Post-Halloween

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow is working. Very seriously. She is not mooning over her new relationship with Gideon even a little bit; she has too much work to do.

She is, however, wearing a skull with accents of deep, almost black purple, with a starburst or floral pattern just below her temple, that she has never been seen to wear before.

Other than that sentimental embellishment, however, she is entirely focused on Obaeg's Toward a Common Haemographology. She is making copious notes in the margins--courting future simian fury--and thinking that she should have found this for Moiraine before they started working on her weave notation.

Comments

[we_do_bones]

It does jump. And then some.

Harrow can play out a symphony across and under her skin; she loves to watch Gideon's body react and she's the conductor at the same time. This tiny, birdlike necromancer with no more muscle mass than Gideon's pink finger can reduce her strapping cavalier to nothing more than a mess of soft begging sounds, shivering muscles, and firing nerves.

She can. Does. Is. Until Gideon, glazed with sweat, throat dry, shudders and dies, momentarily, of bliss.

At least, that's what it feels like.

In general most people wouldn't consider cuddling with Harrowhark Nonagesimus to be all that rewarding, but then, most people aren't Gideon Nav, reaching for her adept with a blind, flopping, lazy hand and nudging her to move back up beside her.

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow, fastidious to a fault, wipes her mouth on Gideon's sheet on the perpendicular bed before she rejoins her cavalier, squeezing into the margin between Gideon's bicep and her serratus anterior and wrapping an arm across her torso. "My Griddle," she murmurs.

[we_do_bones]

"Harrow," she says, soft and sleepy, and curls her arm around her necromancer.

"Always."

[we_bring_hell]

Harrow reclines on Gideon's shoulder and watches Gideon fondly. Harrow sleeps rarely but sleeps like the dead; Gideon can glide in and out of catnaps all day long, and often does, when an afternoon takes a pleasant turn like this one. That's why there's a small stack of interesting texts on the end table nearby.

But for now the broken umbrella lies still and watches the anatomical dummy drift off. She leans forward to kiss Gideon's cheek.

In a moment she will take up her notes again; in a moment. For now, however, in the twilight, she drifts...

(It's always the same dream these days. The throne of skulls. The cliff. The shriek of seabirds, but there are no seabirds at Canaan House. That ocean is dead and rotting.

There are two thrones, one for her and one for Palamedes Sextus. She does not see Camilla Hect. She does not see Gideon.

Palamedes looks at her with muddy earth-coloured eyes and says, "It's wrong. There's a flaw in the underlying logic. It's an ugly mistake." He doesn't move his lips--nothing moves in this dream, in this one eternal snapshot--but he still says it)