Put That Thing Back Where It Came From Or So Help Me

[sugarlips]

Desolation. That's what Harrow feels when the King Undying tells her that what she wants most is impossible. Not even what she wants, but what she needs. She cannot live without Gideon Nav, and she will not. Unending life, in spite of being what she had sought after in the beginning, is now unthinkable. She looks up into his surprisingly normal face, his unearthly eyes, and lets her gaze drop.

A horrible certainty rises in her, and becomes a morbid hope. Her face is serene with unspeakable grief, none of her wild plan showing as she asks to see the body of her cavalier. He grants her this, and she walks like a woman to the gallows down the ship to the cold storage. He has the grace to leave her alone with her grief, of course, and she opens the door with her heart in her throat.

The chill of the corpsetorium echoes the cool calm of her mind. Her chest aches, her throat is sore from screaming, but the sight of Gideon, hole in her chest, laying on a slab like so much dead meat does not inspire the crushing grief she had expected to. It fuels her. Motivates her to think harder, to dissect the theorems she studied and the one megatheorem that led to this cursed conclusion (damn Sextus for being right).

Harrow has no idea how long she sits there, her mind working in overdrive, peering inward to slowly pull out the stitches she had made in her own soul only mere hours before. It feels like only seconds at the same time it feels like eons. She has to do this carefully, slowly. I will not live without you. she thinks to herself and to the traces of Nav that exist inside her. She repeats it like a mantra. I told you that I am undone without you. We are both undone if I must go on alone.

It's the most delicate work she's ever done, and it hurts. It's a pain right down to her marrow, like she's trying to peel layers of calcium off of her own bones. At the end of it, it feels like she's holding a doll in her metaphysical hands. A little gauzy imitation of Gideon Nav. She pulls it free of herself, feels blood drip from her forehead into her eyes, and with all of the ferocity she had to hold back during the excavation, she slams the soul back into its rightful body.

Comments

[sugarlips]

Fuck you for knowing her and fuck you for thinking it, Nav!

Harrow presses her face against a less-gory part of Gideon's chest, feels ten thousand pounds lift off of her when she feels and hears that heartbeat. In her relief, rage rises back up. She lifts herself onto an elbow to see Gideon's face. Blood and sweat and tears all mingle on her face, naked and unpainted, and a bloody hand slaps Gideon across the mouth.

It has very little force to it, comparatively, but it's still a cruel thing when Gideon is in such a state and Harrow knows it. "You! Selfish! Cad!"

[bonebutchblues]

Her head snaps to the side, and she doesn't quite have the strength to right it yet. So instead, while she's facing away from Harrow, she elects to vomit a bit of blood. It just seems like a convenient time for that. Her bloodshot eyes blink, then crinkle into an unreadable expression and she reaches to catch the hand that just slapped her.

[sugarlips]

In spite of herself, Harrow feels another spike of sympathy and guilt, not enough to fully regret the slap though. She blinks at the strange look on Gideon's face, feels a warmth in her own cheeks that she hopes is covered up by all the grunge. But she lets her hand be caught, feeling as if she truly couldn't deny Gideon anything, at this point.

[bonebutchblues]

Her heart manages to clench, seeing this cracked-open Harrow. Cytheria had been right- it had been easy to die. It had been easy even knowing Harrow would hate her, even knowing Harrow would never forgive her. Because the alternative was watching her die. And at the end of the day, Gideon was selfish enough to make that choice.

But laying here, insides full of fuck, watching her cry about it wasn't part of the plan. The pain she can take. But this shit? The horror and heartbreak in her expression? It simply must stop. And Gideon's mind is just addled enough to know exactly the wrong answer.

Slowly, shakily, she brings that hand to her lips. They brush the knuckles gently, so gently that if weren't for the sticky friction of blood, Harrow might not believe it's happening at all.

[sugarlips]

Exhausted and unwilling to be perceived, Harrow drops her face back down against Gideon's clavicle, shaking like a twiggy leaf. It's unclear whether that's from withheld sobs, exhaustion, pain, or something else.

There's an audible inhale, gurgling in her bloodied throat. Her fingers curl slightly, lightly. Harrow wishes she could curl entirely in on herself, but she doesn't move otherwise. In spite of her rage, she truly doesn't feel she *deserves* Gideon back. Certainly she doesn't deserve tenderness.

After a beat, she gently pulls on the hand holding her own, trying to get Gideon to rest the arm down against her chest. If the cav will let her, she pulls both hands down to tuck them under her chin.

"You idiot," it's devoid of venom, "get some rest. I will... I will call for medical attention..."

She doesn't move.

