Chapter Text
Ludmilla finds it unendingly strange how completely the entire crew forgives her, simply because one of their own likes her.
Well. 'Likes' may be an understatement. Marya adores her, and she Marya. She's grateful beyond words for the woman, for everything she's done and felt.
But she also hurt Marya. Even if unintentionally, surely there must be some resentment within the crew, somewhere. But either they are impressively reasonable and put-together, or there simply is none.
Perhaps they pity her instead. That may be harder to stomach than resentment would be; if there is nothing to be done, why feel bad over it? How useless. Then again, hoarding resentment for things that can no longer be changed more than they have been, things she regrets, is no more of use. And neither is that regret she feels.
Not even Torse seems to dislike her, though, and she... Well, he has rather direct reasons to do so. But he only seems uneasy, and avoids her. She avoids him in turn.
He is made of machinery, however, and so comes to Marya often. And Ludmila is often with Marya. That, or Olethra, and around Olethra is often Maxwell Gotch, and around him is often Torse.
Still, the avoidance is mutual, so they scarcely are in the same room for long.
She figures she should apologize to him formally, eventually. But it's only been, what, a few days since she was pulled into this reality? There is so much planning happening; this person is returning to Gath for this long, this person is going to Zern, this person is going home and staying there, this person and this person wish to travel independently together, these people want to continue adventuring, et cetera et cetera. And within this are so many interpersonal dynamics Ludmila is not part of, so she has little sway or input. She feels so very lost.
Hence the clinging to Marya. Truth be told, Ludmila feels quite guilty for that too, but it is dwarfed by all the rest of the guilt she feels, so it hardly matters. But still.
She has quietly been planning for herself, while everyone else makes their plans. She has a lengthy list of those who deserve apologies, and countless drafts of said apologies. She's not sure, though, if any of the recipients would ever accept those apologies. They're still worth giving, she knows. But still.
She's tried to apologize to Marya countless times already, and Marya to her. They are both so stubborn.
There's another party-slash-festival tonight, so all that planning will be temporarily put on hold. And Ludmila will have another brief opportunity to get to know the people who saved her and every world.
Tomorrow, LaMontgommery will leave for Gath, as will the three remaining Gotches. Maxwell will be back for sure, and possibly Wealwell; there is just business to tie up, family matters to attend to. Olethra is still waffling on joining them to see her own family. She will more than likely end up doing so, and plans have been made accordingly. (Ludmila does not know Torse's plans. Presumably he will be returning to Zern.)
But tonight, there is a party.
Ludmila does not feel quite ready. She hasn't quite felt ready for anything, really, these past few days. These past few centuries. Same thing, really.
She says as much to Olethra, as they sit tucked away in a Zumharan park: "I haven't been to a party in a long time. I don't feel prepared."
Olethra plays with a chain she found somewhere. It clinks loudly, but in the open space it's like nothing. "There was a party like, yesterday," she points out. Nearly a week ago, more accurately.
"That was... different." Ludmila looks off toward the distant street. It's been a long time since she's seen such greenery, such color. Then again, not really so long at all. Just like parties. Time is so jarring.
"Yeah," Olethra relents easily. Then startles a little, and says, "Hey, wait, you really aren't prepared! You don't even have party clothes!"
"I don't," Ludmila agrees. The only clothes she has are the ones she was wearing when things all took a nosedive, and what she's been borrowing from Olethra and Marya. Her outfit at the moment is mostly theirs.
"And neither do I!" Olethra turns to her, chain abandoned in her lap. "Mila," she says, wide-eyed and grinning, "we have to go shopping."
Ludmila smiles. "Okay."
Ludmila has never really gone on a shopping spree before. She's from Scrapsylvania, after all. Olethra evidently has, however, or at least has read books which include them, and she tugs Ludmila through the streets with a seemingly discerning eye for fashion. Ludmila counts at least three clothing stores they pass by.
Ludmila soon finds out Olethra's discerning eye for fashion must be partially blind.
"This is bad," Ludmila says plainly as Olethra holds up a layered leopard-print skirt. "It looks like something a child or church-going grandma would wear."
Olethra shakes the skirt, as if that will change how she sees it. "Tacky is fun."
Ludmila giggles. "Tacky is tacky."
"Fine," Olethra huffs, returning the skirt to its place on the rack. She rifles through, then picks out an intricately patterned shawl. "What about this?"
"It looks like an expensive rug." Ludmila likes it. She takes it from Olethra and examines it closer.
