ll be away, how long it’ll take to convince her mother she’s better. That she’s ready. But she won’t spend that time aimlessly waiting for a letter calling her home. 

So, she expends what little energy she has, while not under watch, to exercise what small molecule of will she has left. Collecting all the letters and notes she and Maddie exchanged, carefully tucking them away in her trunk. She does the same with her diaries, her paperwork and dealings. Anything someone might kill to get their hands on she packs up behind her corsetry. 

It's never been in Caitlyn's nature to do nothing, even to her own detriment. 

The carriage arrives when she’s doing her rounds around her room. Or rather she’s sitting on the edge of her bed working up the nerve to. She can walk pretty alright, aside from the off kilter feeling of it and the running into something every three steps. But she’s been having these horrible headaches that leave her sweating and her head spinning. 

She's better with a crutch or cane or someone helping her. But she refuses to be shuttled away from home and be so completely reliant on strangers to so much as walk down a flight of stairs. She just...needs this. She needs this to work. 

She needs her head to stop hurting. 

She’s just pushing off the mattress when a maid knocks and cracks the door open. 

“Miss?” 

“Yes?” she sighs falling back against the cushion. 

“There’s a carriage out front for you. Your mother sent me to fetch you and your things.” 

“Ah,” Caitlyn feels a cold-hot heavy feeling settle in her chest. She feels like she can’t breathe or move. “Of course. Just a moment please.” 

“As you please, miss.” The door shuts with a soft click. 

She stands bracing herself against her nightstand. She'd spent the last few weeks packing and preparing. Picking out her books, her quills, quilts and soaps. Even a few of her simpler dresses, her combs and clips despite probably not needing them where she’s going. She's been getting ready to leave but it’s just dawning on her; maybe she’s not ready. 

She thought, in the far back of her mind, that her mother would change her mind. See reason. 

She laughs meanly, “I guess not.” 

She takes a breath, straightens up to look about her room. She has three trunks packed to the brim that she’s taking with her, but there's still so much she’s leaving behind. Her entire life. 

“I will come back,” she whispers. And oath to an empty room. “I swear it.” 

She opens the door and finds the maid along with two footmen. 

“I’ll need some help with my lacing, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll be ready.” 

All three of them nod. The maid steps in behind her while the men walk over to her things. She takes comfort in the soft tugging around her middle as she watches the next who knows how many months of her life be carried off. She closes her eyes against the sting. 

I will come back , she thinks, and she is certain. I swear it.  

***

After a year and some change of moderately miserable mornings and nuns breathing down her neck, she finally catches a break.  

She had met her on one of her better days. Made infinitely better by the sudden appearance of the most intriguing woman she’d ever laid eyes on.  

That's not to say that Caitlyn— Sister Caitlyn , remember its sister now—has a surplus of bad days. Only that it's been an adjustment, life at the convent. She was contemplating such adjustments the day it all started.  

***  

She had made it off the grounds (escaped more like but she’s trying not to be so bitter) to walk her now familiar foot path through the shallows of the forest that surrounds the nunnery.  

The sweet greens and breeze soothe her. And she likes that she has something to herself, something that she found on her own. It’s refreshing.  

This is where she feels most at ease nowadays, where she can breathe in the smell of the wet leaves that hang above her head and hear the quiet chirps of the morning birds. She’s taken to finding solace in nature since she left home. Away from the dim light of the chapel and the constant surveillance of the Mother Superior (who she knows is reporting back to her mother, she knows it) it’s here, on the soft treaded underbrush that she can relax.   

And she’s doing just that when she hears something to startle her out of her ease.  

It's a soft-sharp sound, pained and young sounding. Caitlyn can’t quite ascertain if it’s an animal or not. She moves to investigate none the less, her skirts snagging on branches along the way. She can’t just leave the poor thing, even if it is just a fox with a sprained ankle.  

She searches for a few minutes before she hears the noise again, and rustling leaves just to her left and close to the ground. A pair of eyes is peeking out between the raspberries.  

“Poor dear,” she whispers, mostly to herself. To the pair of eyes she says, “those bushes have thorns, you know. You should be careful. And you can’t eat those either, they’re too low.”  

When she gets no reply, she sighs. She's never been that good with children, but she’s worked enough in the infirmary to be at least of use to the distressed. She crouches down next to the bush.  

“Are you alright?”  

Still no response. The child edges a little farther back.  

Caitlyn looks around and purses her lips.  

“Where are your parents?”  

This time she gets a distraught shake of the head.  

“You don’t know?”  

Another meeker shake.  

“Alright,” she sighs again. “Why don’t you come out of there, we’ll make sure you’re okay, and then we can look for your parents together. How’s that?”  

The child takes a moment to consider it, furrowing her brow.  

Caitlyn holds out her hands, her sleeves dragging over the dirt, trying to look as harmless as possible.  

 “Look, see, I’m a woman of the cloth.” And she doesn’t even sound resentful about it. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to help.”  

She stays like that, holding her breath and crouched in the dirt, for almost a minute before a small hand sneaks from between the leaves and into her palm. Quickly followed by the other hand.  

“Alright,” she smiles and moves to help the child out of the bush. “Now, lets get you fixed up, shall we?”  

They set off together back to the convent, hand in hand. Caitlyn feels—something, useful maybe, for the first time in months. After years of feigned incompetency, months of bed rest and weeks of the sisters breathing down her neck; it just feels good. The hand in hers.  

Chapter Text

“Isha!”  

“Come on, kid! Where are you?”  

They’ve been out for hours; the sun is about to set and they still haven’t found the kid. Vi’s feet are starting to ache.  

“Isha!”  

And Powder’s been frantic from the beginning, but she looks ready to start pulling her hair out now. Vi can see her hands shaking from ten paces away. That's not to say she isn’t worried. It gets cold after dark in the Underwoods and Isha is so small...  

“Isha!”  

“Powder, maybe we should take a break.”  

Her sister whips her head around so fast her braids go flying behind her. “A break? Are you crazy?”  

“We’re not going to find her like this. We’ve been out for hours-”  

“She’s been lost for hours!”  

“I know, but it’s-- look, we’ll just sit down for two minutes and take a breath. Sevika and Ekko are also looking, they might even have found her already. We should just take a rest-”  

“I’m not gonna sit on my ass while-!”  

“That’s not what I’m saying and you-”  

She's interrupted by a quiet thud, just close enough that she can hear it.   

“Did you hear that?” she whispers.  

“Isha?” Powder calls.  

Another voice cries out “careful!” then sure as day little Isha comes running out from behind the trees, barreling into Powder’s legs. And right behind her is-  

A nun?  

“Oh!” the woman says taking in Powder crouched in front of Isha, cradling her against her.  

The woman—the nun—is tall and thin, like a willow tree. She can’t tell much else about her, given the habit and many layers of skirts and aprons. But she can see her face and she is really fucking beautiful. A long thin face, and neck, soft lips and gorgeous blue eyes—eye. Upon closer inspection, the woman only has one. The thin strap and patch are almost hidden in the shadow of her habit. She smiles, a small, relieved thing, before she notices Vi and her eye go a little wide.  

Too pretty to be a nun, is her first thought. A bit shameful maybe, but this isn’t confession.  

She's actually almost too busy staring at the (alarmingly) beautiful nun to notice her sister has stood up and is starting toward her with a terrifying glint in her eye. Very reminiscent of a feral cat, maybe one with rabies. She shakes herself out of it just in time to catch her around the middle before she pounces on the woman.  