[bonebutchblues]

Harrow wouldn't think she deserved tenderness even if God himself walked in here standing on his hands to declare she deserved it by the shipload. But that's too fucking bad, because that's what she's getting from Gideon, at least until Gideon has the strength to throw her bodily again. For now, she lets her limbs be moved. The pain is receding and leaving bone-deep weariness behind. But she's not ready to surrender to the darkness, and certainly not ready to face any fussing medics.

"Not... yet..." It's rough, but far less weak than her earlier attempts to speak.

[sugarlips]

Harrowhark is a spoiled, uppity brat who thinks she deserves everything! Obviously! She sighs heavily.

"Fine. Stay awake and I won't." She has a feeling Gideon will, though. There's strength returning to her even in the moments between speaking. So Harrow lets herself stay tucked in against the larger girl's side, pressing their blood-slick tangled hands to the underside of her chin like Gideon's arm is a stuffed animal.

She wants to say more. Wants to lecture Gideon for what she did, wants to ask her what she remembers, if it really was Gideon standing there with her, holding her arms up and fixing her stance. If she had any thoughts at all, while enmeshed with Harrow... but she doesn't. She's too scared to know the answer.

[bonebutchblues]

It's quiet for a long moment, long enough for Harrow to think Gideon promptly lost her challenge after all. Then there's another hacking cough, and a soft swearing, but afterwards the rattle is much diminished her breathing.

It doesn't seem real. Not the silvery ceiling above her. Not the cold slab she's laid out on. Certainly not Harrow beside her.

"You're warm," she says, stupidly.

[sugarlips]

She does indeed wonder if Gideon slipped away on her and is about to shake or poke her when Gideon finally speaks again. Big stupid bruiser of a woman.

"Not really hard to be warmer than a morgue table, Griddle."

[bonebutchblues]

She tugs Harrow to just get directly on top of her like a creepy little blanket.

[sugarlips]

Ugh, she does not want to lay herself directly on that gaping chest wound!!! She doesn't really fight it either, though, letting her much smaller self be pulled up and on top of Gideon, just glad that the strength is there again, more than anything.

After a long moment of silence she lifts her head, leaning her pointy chin on one hand and pushing hair out of her face with the other. Seeing Gideon's face, bloodstained but no longer pallid with death, moving... her heart stops in her chest for a moment. "You look disgusting."

[bonebutchblues]

She feels disgusting. Every scrap of clothing on her is stiff with blood, sweat, or something worse. More than anything she could go for a sit in the big hot water basin. But she settles for having Harrow close. Harrow, warm Harrow, terrible Harrow. Living Harrow.

“I’m the hottest stiff in here and you know it.”

[sugarlips]

Harrow blows stringy black hair out of her face. "Barf."

Her eyes don't leave Gideon's face, though. Stupid, beat up, yellow eyed Gideon. She stares a little too long before clearing her throat, still raw from screaming. Ow.

"If you feel good enough to say nonsense, you're well enough to move. Come on." She tries to swing her legs and crawl off of Gideon before she does anything sappy or equally embarrassing.

[bonebutchblues]

“Mmmrggph” Gideon agrees. She watches Harrow get off of her, and sits up herself. She doesn’t wince, her breath doesn’t catch, but Harrow may still spot the pain by the way her eyes narrow just slightly. Still, she’s been laying on her back in a morgue for way too long. She’s over it. Slowly, she swing her legs off the slab. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

[sugarlips]

Harrow spares a snort of aborted laughter. For the sound Gideon makes, and for the general humor of how much of a God damned mess both of them are.

There's no way in all of the nine houses her skinny arms could manage to support Gideon, but she still unconsciously lifts her arms as the cav makes to stand.

[bonebutchblues]

Harrows hands get summarily batted away. Down that way lies both of them tumbling to the ground in a disgusting tangle of limbs. Slowly, carefully, Gideon stands. Her eyes close against the head rush, but she stays upright unassisted.

[sugarlips]

Just to be stubborn, she slaps Gideon's hands back before letting her arms fall to her sides. Her toes curl against the icey floor in worry as her cavalier's eyes close, but she doesn't fall and Harrow breathes what she hopes is a silent sigh of relief. Then she's grabbing Gideon just above the elbow in a vicegrip and leading her out and away from the reminder of death.

[bonebutchblues]

God damn it. She wants to slap Harrow’s horrible little hand even more to assert dominance, but the dizziness robs her of her chance. It’s more-or-less the worst thing that has happened to her lately.

She stumbles behind her necromancer, just as glad to be leaving the morgue behind.

[sugarlips]

Suck it up, buttercup, Harrow has no intention of letting Gideon be dominant or make any decisions whatsoever for a hot minute. Since clearly she makes very terrible decisions.

They make it only a few meters from the morgue door before a small swarm of officers descend on them. The way Harrow puts her body in front of Gideon's as a buffer would be funny if it weren't so sad, though she uses the full force of her Reverend Daughter presence as if that could make her taller and wider. She doesn't have any reason to think the staff of the Emperor's ship would be a threat, but after everything they've been through in the past however-long, she's paranoid. Sue her.