Zood, it seems, is big on thrifting. Likely thanks to Oda and its love of sharing and sustainability. Most clothing shops are either tailors or thrift stores, unlike Gath and its somewhat recent boom in ready-made clothing. This shawl is well crafted and sturdy. Clearly handmade, not due to mistakes but thanks to the detail work. It's heavy, has a nice texture.
"I like this," Ludmila says. It feels a little like home, deep in some of the embroidery.
"Yay!" Olethra exclaims.
"I like drapey things. Not really great for ship work, but nice for a party," Ludmila elaborates, wrapping the shawl loosely around her shoulders.
Olethra bounces on her heels. "Oh my gosh, me too! Haha," she laughs, bright and a little awkward as she always is, "we have so much in common!"
Ludmila runs her palms over the fabric as Olethra turns back to the clothing racks and buries herself in them.
Next is a pair of glossy leather pants, which Ludmila turns down. She likes leather, but those look uncomfortable. Then a long layered tulle skirt; gorgeous, but too plain. Not her style. Then a shiny red bust corset, which she loves. And a long, flowery, purple velvet skirt, which she also loves. To complete the outfit, a deep forest green button-up shirt with flared sleeves. Slightly incohesive, yes, but on such short notice Ludmila thinks they really did well.
Olethra's chosen outfit is a particularly flashy dress (with tassels and sequins) that Ludmila could not imagine pulling off herself, but Olethra is just confident enough for it. That, and a hot pink "feather boa". She does a lot of posing and mimicking of camera shutters.
On the walk back to the hotel, Ludmila says, "I hope it's okay that I go."
"What?" Olethra asks. "What, why wouldn't it be?"
Ludmila simply gives her a look and points up.
"Oh. Oh! No, it'll be fine! They believe us that you're good now. Y'know, honor system, and all."
Olethra grins. It's hard not to grin back, so Ludmila doesn't bother trying to hold it.
At the hotel, Olethra disappears to find Maxwell and force him to admire the outfits they picked out. She keeps the scarf on for this. Ludmila stays in and lays the clothing out on Olethra's bed in her shared room with Daisuke—though, Ludmila is pretty sure the man has only so much as entered the hotel at all for the complimentary breakfast.
Ludmila herself is sharing a room with Marya. Marya had suggested she share with Olethra, which was quite tempting, but she'd seemed so torn saying it. She wants to be near Ludmila. Ludmila wants to be near her.
Ludmila wants to be near anyone. She is so alone in this room, as she was in Zern for so long.
She stands aimlessly and stares at the bed, its pale, multicolored, abstract patterned duvet, in this lovely inviting room, in this extravagant hotel, in this gorgeous and welcoming crystalline city; she, feeling still covered in grime and the blood and oil of others despite all the showers she's taken, who nearly destroyed the whole pretty place for no reason but rage, who was the catalyst for everything wrong, who is possibly the worst person in the history of all three worlds, who is surrounded by the best people in all. Who still feels lonely.
She is so selfish it is sickening.
She really does hope it's okay for her to attend the party. She hope it doesn't ruin the whole thing for anybody. She hopes she isn't recognized, not just for her own sake but everyone else's as well. She would hate, so much, to hurt anyone any more than she already has.
Olethra returns, Maxwell in tow, and immediately begins undressing. Maxwell averts his gaze. Ludmila does not. (Maxwell gives her an odd sideways look for that. She is unsure what the problem is; yes, it is somewhat rude to stare, but she's just looking. And Olethra doesn't seem to mind.)
It matters little, because Olethra is dressed quickly. Maxwell says, "Do you have no sense of propriety?"
"Prude," Olethra says. Ludmila nods. Olethra twirls. "So whaddya think?"
Maxwell stares. "It's... short."
"Prude," Olethra repeats.
"You wouldn't look out of place in Bellnuit?" he tries.
Olethra shakes her hips to make the tassels swing. Ludmila laughs.
"My turn," she says, and strips as well. Olethra watches shamelessly and Maxwell covers his eyes. He only uncovers them when Ludmila announces, "Tada!"
"You look lovely," Maxwell says.
Olethra punches his arm. "Why don't I get a compliment?"
He grumbles. "The fact that I can see most of your legs is a little distracting."
Olethra lifts a leg up high and immediately loses her balance. She thoroughly flashes both Maxwell and Ludmila as she falls. She grunts as she hits the floor. She says, as she sits up, not bothering to cover herself, "You've seen me naked, though." It's true. Living in such close quarters as an airship doesn't leave much room for privacy.
