for there are many ways to kill a man they say

Perhaps the former Haruspex had done the deed for shock value, anger directed towards pulling something out of the assembled leaders of the Basin, even when Tiamat mourns enough for all of them - the only one comfortable enough in vulnerability to say what they’re all thinking. She’s a beautiful tidal wave, Wessex thinks, watching the tears flow from her eyes, passion and misery wiping away everything before her, until she retreats once again into a calmer state of mind. The mottled woman keeps her mouth shut, following the ebb and flow with eyes that want to apologize for inciting anything at all, but the walls forbid it. So instead, she watches silently, lips turned down into what can only be described as her version of sadness.

Whether or not they’re all swept along with Tiamat’s emotions, she doesn’t know, but the stoic woman is glad when their audience begins to break up. Her gaze linger on the shards of the Mirror, broken even further by her Lady’s hooves. She should keep something of it, if only to remind herself of what she accomplished here - on the off chance that whatever is coming doesn’t kill them all. It’s a fear she dare not voice, dare not give it reality and power.

And then it’s just the two of them, the way it was when she first came to Helovia, only this time they may be leaving it, and all she wants to do is curl herself around the blue maiden and make everything go away. Instead, she manages to swallow the frog in her throat to ask quietly, “Where’s Nimue, Tia?” Because they have to keep doing productive things, they can’t stop and let it all soak in - that’s when the emotions come. In the dead of night, when all anger is exhausted and all that’s left is her mind with the realities racing by - that’s when the emotions come too fast and too fierce and leave a puddle behind. Not quite like the puddle that is Wessex when the Ocean’s Light presses her dainty head into the thick arch of the warrior’s neck.

That puddle is much different.

We need to stick together, the woman breathes into her skin, and it feels like that small patch is on fire - not with sexual desire - but with an unbridled need to make whatever this darling woman wants, come true. Yes, yes! her mind screams, of course, of course we’ll all stick together. But Tiamat doesn’t know the reality of battle, the way the chaos surges and your focus narrows down to concentric circles of attention, how everything can be lost until all of a sudden, there’s no one left to fight. Wessex’s breath catches in her throat as she tries to form a reply, stuck on wishing for wings in which to engulf Tia, something more soft for her to rest her head upon, than the rock-hard muscles of her shoulders and the spikes which sprout from her various ends. It seems like forever before she is able to reach out and run her nose down the blue’s neck in a comforting manner, soothing her whimpers and petting her softly until she can form some appropriate words.

“Don’t worry, love,” comes thickly, gruffly even, as if she were trying to mask the emotion in a deeper, reassuring voice. “If I have to herd us all like cats, I will. Even Beloved.” It’s supposed to be funny, but maybe given the circumstances… it isn’t. A deep breath. “You know I’ll always be… with you. At your side. Protecting you… if you need it, I mean. I will always keep you safe.” Fuck, she’s messing this up. “And the Basiners, too, of course. But you, especially.” And then there is silence, because she can’t bring herself to say what the air already knows. Not when she knows it isn’t reciprocated that way.

You needn’t worry, because I love you. Because I would die for you.

I am Iron and I Forge Myself