[bonebutchblues]

When Harrow bristles, Gideon wishes immediately for her sword. She realizes in a horrible, stomach-lurching moment, she has no idea where they are, or what the circumstances of her resurrection. Did Harrow steal her corpse? Is Harrow in trouble?

She puts a hand on her shoulder. Freshly dead or freshly alive, she's the cavalier here. If there's gonna be violence, it's going to be on her.

"Back off," she growls with a ferocity she doesn't feel. It's enough to get the officers to blink, but that's about it.

There's a tense moment of silence until one finally calls out, "Fetch a flesh magician, she's still bleeding!"

[sugarlips]

The hand on her shoulder is both the reassuring brace Gideon clearly meant it to be and also extremely infuriating. The stupid cav is still half-dead, and she's trying to be the protector still? Harrow is going to tie her to the bed to make her rest!

Harrow has to fight to not roll her eyes when Gideon tries to vocally intimidate the pack of soldiers. Hypocritical, maybe. Harrow lifts one thin hand to rest on top of Gideon's fingers, debating the relative merits of trying to suplex the cav in the awkward silence that follows.

She practically deflates with relief when someone barks for help. Another one produces a chair from God-knows-where and mumbles something about a stretcher as she tries to encourage Gideon to sit. In an uncomfortable realization, Harrow remembers that Gideon probably has no fucking clue where they are. "It's okay, Nav, sit." She will crouch down next to the chair like a perched crow, a hand on Gideon's knee.

[bonebutchblues]

The mood shifts too quickly, and her still-exhausted mind can't keep up. She startles at the appearance of the chair, as if perhaps that too is a threat. Are they fighting? Are they running? Sitting, apparently!?

The jolt of adrenaline she felt when Harrow put her body in front of her is keeping her pulse hammering in her ears, but returns little strength to her limbs or clarity to her mind. By the time Harrow convinces her to warily drop herself down into the chair, everything feels distant, like she's reading about it in a flimsy comic and not living in it herself.

Someone in the grey fatigues of the Sixth takes her arm to feel her pulse. She tries to snatch it back but it's held firm. Another hand grabs her chin, and someone is shining a pen light in her eyes.

"Harrow," says someone, who's voice sounds strangely like Gideon's. "Harrow..." the voice sounds plaintive, pathetic. She wonders who it is.

[sugarlips]

Gideon looks dizzy down to her very soul. Harrow worries at her lip in sympathy, watching everything that's being done to her cavalier with hawklike intensity. Her thin fingers tighten their grip.

"I'm here, Gideon. I'm not going to leave you. We're on His Kindly Majesty's ship. These officers are going to make sure you're stable, and then we're going to get cleaned up."

Her voice is softer than it has ever been, reassuring but confident. She declares her intent with a purposeful stare at the Second Officer who is shining the penlight and receives a crisp nod that she takes as agreement.

[bonebutchblues]

She groans and tightens her grip on Harrow's fingers in response. The hands have released her arm and chin, but another pair is shoving into the ragged hold of her shirt and prodding at her chest. There is some kind of talk about "diaphragm" and "inner pleura" that Gideon absolutely doesn't understand, but in an absolutely sickening sensation she feels her flesh being moved.

"Fucking... gross..." she manages, as her lungs are repaired from the inside out.

Suddenly the work is done, and she can feel her lung capacity increase by what feels like orders of magnitude. She takes one heaving breath, and then another. The flood of oxygen to her brain is a relief she didn't realize she was desperate for. She stands up out of the chair with her newfound strength, then just as quickly goes ragdoll limp.

[sugarlips]

Harrow would never admit it, but she agrees. Watching Gideon stitch back together from the inside out is a little bit gross. Even worse, the sight of the flesh magician's hands inside the wound, touching Gideon's viscera, has a horrible protective jealousy rearing inside of her and roaring. Gideon's fingers crack under the pressure of Harrow's grip.

The big gulps of air are encouraging, and the medics look on with approval. Harrow feels a breath come rushing out of her that she didn't realize she'd been holding... until Gideon tries to stand and promptly loses consciousness.

"Nav-!" Her throat burns with the effort of shouting, which is pointless anyway because Gideon is already crumpling into the nearest officer's arms.

It takes two of them to hoist the cavalier into a bathroom, where Harrow insists on cleaning her up herself. Medical assistants be damned, this is her cavalier! So when Gideon comes-to she will find herself laid out on towels on tiles, a pillow under her head, her modesty maintained only with more towels, and harrow insistently but gently cleaning the blood and battle and who knows what else off of Gideon's chest where the wound used to be. The necromancer is deeply concentrated, eyebrows pinched, and dressed down to shorts and her bandeaux.