Chapter Text
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
The pain did not end when she died. Then again, Harrow had not expected that it would. Commanding Hell, even for a brief moment, has a price, she thought. She had not anticipated dying in Gideon’s arms. It had not been the comfort she had once thought it would be, not with the keening wail her cavalier had emitted as she realized what was happening. Nor had it been a pleasure seeing Gideon’s beautiful face twisted with grief as she snarled that Harrow was hers, and hers alone. Had she really once gloried in causing Gideon pain as long as it meant keeping her? If that doesn’t prove I belong in Hell, I don’t know what does.
Pain pulsed like a separate heartbeat behind her eyes, and black spots flickered across her vision. All around her, she could sense movement, but between the headache, the resulting vision impairment, and the fact that wherever she was had no light source, she had no way to discern who or what was watching her. Whispers sounded just outside her range of hearing, murmurs of words that she could not hope to understand, and the sound was filled with infinite malice and something older than hatred as she knew it. Somewhere far, far below—or what felt like below, anyway—she could sense the Resurrection Beasts settling into slumber, finally resting now that their old enemy was dead. Harrow knew better than to hope that a similar rest would await her.
A cold hand cupped under her chin, tilting her face upwards. Her vision cleared, giving her a view of her own face, bare of paint, eyes cold and empty. “You opened the Tomb,” her double intoned, and even the voice sounded like her own. The tone would have passed for emotionless, but the eyes gave it away. “You are a traitor to the Emperor, the Ninth House, and the entire system.”
“The entire system was a rotting corpse, built on lies and a poor facsimile of life. The Emperor betrayed all of us first,” Harrow answered. “He killed billions of people and butchered planets to bring a false resurrection to nine dead planets, and he killed countless others in an effort to outrun his own mistakes.”
“How are you any better?” Her double’s voice turned disgusted. “You spent most of your life tormenting Gideon in an effort to keep her with you, even when she made it clear she only wanted to get as far away from you as possible. You brought her to a killing field as your slave, and she died for you. You consumed her soul, and then refused to continue the process, making her sacrifice utterly pointless. Then you rearranged your brain in a pathetic rescue attempt that ended with her being alone in your body. And she still died anyway. But you still couldn’t let her go, could you?! You ripped the River apart with theorems only a madwoman would use and destroyed the Empire. Admit it, your main reason wasn’t to kill a tyrant: it was vengeance for Gideon. And let’s not forget that you opened the Tomb and hosted Alecto’s soul for years!”
The words fell like stones, bruising parts of her soul that she’d forgotten were there. The hand left her chin, and Harrowhark Nonagesimus bowed her head. “What you say is true,” she conceded. “Gideon was the best of us, and my actions could have destroyed her. There is nothing I can do to take back what I did to her...to any of them. I am just as bad as the Emperor.”
“The Emperor wasn’t a chimera made up of two hundred souls. You are an abomination who should never have existed. Do you even remember their names?”
Of course she did. She’d known them all since she was seven. “Lydia Enneades,” she began. “Vergil Sesquinodes, Flerens Novus, Lyseus Nonus, Livia Sesquinoian, Elayna Novianos…” Pain lashed across her back like a whip, and she gasped. Warm blood trickled down her back.
The hand returned, and tightened like a vise around her jaw. “Continue.”
“Ilius Enneas, Zachariah Naveus, Ilianna Nova, Elisabetta Navi, Cassius Enneiad, Leodes Noveus, Tatiana Sesquinus-” Another lash fell across her back, and the fingers dug into her jaw to the point where bone groaned under the pressure. “Titus Nonides, Brutus Novern, Varia Nove, Erik Novium, Umbra Enneus-” Another blow, and a scream tore out of her.
Larger, callused hands tilted her face upwards again, and her breath stilled in her lungs as she met golden eyes. Pain streaked across her back again, but faded into something distant as she stared numbly into the cold, detached face of Gideon Nav. The hands that had defended her and held her were a prison now. The beautiful face that had blazed with anger, glowed with laughter and mischief in equal measure, and once looked on her with something soft she couldn’t—wouldn’t—name, was cold and detached. “Keep going, sugarlips,” came the familiar voice, but it was void of emotion in a way Gideon had never sounded before.