"Not willingly!"
"So you think I'm ugly!" she cries.
"Ah–! No!"
Ludmila falls to a crouch beside Olethra on the ground, laughing so hard she isn't making any sound. "Olethra," she wheezes, "I think you're beautiful."
Maxwell groans and looks at the ceiling.
⚙︎
Later, Marya showers Ludmila with compliments. She says, "Ah! You are positively stunning, my Mila! So pretty in these clothes!"
"Thank you," Ludmila says, voice soft next to Marya's. "Olethra helped me find them."
"Well," Marya says, patting Ludmila's shoulder, "that girl has wonderful taste."
"...Ehhh."
Marya laughs, loud and lovely. "She is a character."
Ludmila smiles. "She is," she says. "She is."
Then comes the party. Ludmila intends to truly enjoy this, in a way she has not been able to enjoy anything yet. She will let loose and have fun. She will not worry.
She tells herself as much, at least. Maybe with a few drinks in her system it will be possible.
She is all dressed up, has had a lovely time doing makeup with Olethra, has tried to tame her still-choppy hair into something approaching stylish, and is at the venue with the rest of the crew. The Wind Riders are special guests, of course, and she by extension. She clings close to Marya for fear that someone will recognize her face and bar her entry. Nobody does; they are all ushered in with great hospitality and cheer, declarations of the honor system's success, celebrations of the crew's success.
The music is loud and jaunty, and the people just the same. Ludmila cannot help but be brightened by the atmosphere. She quickly finds herself pulled away to dance with Olethra, who had already acquired drinks for the both of them. The drinks in question are delicious, fizzy and fruity and with just sharp enough a burn to really remind you what it is.
She spots Maxwell and Torse dancing together, something neat but close enough to probably be scandalous to a high society man. Daisuke, Van, Marya, and Bert seem to be doing some sort of improvised square-dance and are slowly roping more partygoers into it. Monty is chatting with Onion and someone she doesn't know by the bar.
Ludmila lets herself get lost in the warmth in her chest and Olethra's hand in hers and the music filling her mind. It is comfortable to lean into, like a net of sensation; it is organic and alive. She is organic and alive. She is here, living her own life in her own body, feeling all these things for herself. Olethra's palm is warm and a little sweaty, and textured in ways Ludmila's is not—callouses on the meat of her palms more than her fingers, wear from her farm upbringing rather than the metalwork of Ludmila's. The music is slightly uncomfortably loud, but the rhythm and the otherwise gentle tone of the sounds makes up for it. Zumharan music is interesting; otherworldly, for lack of a less loaded word, with its bells and chimes and resonating stones. Lots of percussion, vibrating through the floor and her feet and bouncing around in her chest. And the alcohol sloshes in her stomach and makes her feel vaguely nauseous, but nothing more than a distant discomfort, and mostly only fills her with warmth and bouyant giddiness.
A slower song comes along and disperses the square-dancing group, eventually. Olethra splits to go find Daisuke, and Ludmila is left adrift in the sea of people. A pretty crystalline stranger invites her to dance; she accepts, but keeps her head turned away the whole time. She finds herself lost in thoughts of little substance.
Then, after about a song and a half with this stranger, she feels cold and heavy metal catch her shawl and brush against her upper back. The stranger pulls her closer to them defensively, protectively. She turns. It's Torse, walking past; he seems to not even notice the contact at first, until the shawl snags gently and he freezes in place.
When he, too, turns, voicebox already crackling with intent to apologize, he pauses. Then he says, "Oh, Ludmila. My apologies."
"You don't need to apologize to me," she says, perhaps a little too passionately for a situation so small. Her dance partner leaves a small kiss on her knuckles and slips away.
"I do," Torse says, and gently tugs the fabric off himself. It falls back to Ludmila, a little uneven on her shoulders now.
She straightens it. "Last I saw, you were with Maxwell."
"He is dancing with Van currently. I am not accustomed to parties. I am seeking reprieve."
"May I join you? I could use some fresh air."
Torse nods and continues on his way to a side exit. Ludmila follows.
He is very efficient at slicing through the crowd, she finds. Everyone gives him a wide berth, wary of all the spikes and his size. Most of his blades have been removed in preparation for the event, but he still cuts a sharp and imposing figure. They reach the exit swiftly.
Outside is cool and crisp. Ludmila drinks it in; suddenly, she is distinctly aware of how stuffy and loud it had gotten inside, and is thankful for the reprieve. When Torse speaks, his voice is quiet in her ears. His lights bleed a gentle red glow into the blue night, and it bounces off the crystals around them until there is an almost indigo tint to her vision.
