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The block of flats that Gertrude supposedly calls home is... not the most luxurious thing you'd expect a woman such as herself to own. Truth be told, it wasn't like an Archivist received quite as much money as one would expect and either way, she spent more of her time in the Archive, pouring over statements and plotting in secret. More often than not, she would nap on the cot at the back of the break room or in cold motels when she travelled to disrupt Rituals.
She had not slept in days, though, just an hour here and there as she travelled with Jan Kilbride to Washington, in the US. She rarely did like to travel to the US. Far too many prying eyes and people all up in her business. Still, she had a job to do.
And she had done it, but Jan Kilbride had proved to be quite a struggler and eager to keep his life intact. She had not been able to do much when he attacked than just push forward and try to feed him to the Buried.
He had soon given up when he realised that the vertigo he tried to instill in Gertrude or illusions of vast oceans that drowned her didn't work and switched to a more... human approached. Stabbing someone was just as effective as any other method. He had almost succeeded — Gertrude was bitter to admit — had he not been already weakened by the travels and by Gertrude's own little sabotages.
She did manage, in the end, to feed him to the Buried and stop the ritual. But she had also managed to earn herself a stab to her stomach, which she'd bandaged and gritted her teeth through, as well as various cuts and slashes that she just covered up.
She did not have time for this, the Institute and Elias could not be left alone for too long.
So, Gertrude had taken the first flight back to London the very same night and arrived just before night fell back in London, taking the double-decker up to a stop close to the center, then the normal bus to her flat. To say she had been feeling more and more dizzy as the hours progressed, on top of the nausea that had clinged to her since the fight with Kilbride, was an understatement.
The moment she locked eyes on her apartment building, as creepy as it was, she let out a sigh of relief. The cold that had settled over London had managed to chill her to awareness enough times for her not to pass out, but now she felt that lull of sleep closer than ever.
She fumbled for long enough at the lock, the key slipping past the lock because of her shaky hands that seemed unable to keep still.
Even so, she slammed the door as even on the fifth try she couldn't get it in and... noticed that it was already open. Already unlocked.
Her heart slammed into her chest. Any other time, she'd gladly take an avatar of whatever Fear on, but she was far too weak now for a true altercation, even she wasn't stupid enough to deny that.
Gertrude pushes the door open, which creaks from lack of use and turns on the light in the hallway. Every surface is coated in a thin layer of dust, which she frowns at. She really ought to keep this place in better check or just straight up move in the Archive. But no, then Elias would become more suspicious. She couldn't have that.
She sheds her heavy coat and places it on a hangar by the door, throws away her boots haphazardly into the corner and steels herself to meet whoever — or whatever — had entered her flat.
In the living area, sitting in a chair at the dining table, sits... Agnes Montague. Her hair's as long as it was the single time they met, years before and her face's as bright and lacking any real signs of age as it was then too. Sure, she has a wrinkle around her eyes, maybe a line across her forehead. But she looks beautiful. Young, despite being over 50 herself.
She's got her legs crossed under her and is nursing a tea that is still hot — bloody hell, these Desolation powers — with a pensive look. But she does turn to Gertrude to give her a searching glance.
"What. Are you doing in my flat?" Gertrude asks flatly, tentatively coming to take a seat opposite of Agnes. She finds herself lucky, that she'd gotten good enough chairs, which didn't burn easily. Still, there were small scorch marks she could see on the table. And there would probably be more on the chair and other furniture in her house. She wasn't particularly phased.
Agnes takes a few seconds to answer. She bites her lip, a gesture Gertrude follows like a hawk, despite her increasing fogginess.
"I felt it. Your pain, Gertrude," she finally responds, her voice soft and airy. When Gertrude just raises an eyebrow at her, urging her to continue, she traces the rim of her mug with her finger. "Through our bond. That you created."
Gertrude sighs. She wants nothing more than to rest, take enough painkillers to kill a horse, then get back up and return to the Institute and her duty.
She had known, somehow, felt it in the deepest caverns of her ribs, that Agnes had not died. She had received the news, had heard the other Desolation followers mourning loudly and painfully at the loss of their Messiah. But she knew, that Agnes had faked it. Not through the Eye, whose powers coursed through her more and more everyday. But that bloody bond.
She still didn't want the other woman here. She only brought trouble, fiery destruction and would be an obstacle in Gertrude's mission.
Because Agnes was an enemy too. A threat to be taken out. She was an Avatar, more even. Gertrude had a duty to kill her.
Yet every time the thought crossed her mind, of dousing the fire that was Agnes Montague, it was like her own insides chill. There was something about the red hair, about those lips that seemed to glisten red and Agnes' big eyes. All of her made Gertrude want to stop, to freeze in her step. Want to keep this woman alive.
She wanted desperately to blame it on the bond. She'd fucked up, sure, made a bloody mess of what was supposed to be an easy ritual to stop the Desolation. But she was stuck to Agnes. And it became harder to deny that her presence didn't soothe parts of her aches.
"Gertrude," Agnes' voice pulls her back. "Let me take care of you," she almost pleads.
And why would a being such as her ever plead?
Gertrude's far too out of it to reign in her thoughts and emotions. Her wounds have been inflamed and she knows if she's to let them stay untreated for any longer, they'd soon become infected.
So, she nods. She accepts Agnes' help, who leads her to the couch.