“Gideon-.” White-hot pain flared from the small of her back down to her toes, and this time, her jawbone cracked under the grip on her face. Harrow closed her eyes. I deserve this. “Gideon Nav,” she began. “Umber Enneus, Pyrrhus Nonasimus, Peleus Nonimus, Elseth Novasimeus, Coram Nonaviseum…” and when the pain came again, she did not let herself pause.
This is retribution for my sins. There is no forgiveness for me here. I’m sorry, Gideon.
Gideon couldn’t say how long she held on to Harrow’s lifeless body. She definitely couldn’t tell you how long she spent with her face buried in dark hair that had grown too long, one hand searching for a heartbeat she would never feel again while the other clutched a cool, limp hand to her chest. She was vaguely aware of movement around her, of voices trying to reach her, but all she could think was Harrow is gone. She left me. Harrow is dead. She left me. I loved her. Harrow is dead. I loved her, and she left me. She’s mine. Harrow…
Gideon had died for her, and she’d ripped her brain apart to keep from consuming the soul she’d offered freely. Everyone had died, and Harrow had torn the River open to bring them back. But she’d died doing it, and Gideon almost wished the universe had ended rather than force her to keep existing when Harrow wasn’t in it.
“I am undone without you,” Harrow had said once.
Don’t you understand, Harrow? Gideon thought. I’m the same way. I don’t know how to exist without you. Even your hatred meant more to me than anything from someone else. It meant I had all of you. So she held on to the empty shell of her necromancer, taking in everything.
The short-cropped, dark hair had been allowed to grow long, falling past too-thin shoulders. Shoulders that had somehow developed muscle. Come to think of it...all of Harrow had put on some muscle, and Gideon let out a sound that was equal parts laughing and sobbing. The face was void of paint for once, and slack in a way it had never been in life. The blue lightning in the starless black eyes was gone, but those eyes that had gleamed with keen intelligence, anger, hatred, and myriad other emotions in life were dull and lifeless. With shaking hands, she closed them. This let her examine the cracks in the skin, and she traced them numbly, starting with the face and ending with the hands, imagining what could have happened to cause them. It was like something had shattered Harrow’s body like one would a porcelain doll, then glued her back together with whatever had come to hand: she was obviously Harrow, but whatever had torn her apart and put her back together hadn’t cared enough to do a particularly good job.
Come to think of it, it had always been that way, hadn’t it? Her necromancer had always been dealt the worst possible hand and expected to put herself back together. First the Reverend Father and Mother had made an awful decision to further their line, then they’d taken that responsibility and dumped it onto their daughter’s shoulders at the earliest opportunity. Then, when Harrow had opened the Tomb at eleven to see if what they were guarding had been worth their crime and they’d learned of it, they’d gone and killed themselves, expecting Harrow to follow. Instead, they’d left her to hold the Ninth House together. And Gideon...she shook with the realization that she’d done the same thing: she’d died and left Harrow to pick up the pieces. Granted, she’d done it with the intent to save her necromancer, but obviously, that had backfired. Spectacularly. And Harrow had paid the price.
A hand landed on her shoulder, and with great effort, she managed to refrain from ripping it off at the wrist. She held Harrow tighter instead, wishing she had the ability to sense souls like some necromancers could...like Palamedes could.
“Gideon.” Oh. It was Camilla. “Let her go.”
“No.” Gideon hated how watery her voice sounded. “I can’t...I won’t.” Come on, Nonagesimus, she pleaded in her head. Don’t leave me like this. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. Please…
“There’s nothing we can do, Nav.” Palamedes. Wasn’t he dead? “She entered the stoma and pulled power from the River itself. No one can survive that. It’s a miracle that she did what she did.”
“People keep saying she did something to the River. What the fuck does it all even mean?” The answer was a lecture on liminal spaces that Gideon mostly tuned out until she heard, “Even the Emperor’s power doesn’t work in the stoma. No one really knows what’s down there. The theorems that Nonagesimus used were highly experimental, and frankly, I’m still trying to get a full picture of what exactly she did. But somehow she tamed the Resurrection Beasts for a short time, and killed the Emperor. Then, it appears she performed a more stable Resurrection.”