He says, "I'm not sure I feel ready to return home."
Ludmila starts, a little. She hadn't expected that—she'd thought maybe he would further explain why he was seeking solitude, or more likely not speak at all.
"To Zern?" she asks once she collects herself.
"To Zern," he confirms.
"Why not?"
Torse rumbles thoughtfully. It's a comforting sound, the sound of metal and machinery working—even more so, she finds, when it's the sign of a person living. He says, "I fear what I will find. Even if it's... good."
Ludmila hums.
"Perhaps," he amends, "especially if it's good."
It's beginning to sprinkle light rain. Barely more than a mist, but it's already giving the crystalline structure of the city a wet sheen, and making it even more reflective than it already is. Tiny droplets of water land on Ludmila's eyelashes as she stares out. Torse beside her looks up at the sky.
She finds it somewhat difficult to think, as of late. Her mind often simply does not want to work and she is left empty and not present. She wonders if it's really not that she is empty, but that she's so full of thoughts that none of them have room to move.
Either way, the image of the Queen of Zern and the destruction she set upon the land sits in her mind now, and she cannot make anything of it.
"I'm sorry," she says finally, quiet as the soft taps of raindrops on solid ground. She inhales to speak more, but Torse interrupts her.
He says, "I know." There is the shallow hum of metal ringing, like an approximation of a breath. "I accept your apology."
"I don't..."
"I am beginning to think there is no such thing as deserving."
Ludmila looks up at Torse. He gleams in the rain, is pretty in a way you wouldn't think a being like him could be. He manages it, though, time and time again. He is a very gentle man. "Why is that?"
"Nobody here deserved all that they got. It just seems meaningless."
She sits on this for a moment, and decides it's true. Nobody ever seems to deserve anything; if they do, it is emotion speaking over logic. And besides, she almost has two (and some) sets of memories in one head, and they've all done vastly different things to deserve vastly different just desserts, and it all sort of contradicts itself all over, doesn't it? People are complicated. People are much too complicated to quantify what they've done and decide on a single end for them.
So maybe Ludmila doesn't deserve to be forgiven, yes. But neither does she deserve to not be forgiven.
She nods. "You are insightful."
"Thank you," Torse says. "And you are quite thoughtful."
"Oh. Thank you." Is she?
It's raining proper now, and puddles are forming, but Ludmila sits regardless. If her skirt gets wet, so be it. Torse joins her shortly. She worries he will rust.
"How do you deal with rust?" she asks. "What is it like, I mean?"
"It is like allergies, to my knowledge. Uncomfortable, irritating, sometimes painful. But easily fixed."
"Is the rain a risk?"
He shakes his head. "Only if I sit out in it regularly. Which I do not." Silence stretches for a moment, then he says, "It has not rained in a long time in Zern."
"I'm sorry," Ludmila says. She stares at the wet ground ahead of her, where puddles form and shimmer blue and red. Where she is reflected vague and wobbly. Where portals seem to open into the sky. "I am so sorry. I know you forgive me but I could never say it enough, I am sorry."
Torse hums at length. He mulls over his words, and mulls, and mulls. When he finally speaks, he says, "I do not forgive you. I accept your apology."
"O-oh."
"Part of me," he continues, "still hates you. I try not to. It is difficult. But I know you are good, I know– The Queen of Zern was not Ludmila—she was Ludmila at her worst, twisted into what the Corrodi Primarchs wanted from her. That is not the Ludmila who sits beside me here. I will not hold her actions against you. I do not forgive her, but I accept your apology on her behalf."
Cold rain hits Ludmila's cheeks. Warm tears cut through that cold when she closes her eyes. "Thank you," she whispers, strained. "Thank you. I'm sorry."
"I know."
Torse's engine hums in a way much like the purring of a cat, and Ludmila knows the intent is to provide her comfort. She can't help but cry more. Her makeup will be ruined, she notes distantly. And after Olethra put all that excited effort into it... That thought does nothing to help her state.
Torse puts a hand on her shoulder, light and cautious like he is afraid the touch might shatter her. Not because she is fragile, but simply because they both are involved.
Ludmila pats herself down. "Ah, do you happen to have a vape on your person?"
"Nicotine or cannabis? I am not sure which this is. I cannot use it, and I do not remember where I acquired it."
"Either works. Thank you."