“What the fuck were you doing with her?”  

“Powder, come one,” Vi tries, her voice muffled against Powders shoulder. Man, she can really kick. She'd forgotten how strong her sister is, what with how waifish she looks.  

“No! You let go of me,” she shrieks.   

The woman takes a quick, small step back. “Excuse me,” she says, a touch incredulous. It's actually impressive that she can maintain any attitude in the face of Powder ferociously trying to claw her way out of Vi’s grip, presumably to claw her eyes out.  

But before anyone can make another move Isha rushes in between them with her hands raised. Powder tenses, looking between the kid and the stranger suspiciously. She must not find anything damning because a second later she sags in Vi’s hold, lulling her head.  Vi doesn’t let go (she’s been fooled by the “I’m calm, I promise,” act too many times to really trust her) but the kid looks relieved, at least.  

“I’m assuming you’re her guardians, then?” the woman asks. She's got an accent, a bit posh sounding if you ask Vi, but it suits her.  

Powder doesn’t answer, just hanging mulishly in her arms while Isha pats her ankle. So dramatic.  

 So, Vi shrugs, gingerly setting her sister down, “yeah. Yeah, that’s us.”  

She smiles again and she very deliberately doesn’t notice the shallow shape of her cupid's bow.  “Good, that’s good. I really did just want to get her home.”  

“Well, that’s sweet of you, cupcake-”  

“Cupcake?”  

“-Isn’t it, Powder?”  

Powder shrugs, “I guess.”  

“I have a name, you know?” the nun crosses her arms.  

“Yeah?” Vi raises her brow, “You didn’t say.”  

“It’s Caitlyn.”  

“Then, that’s sweet of you, Sister Caitlyn. ”  

Sister Caitlyn just hums.   

After a moment of somewhat uncomfortable silence Sister Caitlyn claps her hands, decisively. “Well...if that’s all I-” she gestures over her shoulder “-should start heading back.”  

“It’s getting dark. Are you sure you're alright to be out? After dark I mean?”  

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she says, but Vi can hear her hesitancy and pounces on it.  

In a completely innocent and helpful way, of course. She would just feel guilty if in a few days she heard news of a lost nun who froze to death in the woods.  

“How about I just walk you back. Just to be safe.”  

“Oh, that’s not really-” she looks up at the darkening sky and bites her lip. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. If it’s really no trouble.”  

“Not at all.”  

“Uh, Vi,” Powder smirked, apparently in well enough spirits now to tease her sister, “weren’t you literally just sayin-”  

“C’mon, Pow,” she interrupts, flashing wide eyes at her sister, and a smile at the nun. What’s she supposed to do in the presence of a beautiful woman who she very likely will never see again? Just let her go, like releasing a dove from her hands? “It’s the least we could do, isn’t it? After she’s brought back Isha.”  

“Least you could do, maybe,” she whispered.  

“Great.” Vi sauntered over to Sister Caitlyn, offering her her arm, “shall we?”  

Vi watched her eyes trail slowly down her arm before the woman nodded—just slightly, to herself—before linking her arm with Vi’s.  

“I suppose.”  

***

Caitlyn see’s the mysterious woman for the second time about three weeks later.  

She's in the woods again. She found this little clearing behind the barracks a few months into living at the abbey. It's her own little haven. She tries not to go too often so the other sisters don’t get suspicious. But she always visits on particularly bad days, when her head aches in its empty socket and she’s off balance and she can feel the Mother Superior's breath on her neck.  

She was recuperating from one such day—relaxing on a fallen tree, habit in hand when-  

“You lost?”  

Caitlyn almost fell backwards off her log when a flash of pink leapt down from a branch above her. It was that woman from that night. The handsome one.  

“Didn’t mean to scare you, you just looked—oh!” the woman turned her back to her. “Apologies, Sister.”  

“What-- oh,” she hastily put her habit back on, feeling her cheeks flush at being caught unawares. “It’s alright.”  

She turns around and sits herself on the grass just to the side of Caitlyn. She takes a second to look at the woman, she’s not so bad to look at. Broad sturdy shoulders exposed in a sleeveless top, tough hewn dark pants that stretch around her thighs and-  

Sister Caitlyn do get a hold of yourself. What happened to being on your best behavior? Staring at some random woman like a letch is certainly not your best behavior.  

“You’ve, uh, still got some hair out.”  

And sure enough she reaches up and her habit is entirely disheveled. So much for that.  

“That’s alright,” she sighs. As long as she remembers to fix it before returning. This woman doesn’t seem like the sort to rat her out for wearing her habit incorrectly. And it was starting to itch anyway.  

“You sure? Wouldn't want to get you into trouble.”  

“Quite sure, thought that’s sweet of you,” she folds her hands in her lap. “It was starting to bother.”  

“Didn’t know nuns could get bothered,” she jokes.  

Caitlyn snorts, “well this particular nun is quite good at it. Being bothered, I mean.”  

The woman—she had met her before, what was her name—chuckled at that.   

“It must get stuffy in that thing, I suppose.”  

“Very,” she smiled. It's nice to just—talk to another person.  

They continued on that way for a while, just talking. Making easy conversation, as strangers do. The woman—Vi, she learns—lives on the adjacent edge of the woods, and the girl she had brought back to her was her niece, Isha.  

She finds out that Vi is... sweet. She's a great many other things, but in the moment that’s the first word that comes to mind.   

The sun slowly sets behind them without their notice.  

(That was when The Problem began. It's first occurrence.)  

Vi caught a glimpse of the darkening glow through the leaves and sat up from where she’d been leaning (her back against the log bellow Caitlyn, if her skirts weren't so thick she might be able to feel her hair tickling her knee).  

“Oh shit—I mean—shit, I’m sorry.”  

She laughed feeling a soreness in her face where she’d been smiling. For hours, she noted now seeing the sunset behind her. “It’s alright, Vi. It’s getting dark.”  

“Yeah,” she replied, standing and dusting off her pants. “I should be getting back.”  

Caitlyn tried to stamp down a surge of irrational disappointment and stood up. Marks it down as a symptom of the almost overbearing loneliness. Had it truly been so long since she’d had a decent conversation? Something that felt like companionship and not playacting.  

She sighed, “I should as well. I’ve been gone too long.” She probably missed the dinner bell, hopefully the Mother Superior hadn’t noticed.  

“I’ll walk you back.”  

“Again?” she teased.  

Vi smirked, leaning toward her, “well, it’s still dangerous out her after dark. There are bandits, you know.”  

“Oh bandits. I'm trembling.”  

“Yeah, you should be.” She holds out her arm, “come on, I’m not leaving without you.”  

Caitlyn links their arms together. “And you’ll be alright? By yourself after dark, with the bandits.”  

“You don’t have to worry about me, cupcake.”  

“Who said I’m worried?”  

Vi just smirked and tugged her arm.  

It's not a long walk back to the convent. On bad days, when she needs to get away she can’t make long walks without the after effect of nauseating dizziness. So there arms are only linked for barely ten minutes before they reached the archway that leads into the barracks.  

Caitlyn turns to face Vi, moving to clasp her hand in hers.  

“Thank you for walking me back. Again.”  

“It’s no problem,” and she sounds sheepish-- how charming—looking down at their hands. “Couldn’t just leave you out there, could I?”  