“But why would she do any of it? She had to know she would--.” Gideon’s voice gave out before she could say die.
In a voice heavy with compassion, Hect answered. “She knew she would die, yes.”
“Nonagesimus has never taken a gamble unless she was relatively certain it would work,” Palamedes commented. “She’s always had the remarkable ability to redefine what can be considered possible. She must have decided that whatever this would cost her, the payoff was worth it.”
Sudden rage left the taste of ash in Gideon’s mouth. “She was full of shit,” she snarled. “Whatever “payoff” she decided was worth it was absolute bullshit.”
“She resurrected all of us, Nav,” Palamedes pointed out. “She killed the Emperor, and kept the Nine Houses alive. Actually, it looks like she truly resurrected the entire system in a way the Emperor was never able to manage.”
“But she’s dead!” Gideon raged. “She did all of that, but she died! She’s so smart, but she didn’t think of a way to save herself!” Because she didn’t think she was worth saving.
“Gideon,” Camilla snapped. “Harrowhark pulled off something no one thought was possible. It’s a miracle she managed to do everything she did.”
“She left me!” Gideon roared.
“You left her first,” was the calm, brutal response. “And she ripped her brain apart to keep from consuming your soul until she could figure out how to bring you back. What do you want to do, Nav? Undo everything she did so you can get her back?”
Gideon set Harrow down gently, brushed off the hand on her shoulder, and rose to her feet, glaring at the Sixth cavalier. Camilla met the glare without flinching. Gideon was vaguely aware of Palamedes in her peripheral, watching them carefully. If she moved against Camilla, he would intervene. Camilla sighed. “I know you’d do anything to get her back. When the Warden...detonated...I would have torn the universe apart to get him back. I didn’t because he needed me to do something else. What did Harrow ask of you?”
“She wanted me to live,” Gideon answered hollowly. “I don’t know how to do that without her.” She turned her eyes back to what remained of her necromancer. That’s not Harrow, part of her whispered. The form lying crumpled and spent at her feet couldn’t be her fierce, deadly bone witch. Unwillingly, she recalled her fa—God’s…no, Jod’s words.
“Though she be but little, she is fierce,” he’d said, with the patronizing, faux paternal air he’d so often liked to adopt. Like Harrow was a badly behaved kitten, something not to be taken seriously. Even the memory made her wish Harrow had left God alive for a few more minutes just so she could punch him in the face. It was true that Harrow probably only weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet and that she was four foot nothing, but she’d always had this presence to her, one that Gideon had never been able to ignore. She’d been able to dominate a room just by walking into it. This sad, crumpled form at her feet was only a husk of what her Harrow had been.
Gideon scrubbed at her face, and fell to her knees again, ignoring the pain at the impact. She pulled her necromancer’s body into her arms again, stroking the angular, sharp planed face in a way Harrow would never have allowed in life...or would she have? The memory of the soft, open smile she’d offered only hours ago reared its head, and threatened to break Gideon all over again.
“How do I enter the River?” she asked Palamedes.
Palamedes sighed, exchanged looks with Camilla, and began.
Lydia Enneades. Pain pulses behind her eyes, black snakes twisting and writhing in her guts. Vergil Sesquinodes. Fierens Novus. The skin between her shoulder blades splits apart, followed by a burning sensation as flesh knits itself back together, only to tear again. Lyseus Nonus. Ilius Enneas. Brutus Novem. Her bones burst out of her and then push themselves back into formation, her muscles beyond pain as they regrow, only to be torn off again and again and again. Ilianna Nova. Elisabetta Navi. Erik Novium. Varia Nove. "The land that shall receive thee dying, in the same will I die; and there will I be buried. The Lord do so and so to me, and more also, if aught but death part me and thee. See you on the flipside, sugarlips.”