Gertrude only hears some rummaging from the other room as she stares at the ceiling which spins with her and tries to keep the bile that's rising in her throat down. But then Agnes is back and she kneels down, next to the couch. She's careful not to touch it, lest it light aflame.
Agnes takes a deep breath and, somehow, the heat that's been almost suffocatingly emanating from her skin fades to a dull warmth.
She helps Gertrude take her sweater and blouse off, leaving on only her bra and slowly peels back the bandages. All the while, Gertrude lets out breaths of pain and grunts, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, not allowing herself to cry at all. She is the Archivist, she won't cry about some flesh wounds.
"Stop that, Gertrude," Agnes chastises softly and touches the older woman's lip with tender fingers.
Gertrude's eyes lock on hers and she flinches, expecting burning pain. But only tender tendrils of warmth meet her. And she lets out a different kind of breath, fire awakening in her.
Agnes, though, pulls back, her eyes widening in fear— and since when did she have such beautiful long lashes? Gertrude had never been able to see them up close —
"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I always make things worse," she confesses. "I hurt you more."
Gertrude tries to shake her head, but it only makes her more nauseous. She takes a deep breath and in quick succession exhales "Continue."
Agnes seems to understand. She nods, still distraught at the prospect of hurting her Archivist, but she takes off the bandages next. Once they have all been thrown into a pile next to the couch, Agnes leans back and assesses the damage.
The stab to Gertrude's stomach has started to open up and is slowly trickling blood, but the others have scabbed over in dark, almost black.
It's a blur as she cleans the wounds, bandaging quickly the least severe ones and then moves to the stabbing wound.
She tries her best to ignore Gertrude's pained groans and keep her still. Agnes clings onto concentration not to burn the woman, the needle in her hand or the thread while she sews the wound shut. It takes far longer than it should, what with Gertrude's constant movement. She's become more delirious and Agnes had not know what painkillers to give her or how much, so she'd not given her any. Just left her to this pain that strikes the both of them.
It makes Agnes ache and any tears she sheds still vaporize before they've rolled down her cheeks.
A hand cradles her face when she leans back to place a large bandage over Gertrude's closed wound. The older woman's looking through hazy eyes at Agnes and her fingertips brush her cheeks. They move, from underneath her eyes to the high of her cheekbones, then down to her jaw and then to her lips.
Her eyes flutter shut many times, but Agnes shakes her awake. The couch might have been good for stitching her back up, but not for sleeping.
Together, they stumble mostly into Gertrude's bedroom. Still as cold and impersonal as the rest of her house. At least the sheets are lacking dust and Gertrude slides underneath the covers with help, pulling down Agnes next to her.
She's mostly unaware of any of her actions now, just that she needs the warmth that is Agnes Montague right there and then.
Agnes tucks herself away into Gertrude's arms, her head snugly fitting into the crook of the older woman's neck. She breaths in the scent of deodorant and faint sweat and manages to relax too.
For the first time in all the years she's been alive, moving from place to place, worshipped by the Lightless Flame, by all who venerated the Desolation, she felt at peace. She felt like the fire wasn't eating her from the inside out, about to burst and take down everything that surrounded her.
Sure, she'd been gaining more control in the two years she'd been away from the Lightless Flame, but nothing truly felt like being in the arms of her Archivist. And knowing she wouldn't be able to lose control.
Gertrude hums in contentment and relaxes completely. Soon, her breaths even out and any pain they'd shared faded to dull aches.
As morning light peeks through the curtains, Gertrude awakens slowly, as if through molasses. The warmth that surrounds her feels nothing like the oncoming fever from yesterday. It feels like home, more than the Archive ever did, than her childhood home ever could. Hell, it was more like home than the Beholding's embrace.
"Let's run away," a voice whispers onto her skin. "Far away from London. Let's just forget about the Fears, about any Rituals. Please, Gertrude," Agnes whispers desperately as she clings onto Gertrude.
The older woman sighs, but pulls the redhaired closer, carding a hand through the soft strands.
Agnes can't stifle a cry.
"I can't. I need to stop Jonah Magnus, Agnes. I need to stop the Rituals."
"Why you? You can just pass it on, to someone else, just come with—"
"That's quite enough," Gertrude firmly states. Her hand brushes Agnes' cheek tenderly again. "I'm not leaving. But..." she steels herself. Pieces from last night come back through muddled images, smells and sounds. But she doesn't want to deny that, whilst Agnes should be a threat, she isn't. Gertrude doesn't want her to be. Doesn't want her to die. It would tear at the last of her kindness. "But you can stay. With me. Help me with the fight, Agnes."
Agnes doesn't respond for a very long time, until Gertrude thinks she'll refuse.
They don't separate either, just two women far older than they'd ever thought they'd make it, in one bed in the early lights of morning. Intertwined, both in body and in soul, unable to quite shake off the others' presence without ripping parts of themselves.
They shouldn't do this. Shouldn't even be feasible, the Eye and the Desolation.
But here they are.
Agnes raises on her arms and peers down at Gertrude. Her hair curtains them both. She leans down and presses a scorching kiss to the older woman's forehead — that doesn't hurt Gertrude, not physically — before smiling. "Okay. I'll protect you, Gertrude Robinson. I'll take care of you until we both die."
And Gertrude smiles. Maybe the bond wasn't such a nuisance after all.