“You could have, though. You must tell me how to repay your kindness,” she smiles. “I hate debts.”  

“No debts,” Vi said. “But if I ever need any spiritual guidance, I know where to go.”  

Caitlyn tried not to falter at the mention of “spiritual guidance.” She’s not fit for such things.  

Instead, she says, “I’d like that,” and takes a step back, “you know where to find me.”  

***  

Caitlyn was well acquainted with frustration. There's hardly a day where she wakes in the morning, pulls on her long uniform and did not feel damn near overwhelming frustration.   

The chime of the early birds frustrated her, the newly unfamiliar weight of her dagger frustrated her, the smooth feel of her eyepatch frustrated her. Yes, she was quite familiar with the feeling.  

During the last few weeks, she’s been made aware of a different kind of frustration.  

Vi is a different kind of frustration.  

She actually can’t figure out how to feel about it. Caitlyn has spent the first few weeks after meeting her completely immobilized by the constant stream of, pink, those shoulders, that voice, pink. It was much too much but it was new, which after over a year of the same four walls, the itchy robes and nightmares—well it was a relief, to say the least.  

But now it’s been almost two months since she let Vi walk her home. She's only seen her once since and she can't stop thinking about her.  

What was first, at the very least fascinating is now bordering on maddening.  

On one hand, it’s nice to have something to think about, and she could stand to exercise her imagination (and exercise it does, it’s practically running laps, it’s out in the courtyard sparring with the castle guards). Vi is a pleasant thought and it makes her...happy.  

On the other hand--  

She's just finished her breakfast and is headed to the small chapel as she always does. Walking slowly, enjoying the crisp air against her cheeks.  

She gets settled in the pews next to a sister—what was her name? Ally? She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Maybe she’ll actually pray this time.  

She basks in the heavy warmth behind her eyelids for a moment before her mind starts to wonder, going through wild flashes. No such worship, it seems is to be found.  

Grey eyes, the sun kisses her broad shoulders, bold tattoos crawling up those same shoulders and onto her back. She wonders if the skin would feel raised under her fingertips like scar tissue. Caitlyn’s imaging the scratchy feel of short pink hair against her palm and the sharp teeth that poke out from behind that smirk of hers.  

Another flash and she’s got Vi’s teeth against the thin skin of her inner thigh. Warm breath and her tongue inching up--   

She jerked forward, almost toppling over, feeling her cheeks flush. Looking around to find the woman beside her looking over with a furrowed brow.  

“Are you alright, Sister Caitlyn?”  

“Uh,” she stuttered, gathering herself to stand, steadfastly ignoring the afterimages flashing behind her eyelid, “oh, yes quite. Just a little dizzy, you know. Nauseous. I’ll just—get some air.”  

“Alright, take your time.”  

She had fled that day shame faced and hot. Feeling a sort of kinship with the saints, a very unique suffering settling over her.  

So, you see the other hand. She simply cannot keep up with her thoughts reeling like this. It's beyond inconvenient. And it’s especially damaging her mission of getting home.   

She's written to her mother on many occasions and has only been met with easy rejection. No reassurance of her healing, her balance, her headaches could convince her mother to let her return. She’s given up on that front, she won’t lower herself to begging. She's resigned herself to playing the long game.  

She needs to be good to get home. She needs to be better. Her daydreams are not conducive to her mission.  

(And her mother needn’t know about her hidden journals, the sleepless nights trying to figure out her other sleepless nights. It won’t do her any good)  

Not that she hates it at the convent overly much. She dislikes the constraints, but she won’t escape those back home. Infact they’d probably only get worse after—the incident. She likes her routine and the company's not horrible, boring but not horrible. Not that she’s ever been one for company. She gets to enjoy her solitude here, like she’s never been allowed to before.  

But she misses her soft silk sleeves, spoiled as that sounds. She misses riding and hunting and the hunting dogs. She misses her bow like a limb.  

Jayce can only visit every few weeks with his busy schedule and her court ordered need to rest. He's not allowed to stay for more than a week. And other than her parents, Jayce’s fiancé and occasionally Victor he’s the only person allowed to see her. But she hasn’t seen Victor or Mel. And her parents don’t deign to visit.  

But truth be told, if she had had any choice in any of this, she probably wouldn’t be so against this “join a convent” business.  

But she misses her friends, few as they may be. She misses her life.  

And with how everything looks now she doubts she’ll ever be let off her mother's tight leash ever again.  

Not that she actually intends to just take that lying down, let one oversite destroy her life. And she can’t do that from here, all the way out on the outskirts of her families reach.   

Caitlyn has to get home, and she has to do it by herself if she wants even a chance of things going back to normal, how they used to be. If she doesn’t want to be treated like a child for the rest of her life. Or worse, a prisoner.  

Hense, the plan. She knows she’s being watched, and she knows whoever is watching her is sending reports back to her parents. All she has to do is be as close to perfect as she can get. And once her family sees that she’s good now, she’s healthy and she’s not broken they’ll bring her home.  

Vi’s very presence has thrown a wrench into her plans. She's only met her twice and Caitlyn can already tell she’s going to be a problem.  

***  

Caitlyn had spent the last however long ceaselessly daydreaming about Vi like a thirteen-year-old girl.  

 She's had infatuations before but nothing of this magnitude. She's been forced to... take care of herself twice as often as she usually had to. Before meeting Vi. Which is a dangerous habit when you share all of your four walls with literal nuns.  

She's ruminating her knew nightly ritual, out in the courtyard hidden by some hedges where no one can see her red face, when the woman of her dreams literally drops out of a tree.  

“Hey, cupcake,” she called out, swinging down so she hung over Caitlyn by her knees.  

“Jesus wept!” she sprang back with a hand over her heart, which is beating at a frankly embarrassing rate pitter-pattering away in her chest. “A warning would be nice.”  

Vi chuffed, “apologies, Sister.”  

“You could call me my name.”  

“What about cupcake?” she asked hauling herself out of the branches.  

“Hmm.”  

“Oh, I know you like it, don’t lie. Isn’t that a sin? Sweet thing like you deserves some recognition.”  

Caitlyn gracefully ignored her, resisting the urge to bring her hand up to feel her warm cheeks. She'd forgotten how charming Vi could be, in the weeks she’d been away.  

“What brings you here?”  

“Oh, you know. Feeling a little lost. They always say to ‘look for the light’ and you’re the brightest thing around here.”  

“Nonsense, you charmer,” she says. She very suddenly remembers when her mother caught her blushing and blabbering over her mistaken sums (and pretty tutor). Bashfulness is a terrible trait in women like us, Kirammans especially. Banish it.  

(She’s hardly a Kiramman these days. What's it matters?)  

Vi sat down heavily beside her-- so close their forearms are pressed together—sighing. Upon closer inspection she does look tired. Bags under her eyes, heavy shoulders, bruised knuckles.  

Without thinking Caitlyn reaches out for them, dragging Vi’s hands into her lap.  

“Oh yeah,” she sighs again, with a mix of something in her voice. Caitlyn doesn’t know her well enough to sparse it out. “That too.”  

“Well, we can take care of this,” she says, trying for levity. “A salve for the bruising fix this right up.”  

“I-I couldn’t-”  

“Oh, don’t be so obstinate.” She stands up, pulling Vi with her. “It’s quite literally what we do here. And I still owe you a debt.”  

Vi clicks her tongue against her teeth, “right, forgot.”  