⚙︎
Maxwell Gotch comes and finds them eventually, evidently tiring of the party atmosphere himself, though he does not say it. What he does say is, instead, "Ah, Torse, Ludmila, here you guys are. Marya has been worrying. Er, may I join you?"
Torse rumbles agreeingly and easily. Ludmila nods and offers the vape, to which Maxwell shakes his head.
"Ah, no, I don't smoke. But thank you," he says as he carefully sits on Torse's other side. "The fresh evening air is lovely," he adds. "Much clearer than in Eisengeist."
Ludmila takes a hit, exhales it away from her companians, and quietly asks, "Is that my doing, too?"
Torse clicks and Maxwell hms. "Well," Maxwell says, "I was never really clear on the origin of the Queen's Smog—"
"Oh, come on," Ludmila can't help but mutter. What a name.
"—but Eisengeist doesn't have a queen, so the conclusions to be drawn are quite... simple."
She drops her head and releases another cloying cloud of smoke. And she was always a smoker, isn't that ironic?
Maxwell continues as if he'd gotten a response. "Well, hopefully Monty will be able to swiftly put a stop to its use, with Mordecestershire dead and gone."
Ludmila hums. She's heard that name many times already, mostly in the context of the Eyeless Hand. She is unsure what significance it holds this time. She does not ask. "I trust Monty's ability," she says instead.
"I as well."
They lapse into silence briefly, back into that peaceful musing that Ludmila and Torse had been sitting in. It is glass and crystal, fragile and pretty and reflective. Easily shattered. To be handled with care. Nobody here has ever been particularly good at that, and yet—
Torse breaks the solitude gently, says to Maxwell, "You were looking for us?"
Maxwell straightens his posture as soon as he realizes he's been addressed, a beat after Torse speaks. "Oh, er, yes. Well, Wealwell decided to do a tango with Sylvio, which went in the expected direction, and it was making me rather uncomfortable to watch. And I have plenty of Wealwell in my future, and very limited you."
Torse lowers his head just slightly. It seems almost bashful. "Ah. Yes, that is logical."
"Um–" Ludmila clears her throat a little. "You said Marya is worrying?"
Maxwell coughs. "That was… mostly an excuse."
"Only mostly."
"She's always worrying about you," he says simply. Like there is no world where she isn't, like she doesn't know how not to.
It's probably true. Marya has every right to worry so much—she spent 20 years grieving, after all. And Ludmila spent only one day waiting. (And upwards of thousands of years resenting, but she as she is now is not of those years. She can only know what they were like, not how they felt. She is thankful for that.)
"…She is," Ludmila says. She wishes she didn't feel the need to. Marya is only, what, 40? Somewhere around there. And her hair is already losing its color. The skin under her eyes hangs, and the rest of her sags too, no matter how well she sleeps. There are wrinkles between her brow but none for a smile. It feels so wrong, when Ludmila last saw her a decade younger and so much happier. And Ludmila has hardly changed at all.
She brings the vape up and only rests the mouthpiece upon her lips. She does not wrap them around it and inhale; she hardly inhales at all. When she does, she doesn't exhale. Pressure builds in her lungs. Her chest feels tight, like something inside it is a prisoner pressing against its confines. Her metal heart is hot beside and against its cellmate.
Her hand drops lazily. She wonders if her chest is particularly warm to the touch.
To say she's "hardly changed at all" is quite misleading, in actuality, she supposes. She is full of metal. She knows Zern very well. And even if she had not changed at all, the simple fact of her presence is change enough from anyone's norm—she is displaced in time, after all. Her soul is, at least, for what that matters. Her mind… isn't, she doesn't think.
Her mind is distant and detached from the rest of her. Her soul yearns to take part in the universe. Ludmila, wrapped in gold, is trapped between.
She releases the air in her lungs with a sigh. The rain has made the air cold, it seems, without her noticing—her breath becomes a cloud, even with no smoke to make it so. She takes one last hit, then hands the vape back to Torse. Her next exhale is heavier and sweeter.
Ludmila wraps her shawl tighter as Maxwell and Torse begin to quietly talk with each other. How long has she been lost in thought, to not even notice how the silence has stretched and ceased?
The music inside swells. Torse laughs. Ludmila shivers.
⚙︎
Ludmila returns inside to the party, eventually, looking for Marya. It doesn't take long to find her; she's pulling poor Olethra along in a jaunty Scrapsylvanian dance, and a small crowd has formed.
Somehow, Ludmila recalls Olethra telling the Queen that she is Marya's new protege. Ludmila finds a small lump in her throat. She swallows it down, tells herself she doesn't mind sharing if it's with Olethra, and slips through the crowd.