Caitlyn violently resists the urge to cup Vi’s sheepish face in her hands and simply tucks a stray hair away from her face. Then tucks her hand into the crook of her elbow. “Come along now.”  

Vi looks down with a soft chuckle, “lead the way, cupcake.”  

The infirmary is very nearly empty, she makes a mental not to start spending more personal hours—sorry, free time —in the chapel, maybe leave some roses for Saint Janna.  

She is especially grateful when Vi whistles and it echos. “Nice place you’ve got here.”  

Caitlyn ducks her head and waves off Sister Ally and her inquisitive eyebrows, she urges Vi to sit down on one of the beds on the far side of the wall. She starts grabbing for the bandages.  

“Here we are,” she settles down, setting her supplies on the small table beside the bed. “Here, come closer.”  

Vi picks up the medicines discarded cap and sniffs at it, “smells-” she pulls a face “-delightful. You sure this is the stuff?”  

She drags Vi closer to her so Caitlyn’s knee is in between hers and hunches over her bruised hand. “Quite sure.”  

“Uh-huh,” she leans back on her free hand and Caitlyn tries to pretend not to feel her appraising gaze on her.  

Vi stays quiet for a minute while she diligently applies the salve and bandages. She finds herself counting the freckles and little scars spread across her knuckles absently. She doesn’t ask about them.  

“How’d you get so good at this?” Vi asks when Caitlyn gestures for her other hand. “No offence, I just didn’t take you for a nurse.”  

“I’m not a nurse,” she laughs. “My father’s a physician. And this was the only thing they’d let me do when I first came here.” She gestures to her eyepatch,” I couldn’t do much other than read to the sick and handle minor maladies. I like to think I’m not too bad at it by now.”  

“You’re not. You’re-- this is pretty nice actually. Thanks.”  

“It’s really nothing.”  

“’S something to me.”   

Stubborn. It’s probably easier not to argue.  

“Alright well, it’s the least I could do. We're friends now, I’d say. Aren't we?”  

Vi smiles down at her freshly bandaged hand, “friends. Sounds nice.”  

Chapter Text

Vi starts visiting regularly after that. At first just so Sister Caitlyn could change her bandages (could she change her own bandages, sure, but why should she when she has a beautiful woman with seemingly nothing better to do. What do nuns actually do, anyways? Sister Caitlyn seems all too willing to drop what she’s doing to smear ointment over her red knuckles), but she’s a quick healer so that excuse is due to run out quick.  

So about two weeks after Sister Caitlyn dubs her back in perfect condition, she shows up to...pray.  

Forget that she’s never prayed before in her life, and she has now endeavored to lie to a nun about it. Hell, Vi doesn’t even know if she believes in a god, let alone tried to talk to one. She's been known to light a candle when times get tough but that’s because that’s what Vander did, and it brings her comfort to carry out his rituals.  

She's never been a woman of faith. And now she’s sneaking out to go pray with a nun.  

God, she wishes that was a euphemism.  

Vi doesn’t know what it is about Caitlyn. She's only met her a few times, has only a few hours of knowing her to her name, but whenever she’s not with her she’s thinking about her. Every time she walks past the pots of min Sevika grows on her doorstep – for some fucking reason, Vi doesn’t want to know—she's overcome with the memory of her soft hands and steady voice.  

She's going fucking crazy. Even her sister thinks so. Her sister, the one who hears voices, thinks she's crazy. Because she can’t stop thinking about a nun  

Vi had no idea what she was doing the first time she went to ‘pray.’ She was just going to see Sister Caitlyn. Her ‘in need of medical attention’ excuse was already paper thin; she has no idea how she got this far. She sort of just...forgot about it.  

She'd just gotten back from a job with Little Man. A decent score with a minimum chance of fighting—a good job—but it did involve a stakeout. Vi fucking hates stakeouts. She’s fine with the quiet, and she’s fine with sitting still, she is not fine with both at the same time late into the night with financials at risk. Very boring and very stressful, she’d rather just—fight.  

But the job went well. It was some minor lord, high off his own self-importance, known locally for loudly and irritatingly flaunting his wealth and tormenting squires. He had it coming, and from what they’ve heard if it wasn’t them, it would have been someone else. The general public’s patience for that man had apparently run its course.  

So, they robbed him. Before someone else tried to and they lost a good score.  

They did good. It was routine, usual, quick and strategic. The little lord was taking a little trip (to see his mistress of all things, he totally had it coming), traveling in this opulent carriage and he was said to be carrying a trunk or four of some of his finest .   

He was practically begging for it. Seriously, who travels through known bandit territories in silks, with two white horses and a trunk of jewels?  

Anyways, it was typical. Stop the carriage, spook the horses, disarm the –singular—guard, get the lord out of the way and get to work. They stripped the carriage down completely, they even took the cushions and the curtains, which should sell very nicely (and if not then Isha gets a new pair of pants). They were in and out in under fifteen minutes.   

Vi would be a lot happier about it if they hadn’t gotten home just before the sun came up with still more work to do in the morning.  

Point is she was tired. Exhausted. Not thinking very clearly, to say the least.  

She wasn’t thinking about how strange she looks just showing up at a convent of all places or that Caitlyn—Sister Caitlyn, the nun—might not want some random girl from the Underwoods interrupting her Saturday until she’s face to face with her.  

“What brings you here?”  

“Uh.” So, of course, she fucking blanks. Can’t think of a damn thing and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “Prayer?”  

Caitlyn raises her brow, “prayer?”  

And now Vi’s got to play it off like this is a normal thing for her. Like she, a woman who has actually been referred to as a “godless devil” before (granted it was by a man on the floor bloody because she’d laid him out flat) prays.  

“Why not?”  

“Forgive me,” she says with a sly smile, “you didn’t strike me as the praying type. I must have been mistaken.”  

“Maybe I’m trying something new.”  

“Alright,” she shrugs, lacing their arms together. “Off to the chapel then, I suppose?”  

“To the chapel.”  

The chapel, turns out, is time. Miniscule even. It's got just enough room for four pews, two on each side of the modest alter at the front. The air is dusty and cold. Vi tries valiantly not to regret her words as Sister Caitlyn pulls her towards the front.  

They settle in on the first bench side by side and Caitlyn leans in to quietly ask, “what are you praying for?”  

And what should have been the least arousing sentence she’s ever heard is instead bone melting.  

“I’m not—what are you praying for?”  

“Me?” she asks and Vi nods. “Not much really. I pray for nice weather tomorrow and that the lunch today will be nice. I pray for the wellbeing of the poor souls in our care. I pray my friend Jayce, back home, hasn’t found himself bored again, and that my father sleeps well.”  

“Those are nice prayers.” Not what she was expecting at all but nice. “Yes, well,” Caitlyn ducks her head. “That’s all there is to it, I suppose.”  

“That’s all?” she asks, skeptically. She always thought that prayers had to be big all encapsulating demands. Not anything so small and careful. She'd assumed faith was somewhat showy, especially in a convent with all the stained glass and statues. Especially to a Sister like Caitlyn. She seems like the kind of woman who likes a complicated process, something with a million working pieces.  

“That’s all,” Caitlyn shrugs. “For me at least. Small things are easier to find, to see.”  

Vi hums, “helps keep the faith.”  

Sister Caitlyn turns to look at her, wide-eyed, just this side of startled. Her eye darts away and Vi’s worried she’s said something wrong--k eep the faith? She's a nun for God’s sake— until a small smile curls the edge of her lips.  

“Yes, exactly. To keep the faith.”  

They don’t talk for a while after that, falling into a sweet quiet. Vi closes her eyes though she doesn’t fold her hands. She's not sure if she’s praying but her mind wonders softly.  

She wonders to Isha and the sugared rolls she likes. Sevika and her strange mint plants that she is definitely over watering. Claggor cooking in a loud sizzling pan. She hopes it’s a sunny day tomorrow, and that bacon is cheap, she wants a warm morning with its comforting smell floating over the sun rays. She thinks of Caitlyn for a short second. The dry skin around her nail beds and the tight bind of her bandages. The sweet mint of her breath.  

It doesn’t feel like prayer, that’s probably why she feels so at ease doing it. It's probably part of the appeal.  

She stays like that with her eyes shut so long with Caitlyn’s comforting warmth at her side she drifts off. Idly watches the sun slide low through the stained glass windows from behind her eyelids. She hasn’t slept in two days. She feels she’s owed this. And isn’t a church exactly the place for poor weary souls?  

It’s...nice. Really nice.  

She's not really sleeping, just waiting with the soft light coming through. It's like a trance, like swimming. Vi can feel her heart beating slow against her wrist.  

She comes to some time later, leaning against Caitlyn’s shoulder. The light is dim outside the chapel, they day so close to its end. She must have been asleep for hours. Caitlyn's got a hand on her arm, resting against her bicep. She's tapping a firm pattern against her skin. Vi barely has time to panic—she has to be overstepping here, she has to be— before she’s reassuring her.  

“It’s alright. It's just nearing dinner time, I thought you’d want to know. Your family must be missing you.”  

“Oh,” her head is spinning. Caitlyn smells like dew over roses. There’s a soft red line cast on the stone floor. She should be heading home. She rubs her eyes, hoping to rid herself of this hazy feeling. “Right, yeah. I should be going.”  

Caitlyn hums and stands up, dusting off her skirts. She holds out her hand, “I’ll walk you out.”  

Vi clasps her hand and smiles. She stands up and thinks maybe prayer isn’t so useless. Or at least, it’s a good way to pass the time.   

***  

A few weeks after Vi’s first visit to pray, a few weeks of startlingly easy companionship and gorgeous women under stained glass (a horrible temptation), Caitlyn receives a letter.  

Dear Sprout,  

I apologize it’s been so long since I’ve written you. I’ve been terribly busy with wedding preparations and Victor has had us working diligently. He believes we’re close to a breakthrough, and thus we must forsake everything else until it’s complete. You know how he is. Still, that’s no reason for neglecting you. Forgive me.  

I plan to make it up to you with a visit. Victor might even accompany me, he says he misses you.   

Victor has been very foolish lately. He's insisting he must move out of the Talis Estate now that Lady Mel and I are bound to be married so soon. Despite the lab and his own personal steady all being conducted on the grounds.  

I’ve reassured him it’s unnecessary. Mel adores his company almost as much as I do. And I, of course, could be bereft without him.  

Perhaps I shouldn’t bother you with this. Although, if anyone could talk sense into it would be you. You two are matched for stubbornness.  

I’ll be visiting for only a few days as I have things to attend to, regrettably. By the time you receive this I should be well on my way, you should not need to wait long. I know you have a horrible habit of impatience.  

I miss you terribly and cannot wait to see you.   

Your dearest friend, your brother,  

Jayce Talis  

Jayce is coming to visit, how lovely! She's missed him something awful.  

She hasn’t seen him in so long. He usually comes to see her every month or so, but Jayce is a very busy man. Caitlyn understands he can’t drop everything to go away to see her just because she’s a little lonely. She appreciates that he comes to see her at all.  

The Saint Janna’s Holy Monastery is far out in the country and right on the cusp of some prominent bandit territories. Her own parents don’t visit, despite the volume of letters they send proclaiming how much they miss her. So, she’s glad Jayce makes the time for her.  

And he’s brining Victor with him. It's been too long since she’s seen him. He sends her the occasional letter, usually with some small trinket he’s made. Apparently, he caught a bad cough over the winter, both Jayce and her father told her. She's been distantly worried about it for a while.  

It'll be good to see them.  

Chapter Text

Jayce arrives on a Wednesday.  

Caitlyn spent the rest of the two days trying desperately not to look over at the grand rusting entrance gate every time she hears a noise. The waiting is driving her insane. But the better she can keep her mind off the agonizing trickle of hours, she figures, the less she’ll feel like a dog anxiously waiting for its owner to get home.  

It's not her fault she’s starved for company. The only good conversation she has is with Vi and she’s only around once a week. And all the days she isn’t there leaves Caitlyn with a sick mix of elated anticipation and guilt boiling under her skin. She can’t help herself from replaying their conversations over and over in her mind. Laughing at Vi’s jokes in the privacy of her room, agonizing over the gray of her eyes in the dark.  

Caitlyn isn’t sure if she’s entirely convinced of Vi’s devoutness since she spends more time chatting with her than doing any of the usual quiet contemplation. But if she really is there for some sort of spiritual guidance, then Caitlyn feels she’s taking terrible advantage of her.  

Caitlyn isn’t a real nun. She hardly even believes in a higher power, and she knows everyone at the convent can tell. She has no real knowledge or interest in faith or scripture. She didn’t actually sign her life away to this god-forsaken place. She’s just-  

Lonely.  

So, when a handsome girl escorts her home after the sunset, she invites her to come back. And when she comes back asking about prayer, she tries her best and hopes she’s not leading her astray somehow.  

So of course, with all this strange worry whirling around in her head, she just wishes Jayce would hurry the fuck up and-  

“Sister Caitlyn. You have a visitor.”  

Finally.  

She stands up from where she’s been kneeling in the garden (a hobby she didn’t expect to pick up), dusting herself off as she can. Though there's no real reason to, Jayce doesn’t expect her finest. She follows the sister out to the grand archway, where a carriage awaits, a lone figure standing outside it’s door.  

“Ah, Sister Caitlyn, how lovely to see you again.”  

“Victor,” she says scanning for Jayce. It’s odd that he doesn’t come out to greet her. “It’s been too long. Where is Jayce?”  

“We met a little...hiccup on the road. He is waiting inside,” he gestured to the door. “We figured we could all enjoy a ride about the town. If that’s alright with you.”  

Caitlyn nods with a creeping concern. Quiet carriage rides aren’t exactly what Jayce is known for. He's known for being foolhardy and quite frankly, impulsive. She can only imagine what kind of trouble he got himself in. “As long as I’m back before curfew.” She gestures to the door, “after you.”  

As she climbs in behind Victor Caitlyn takes notice of two things. One; Jayce lying on his back with a miserable air about him, letting Victor rearrange him like a doll as he sits down. And two; that the carriage had very obviously and very recently been ran-sacked.  

“A hiccup, huh?”  

Jayce perks up at the sound of her voice. “Caity!” he exclaims, smiling around a blossoming bruise on his cheek. “We missed you.”  

“You fools got caught up by Underwood bandits, didn’t you?”  

Victor shrugs while Jayce puts over her less than warm reception. “So, it appears, yes.”  

“What were you doing going through the Underwoods anyways?” The carriage is an obvious target and that place is notorious. The abbey is lucky if they can go three weeks without some lord or pompous knight staggering in half dressed and shame faced. “You’re lucky to get away with the buckles still on your shoes.”  