Marya spots her quickly and brightens and beckons her to join. Ludmila does so happily.
She knows this dance well. She always loved it, because there's a lot of spinning and vertigo is one of her favorite sensations. She would dance it with Marya often. She is glad to dance it with Marya now.
Olethra, poor poor Olethra, seems very relieved to relinquish her position as Marya's dance partner. Ludmila can't help but laugh at how she stumbles back into the crowd.
Breathlessly, Marya asks, "What have you been off doing, Mila?"
"Outside with Torse," Ludmila answers, only marginally less breathless. "Had a good talk."
Marya beams. "Oh, good!"
Ludmila smiles back. They dance.
⚙︎
The rest of the party is a whirlwind just like that dance, all full of joy and dizziness and laughter. Ludmila comes down to her center in time to meander and stumble back to the hotel with Marya and about half of the rest of the crew. Only half, because Maxwell and Torse never returned (and if they'd encountered danger, news would surely travel fast, so nobody was worried), and Daisuke disappeared at some point (classic Pappy), and Wealwell and Sylvio left early (don't think about it), and nobody even bothered trying to pull Monty away from a conversation about local ecology (he hardly even allowed a pause long enough to be told they were leaving).
The remaining crew are, for the most part, drunk. Tipsy at least. Van and Bert are just about the only ones still somewhat passably sober, though not for lack of trying—Van had invited Olethra to play a drinking game at some point and won handily. Which is why they're leaving the party, actually. Olethra had started trying to challenge random strangers to "out-drug" her.
Ludmila herself isn't in the best shape, either. But she is very much still able to walk straight on her own, and is happy. She's happy. How wonderful! Somewhere in her mind, she recalls that she has felt agonizingly distraught, and she felt this way for a very long time, but she doesn't remember feeling it. Only that she did feel it. Secondhand memory, like those moments from childhood you only remember because you've been told the story since it happened. It just makes it feel extra good that she's happy now, she thinks.
Olethra is talking a lot. She's clinging to Van's arm, using it to support her weight, and is leaning around the woman to see Ludmila. Most of her words swim aimlessly around Ludmila's brain and then leave before they can be caught. But Olethra doesn't seem to mind. And Ludmila is happy to just hear her voice. Happy to be here.
Happy to be real, and herself. Her soles tap against the crystal street, her skirt swishes gently around her legs, and she hums a soft and meaningless tune. She smiles without meaning to. Marya's hand finds itself between her shoulderblades eventually, at some point, a comforting and warm point of contact in the cool night. She is very warm everywhere under her skin.
Olethra follows Ludmila and Marya into their room at the hotel and nesr immediately falls asleep draped over a footstool. Neither of them mind. Marya says, "That girl will sleep in the strangest places." Ludmila falls into Marya's bed.
It's amazing, how comfortable a bed can be if you're drunk and tired and content and it's being used by someone you care for deeply. Marya comes and tugs at the toe of Ludmila's boot.
"Take your shoes off, silly girl. Get comfortable," she says, smiling almost as widely as Ludmila remembers she used to.
"I amm," Ludmila whines, smiling too. "I am so comfy."
"You could be more."
She giggles and rolls to reach to her feet. "You're so smart… You're so smart."
Marya says, as she begins undressing herself, "Says you?"
"Says me," Ludmila insists. "You–" Oh, she finds herself choked up, suddenly. And why are shoelaces so difficult? "You found me. You saved me. You're so smart." She shucks off one boot. Now for the other one…
"Shut up," Marya says sharply. Not angry, just surprised and emotional and surprised by her emotions. Ludmila knows her. Marya breathes and she mutters, "I should have come sooner."
Ludmila hums. "It would hardly have made a difference to me, I think. A few years… A few years is hardly anything in–" She grunts and pushes her second boot off. It takes her sock with it, but that's fine. She toes the other one off too. "Hardly anything," she continues, "next to thousands of years." She rolls onto her back and looks at Marya, who is staring at her now and half undressed, standing bare in only a bra and pants.
"Still," Marya says quietly, "I could have had you sooner."
"I'm here now," Ludmila says. She reaches out and beckons. Marya follows.
"You are," Marya murmurs as she crawls up next to Ludmila. She props herself up on one arm, uses the other to carefully undo Ludmila's corset. It's tossed to the floor once she's done. The skirt soon joins.
They fall asleep curled together, and it is some of the best sleep either have gotten in some time, even despite Olethra's snores across the room.