“They said it was a short cut,” Jayce whines, “no one said anything about bandits.”  

She scoffs, “honestly. Piltover’s greatest minds can’t tell when they’re being lured into a trap.”  

“How is this our fault? We were just trying to get to you faster.”  

“And while that’s very sweet,” she reaches out to grab Jayce’s hand. “I would rather you arrive unscathed.”  

“She makes a good point,” Victor says with a small smile. “But it truly is good to see you, Sister Caitlyn.”  

“Please drop the ‘sister.’ At least while we’re away from the abbey. We all know it’s a ruse.”  

“Speaking of the ruse,” Jayce groans as he sits up, hauling his legs off Victor’s lap. “I have news regarding that.”  

She stiffens and feels her breath catch in her chest like a ribbon on a thorn. “Ah.”  

That could mean anything. The only ‘news’ she’s gotten in the well over a year she’s been stuck here is multiple short worded letters from her mother telling her very firmly that she is not allowed back home. She's not sure she can stand to hear it from Jayce.  

“I don’t know if it’s permanent,” terrible start. “ And it’s a while out but as you know, the wedding is hopefully going to happen this winter. Mel’s family is very slow—anyways. I refused to get married without you at least in the audience.”  

“You,” she cannot breathe, she cannot breathe and she is going to cry. “You want me to come to your wedding?”  

Jayce smiles as he pulls something—and envelope—out of his coat pocket. “You are coming to my wedding. I wanted you in the wedding, but your mother shot that down. You’re the flower girl in my heart though.”  

She takes the paper with shaking hands and cracks the seal. Out falls a slip of sturdy paper with small illustrations of flowers and curling purple cursive that reads “you are invited to the wedding of Jayce Talis and Mel Medarda. To be held at the Medarda Museum on the Last Winter Eve.”  

She's going home. Not her home, exactly, and likely only for one day but-  

She can’t believe it. After a year, months and months of borderline begging, of waiting for Jayce’s visits, and her parents' letters. Endless hours doing tending to the garden, and chores, and attending to the sick and injured in the infirmary, countless stitches and poultices. She gets to go home, to see her family, to watch Jayce get married.  

“I wanted to give you your invitation in person.”  

“Is this,” she sniffs, her eyes are stinging, “is this the gift you wrote me about?”  

“It’s one of them,” he smirks, “the rest are a surprise.”  

***  

The surprise gifts, Jayce decided art to be distributed randomly over the course of his visit. A new tea blend from her father, a new book – a scientific journal, as to be expected from Jayce—even a small collection of soaps. Caitlyn’s impatient nature disagrees with this, but she’s so overjoyed at his first gift she can’t bring herself to complain.  

She really is so glad to have Jayce and Victor with her for the next few days, but it does have her thinking of home. The Kiramman Estate, her bedroom, the blood stain under her desk chair. And the more she thinks about it the more she starts to itch, the more she knows--  

She doesn’t know.  

It's creeping into her dreams. She's waking up in a cold sweat after another horribly vague nightmare with her head pounding and she knows she is missing something.  

It's the third night of Jayce’s visit and the third nightmare in a row when she finally hauls herself out of bed. She lights a candle, crouches low to set it on the ground and opens the trunk she’s tucked into the corner of her room.  

Why was she attacked, in the dark of the night by her lover? Maddie was never so passionate or bloodthirsty to suggest she could think up a scheme like that. She was an officer of some kind—she never told her, and Caitlyn never thought to ask, humiliatingly—but she never seemed too invested in her job, it never sounded like anything political otherwise Caitlyn would have turned her away. And they weren’t a tragic pair, not inescapably in love. It's what Caitlyn had liked about them, terrible as that sounds. There's no motive for a secret lover’s homicide written between them.  

And that bothers her.  

When she looks back on their time together it was all so—plain. Easy and quiet and custom tailored to Caitlyn and her tastes. She was so obviously being played and she can’t figure out why. She understands getting close to her for clout, the Kiramman name, money or networking. But killing her? What does that accomplish?  

She hasn’t touched the trunk or anything in it in months. Not after the last rejection from her mother, it seemed pointless. And she can barely stand to look at Maddie’s handwriting anyways. Why put herself through all the heartache if her mother won’t even listen to her? Even if it sits hot in the back of her mind, like a pot over a fire.   

She plucks a diary off of the top of the stack and flips it over in her hands.  

It's not one of her older ones but the leather is soft and worn. Caitlyn has kept to her diaries religiously for most of her life, it’s why she bothered to take them with her. She used to keep them on her most of the time, her every thought messily documented and kept safe against her breast.  

She hasn’t kept to her diary since she left home. Seemed like too much of a risk, being surrounded by religious devotees and with her allowance home being contingent on their approval. She misses it, just a little.  

But nevertheless, it might at the very least quell her anxiety to look through the damned thing. She might even find something useful, even if she’s not quite sure what that could be.  

Sure that she’s not getting more sleep that night either way, Caitlyn wraps a shawl tightly around herself and cracks open the journal, tucking in.  

If she wakes up cold on the floor, with a crick in her neck, that’s between her and the God she has to pretend to believe in.  

***  

Vi comes to visit the next day early after breakfast, their usual Saturday appointment. Caitlyn is almost too busy drooling on her embroidery to notice her approach.  

“Hey, cupcake. Been burning the midnight oil, huh?”  

“What?” she jerks her head up from where it was lulling against her chest. She blames her sleep deprivation for the flush arising on her face, and not that ridiculous nickname. “Oh. Vi. Hello, how are you this morning?”  

“Oh, you know,” she sighs falling onto the bench beside Caitlyn, “better now that you’re here.”  

“Charmer.”  

“Hey, it works, doesn’t it?” Vi knocks her shoulder against hers with a small smile (the cute one that shows off her canines, one of Caitlyn’s favorites).  

“Who says?”  

“Your eyes say, cupcake.”  

“They do not,” she says, turning back to her needle and thread. “Don’t be ridiculous.”  

“Can’t hide anything to me.” Vi laughs and leans over Caitlyn to watch her hands work. “But really, you look like somethings eating at you.”  

Caitlyn hesitates. She’s thought about telling Vi. Actually, she hasn’t thought up many reasons not to other than her own paranoia. She even started dropping small hints, illuding to the truth. Although she can’t tell how effective that is. But she can never get all the words out, nothing beyond hints.  

“It’s nothing,” she lies. “Just-- my eye has been giving me some trouble. All the pollen in the air, you know.”  

She hums sympathetically, putting her head on Caitlyn's shoulder. “Hay fever, the bastard.”  

“Indeed.”  

They stay like that for a while. Vi's warmth pressed against her side, Caitlyn’s fingers pulling the string along through the needle drowsily. Caitlyn stifles an alarming thought of well-worn comfort and domesticity. They don’t talk. She enjoys their silences just as much as she enjoys their conversations, it’s peaceful.  

Caitlyn thinks vi comes to see her when she needs a bit of peace. She remembers little Isha and Powder—Vi's sister, she told her a little while ago. She knows it must be a lot. Vi hasn’t told her a lot about her life (she doesn’t hold it against her, Caitlyn is equally as secretive) but she gathers it must be hectic. And she knows she feels responsible for her family.  

Vi is very loyal, she’s found out, and devoted. It's actually very charming when it isn’t obviously draining her.  

Caitlyn is very happy to be a place she can rest.  

Though it does startle her when Vi returns the favor.  

Caitlyn has managed to poke herself for the third time, this time drawing blood, when Vi reaches down and plucks the needle from her hands. She carefully slides it through the fabric away from her work and takes the ring out of her lap.  

“That’s enough for you, I think.”  

“No, I’m-” she stifles a yawn, “-I’m alright.”  

“Uh-huh, sure you are, cupcake. C’mon, just lay down.”  

“What, on the bench?” She argues even as she lets Vi push her down.  

“You can lie on me.”  

“Oh.”  

And she briefly imagines one of the sisters walking over and seeing them. But they’re on the far side of the courtyard in the shade of the dorms near the chapel. It's one of the lesser traveled paths. Caitlyn doesn’t think anyone even lives in that building; they don’t even prune the bushes. And besides she really is tired, and Vi smells nice and she’s sure she’d wake up if someone wandered this way.  

“Alright, wake me if anyone comes this way.”  

She lets Vi shuffle them around so Caitlyn’s lying across the bench with her head in her lap. She wishes she wasn't wearing her habit so Vi could run her fingers through her hair. She revels in the feel of her hand on top of her head regardless.  

This is the most comfortable she’s ever been, she thinks, already slipping under the heavy pull of sleep.  

Maddie never felt like this.  

Chapter Text

Caitlyn wakes up some time later to Vi’s gentle hand on her shoulder.  

“Hey,” she whispers, “sorry to wake you but I think someone’s looking for you.”  

“What” she mumbles, rubbing at her eyes. “Who?”  

“How should I know,” Vi answers, smiling down at her. It's very disorienting to wake up to the glare of the sun reflecting in Vi’s teeth, in the haze it feels like she’s still dreaming.  

“Sister Caitlyn!” someone shouts.  

Fuck, it’s Jayce.  

“Jayce? You’re friend from home?”  

Did she say that out loud? She must have really needed that nap. “Yeah he’s-- he’s just visiting.”  

“Sister Caitlyn!”  

“I should probably...” she points toward where the voice is coming from. Damn you, Jayce.  

“Right! Right, I guess I’ll,” Vi stands up to leave. “See you later, cupcake.”  

“Of course. And Vi,” Vi turns around, leaning on the wall, “thank you for the—I feel much better.”  

“Glad I could help,” and with that she swaggered off to the gate, leaving Caitlyn to watch after her.  

She's been doing a lot of that. Watching Vi.  

She's broken out of her trance when Jayce finally finds her, traipsing through the foliage with his usual lack of grace.  

“Caitlyn? Who was that? I thought I heard I voice.”  

“Oh, that’s-- that’s just a patron. She comes in to pray. She likes to talk.” She shakes her head. “What brings you here?”  

She's not sure why she lies, but she feels oddly protective over Vi, her time with her. Or maybe possessive is the better word. But either way, she’s glad to keep her to herself and what Jayce doesn’t know won’t hurt him.  

(A small voice whispers in her mind, you’d think you’d learn . But she very quickly stomps on it and squashes it flat.)  

“Well, since it’s my last day tomorrow and I won’t be able to visit for a long time after, I figured I’d give you your last gift now.”  

He draws out a small velvet pouch and hands it to her. Caitlyn takes it delicately, nothing small is safe when it comes to Jayce and Victor. She still remembers the time he handed her an unassuming trinket and she had to hide a bald spot from her parents for weeks because she had grabbed it “too forcefully.”  

It’s got a weight to it, though not particularly heavy. She pulls the bag open slowly, glancing up at her friend.  

“It won’t bite,” he teases, “go on.”  

She tips the bag into her hand and out rolls two...marbles?  

No, not marbles. She turns them over in between her fingers. They're glass eyes.  

One with a meticulously painted iris, with a blue that perfectly matches her remaining eye. And the second is-  

It’s beautiful. There's no pupil or iris; it’s all one solid stone. More of a gem really. It’s a beautiful glittering purple gemstone, fine and polished so when it captures the light it dazzles, showing traces of pink and violet and dark gorgeous blues.  

It looks magical.  

“Jayce...”  

“It’s sugilite, the gemstone,” he rushes to explain. “I was talking to your father, and I know you two have talked about getting a glass eye fitted in your letters and,” he shrugs, like Caitlyn can’t feel tears welling up (again) behind her eye. “Well, I had this gemstone lying around. I was going to make it into a necklace, I could still do that if you like, you don’t have to-”  

“Jayce,” she interrupts his rambling, blinking away stubborn tears. “I love it, I swear. Thank you.”  

He says, relieved, “I’m glad. I was happy to do it. The other one is more for everyday use. I figured the other one was a little too extravagant for every day.”  

She twirls the plain eye, “did you paint this yourself? I didn’t know you were much of an artist.”  

“Oh, it’s nothing. Anything for you, sprout, you know that.”  

She scoots closer to him and puts a head on his shoulder like she used to when she could still bully him into carrying her home. His shoulder feels just the same under her cheek. As much of a brother as he was then.  

“Thank you,” she whispers. For not abandoning me , she thinks, for staying my brother. “For everything.”  

***  

She takes the eyes out of their pouch late that night, after everyone else is in bed. Not that anyone knocks on her door after dark anyway, but she feels--sensitive, maybe? Embarrassed? She's not quite sure what she feels, she just wants to be as alone as possible.  

Caitlyn takes the gemstone out of the bag. Just to look at it. She turns it over in her hand, watches the dim light of the candle dance on its smooth surface.  

Jayce gave her instructions before he left for how to put it in. They're written in her father's hand. That must be how he got the measurements for the eyes; her father.  

It takes her a few tries and a lot of cursing. She almost gives up and then she remembers Jayce’s face when she hadn’t refused his gift. She imagines his face when she arrives at his wedding wearing it. She gets the eye in.  

It's weighty and cold and a bit weird to feel against her eyelid, but it’s not terribly uncomfortable. She can imagine getting used to it.  

She takes a minute just sitting on her bed, blinking and tilting her head from side to side. They eye doesn’t move like her intact one. Of course, she can’t expect it to feel the same it’s just—a little disconcerting. She's not sure what she was expecting though. She doesn’t feel very different.  

She digs out a small mirror.  

“Oh.”  

She hasn’t been avoiding looking at herself, per say, she’d just—okay, so she had been avoiding it, but she doesn’t feel like she can be blamed for it. She didn’t think she had lost all her appeal or anything. She's not monstrous or grotesque. She's still Caitlyn, she knows that . She just--  

Well, she hadn’t been looking . Now she is.  

It's... pretty. She's pretty.  

The stone glows set against her pale skin. It brings out the blue of her remaining eye, making it look like a gem of its own. She looks almost like a painting.  

She can definitely see the jewel as a centerpiece in a necklace. Maybe when she thinks about it like that—like an accessory and not the life altering consequence of her greatest shame—maybe it’s bearable. Everything is nicer when it’s dressed up, isn’t it?  

She takes the eye out shortly after, putting it safety away in its pouch. She thinks about trying the other one but ultimately decides against it. She'll try it in the morning. See if she feels any different in the light of day.  

Chapter Text

Caitlyn does indeed feel different in the light of day.  she leaves the eyes safely in their pouch on her nightstand when she goes to see Jaye and Victor off and two days after that.  

But she finishes all her responsibilities early Wednesday and decides to reward herself with a little walk. It's a beautiful day and she knows there’s a stream close by, she might dip her toes in.  

And she decides if there’s to be no one there to see her—why not try the eyes out?  

She made it down to the little river just fine and the cold feeling of the eye slowly fades. She takes off her shoes and delighted in the refreshing coolness. She started walking along the rushing water, ankle deep with her skirts bunched up in her hand. She just keeps following it for a while knowing she’ll be fine finding her way back with the river to follow. And it’s so nice being outside the abbey, she’s allowed to enjoy it.  

The stream, she finds, leads to a waterfall, barely ten feet above a little lake. It’s more of pond really or a pool.  

Caitlyn looked ahead at the sun sitting squarely above her shoulders. She's not that far from the convent and there’s plenty of time before dark. She can afford a swim, maybe she even deserves it.  

She carefully climbs down the rock, making a mental note of the foot holds she finds until she reaches the grass.  

It’s beautiful.  

She chuckles to herself as she shucks off her shoes and skirts, she feels like a teenager. She hesitates a moment when she gets to her shift, looking around. But there’s no one there. The only sound she hears is birdsong up in the trees. So, she quickly strips out of it and wades into to clear water.  

It's cold but pleasant against the heat of the sun and her nudity makes her anxious to go in farther, disregarding the chill. She keeps on until the water reaches her shoulders.  

It's nice. Really nice actually, she thinks as she floats around. She hasn’t been swimming in years probably. She can’t remember the last time. So, she lets herself soak it up, revel in it. She hasn’t been allowed to just enjoy something in forever due to the masochistic nature of religion and devotion.  

She would never have been allowed to do this back home either. Her mother would have a fit if she found out her daughter went swimming naked in some pond out in the forest. God forbid she have just one moment to herself.  

But apparently, God hath forbid it.  

Not even five minutes later, Caitlyn is peacefully floating when she hears footsteps above her.  

She quickly turns over and tries to slide as low as she can, swimming over to hide close to the waterfall. She may not have actually made a vow of chastity but that doesn't mean she’s alright with just whoever happening upon her while she’s literally the most vulnerable she can be. She clings to the rock and hopes they pass her by.  

Sadly, the universe has it out for Caitlyn and the passerby is indeed not a passerby at all. Instead, they drop their bag over the edge and start making their way down to the lake, entirely oblivious to her damp existence.  

So oblivious that they start stripping down with their back to the water (revealing tattoos, muscled forearms and shoulder blades and— hold on a moment --) and making toward the lake before they take notice— step on —her discarded clothes.  

“Oh shit—is there someone here?”  

Thank the lord. “Vi?”  

“Sister Caitlyn?” she calls, eyes scanning the water. “What are you doing here?”  

“Same thing as you, I imagine,” she says swimming closer to the shore. The lake isn’t so deep that she can get too close without revealing herself but crossing the short distance at least brings Vi’s face into focus. “Taking advantage of the warm air, having a swim.”  

“Oh, well,” Vi says looking oddly flushed and Caitlyn notices that her shirt is only half on and oh my-- “Since you’re already here I’ll just--”  

“No, you’re welcome to-” she coughs, “- you’re welcome to stay and join me.”  

“Are you sure? I just mean, you know, you being a nun and-”  

“I’m sure,” she interrupts. Eager, snarks a little voice in her head. It’s the first time she’s seen Vi outside her Saturday visits. The third time she’s seen her outside of the convent. Of course she wants her to stay, she always does. “I don’t mind. If it’s just you.”  

“It is. Just me.”  

Vi takes a step closer, wrists still entangled in her tunic. Caitlyn moves towards her, just a few inches, like she’s being pulled by a string. She can feel the water skimming the tops of her breasts, she imagines Vi’s eyes flicking down to look.  

“Come join me.”  

She does nothing for a second, just staring. Then she makes shockingly quick work of the rest of her clothes. Stripping perfunctorily while Caitlyn tries not to watch. This is definitely going to feature in my dreams tonight, she thinks catching a glimpse of abdominals.  

Better than nightmares.  

A loud splash sounds and Vi’s head pops out of the water a few feet away.  

“Hey,” she says, sunning her hands through her hair, raking it back away from her face and subsequently flexing her arms (and perhaps even flashing her breasts, but of course she hadn’t seen or noticed or was looking at all.)  

She laughs, “Hello.”  

“Woah, am I—am I seeing double,” she smiles good naturally, if not a bit confused. “I mean, excuse my asking but what’s that patch for if you’ve got both eyes?”  

“Oh,” She had forgotten about it. Caitlyn reaches up touching her fingertips to her brow, covering the eye. “It’s not—real. It was a gift from Jayce.”  

“Nice of him.”  

“Yes, very. I figured I’d just—see how I like it. Since I’m out today, away from everyone.”  

Vi scrunches her nose, “d’you not want anyone to see?”  

“Well, I--” Yes. No. She hasn’t made up her mind yet. “I wasn’t sure how it looks, is all.”  

Vi moves a little closer through the water, her face looking a little pinched. Her eyes move side to side over her face and Caitlyn wants to bring her hands up to cover her face. “Don’t see why you’ve got to be worried about looks. You’re always gonna be beautiful with or without the eye.”  

That’s-- is she shaking? “ That’s very kind of you.”  

Not enough to burn away the shame of it, but it is kind. She smiles.  

“It’s the truth, not a kindness. You know I’ve got a reputation. And if you don’t mind me saying,” she smiles, gently. Caitlyn can barely think against it. This woman. “I quite admire you. You're more than enough.”  

“That’s more than kind,” she breathes, ducking her head. There's almost something there. Something bashful or earnest or—she doesn’t fucking know but it makes her feel like she can’t breathe.  

And then whatever that was is broken when Vi makes a big splash and compleatly drenching Caitlyn. “Don’t go around telling anybody that.”  

“Your reputation, yes I know,” she says, shaking her hair out of her face. Caitlyn splashes her back, “because you’re so tough and mean. All my staggering social capital with the nuns and everyone else, it could completely ruin your image.”   

“That’s right,” Vi nods and starts swimming around her.  

She laughs, “you’re ridiculous.”  

Vi hums and flips over in the water, she’s very graceful, “so, what brings you here, Sister?”  

“You don’t have to call me that.” Sister. Usually she can ignore it, after more than a year of hearing it it sort of fades away. But not when Vi says it. Caitlyn would much rather her say her name. “Not here, while we’re away. It’s just us.”  

“But you’re still a nun, aren’t you?”  

“I-” God this is—how does she say this? She wants to tell Vi so much, maybe everything. They've moved closer together and the shine of Vi’s skin is distracting, at least she’s stopped swimming. “I’m not really—I mean, I live in the convent, and I say my prayers” very interesting prayers, but they really are prayers, “but I don’t believe like the rest of them. Faith doesn’t come easily to me.”  

It's not a lie, she tells herself. Vi moves closer and her breath hitches. She closes her eyes. “I think,” she whispers, she doesn’t know why she’s whispering, like this moment will pop like a soup bubble if her breath shakes it. “I think I believe in you.”  

“ Caitlyn.”  

She’s so close, God, Vi is so close. Her face is inches away from Caitlyn’s, she can see all the freckles across her nose. Every scar and eyelash. And she’s looking at Caitlyn like—like she’s worth looking at. Like that’s all she wants to do. She can feel Vi’s breath on her cheek.  

“I believe in you too.”