Umbra Enneus. Pyrrhus Nonasimus. Tatiana Sesquinus. Red hair the color of flame, strong, callused brown hands swinging a sword, fire-bright eyes. Fiery hair, eyes of unearthed gold, cold and lifeless, a broken body impaled on a broken fence. “Nonagesimus, the only job I’d do for you would be if you wanted someone to hold the sword as you fell on it.” Elseth Novasimeus. “One flesh, one end, bitch.” Coram Nonaviseum. Alexei Enneasidem. Hermera Nonas. “The Tomb I will serve till the end of my days, and then see me buried in two hundred graves.” Regyna Novias. Two hundred souls, an entire generation sacrificed to continue the line of the Tombkeepers.
Gideon G̸̛̠̪̎̄͠į̸̤̺͙͒ḑ̵͖͈́͗ͅe̷̘͕͆́̏ǒ̶͍̗̿͜n̷̢̤̖̄̋̇̔͝
Fire-bright hair and golden eyes dead no no no nonononono
Ǵ̸̡̞̦͈̙̫͈̤̤̞̺͉̪̌̾͛͝ị̷͉͕̈̾͆̃d̵͕̣͎̮̩͍̬̣͍̺͖̀̇̽̔̃͐̓͝ë̵̛̙̥̤̠͔̼̿̀̿̀͒͠o̵̢̭͗̂͗n̶̜͍̆͆́̌͐̕͠
Without
You
I
Ĝ̵̙̝̝͙̼̠̏͌̏͊̓̆į̵̨̦̭̀̎d̵͙͔̩̹̲̋͜ͅe̸̝̫̰̥̖̯̿o̴̺̍͆͛́̂̎̀̑n̷͈͊ no please
AM
Undone
G̷͖͇̜̥̩̳̱̥̱͇̬̯͇̰̦͓̠̙̜̦̞̲͊͋̉͒̇̍̅̋̐̑̀͒̄̔͆̀̌̋̃̎ȉ̵̳͔̲̞͍̲̱̱̭͓͈̆̇̿̐͆́̀̍̀̅͗̏̏͂̔͆̚ͅd̷̙̙̱̮̘̪̝̘̪̖̩̜͙̦̠̤͖͉́̎͋̀̑͆̾̈̀̈͋̌͆̅̃̉͑̅́̄͑e҉͖̫̣͔̦͍̪̘̞̜̣̪͖̽̄̃͒̎̊́̋̾̀̔͒̾͋̚ͅō̸͉͈̜̩̟̗̙͍͇͙̦̽̈͋̃͊̏͌̾͋̂̚ͅͅn҉͍̥̝̖͇̜̘̲͍͕̜͖̙̦̜̲̪̖͕̅͂̌̇̐̎͗̾͗͒̒̒̊ Please no
I pray the tomb is shut forever. I pray the rock is never rolled away. I pray that I pray that which was buried remains buried, insensate, in perpetual rest, with closed eye and stilled brain. I pray it lives, I pray it sleeps Golden eyes staring lifelessly up at a blue sky
O̴̰̙҇̎̊͜ň̵̡̞̭͂͞ͅē̴̡̳̙̦͡ f҈̡̛͍͒̽͐l̵̨͎͙͔̈́͛́͡e҉̨̳̅̽͡s҈͙͋̄̕͜h̵̢̤̐̀͠ o̷̧̜̞͚͊̐̉͠n҉̢̝̊̓̑͞è̷̢̛͖̱̈͐ é̴̢͕͉̳̏͡ņ̷̙̝̉̽̕ḑ̷̪̋́͌͡
G҈̧̪̤͙́̽͡į̷̩̰̯̟͎͌̉̉͗̓͡d҉̯̰̟͕͇̂̍͂͜͡ę̴̝̲̤͉̀͋̍̉̄͠ͅô̷̧͎͕̖̤̘̌̀̈́̈̕n̶͚̜̿͐͗̇̆͜͠ͅ Ğ̸̣͚̫͖͔̂͑͢͠į̴̱͔̮̬̿͋̀͞d҈͖͈̯̬̤̑͆͜͠è̵̲̪̟̳̾̒̚͢͞ō̷̡̠̞̪̭̒͛̍̎͠n̴̮̩̑̅̒͜͡ G̵͉͈̃̒͗̽̉͜͡į̷͙̬̙̖̲̒̆̑͂̕ḋ̶̰̠͒̑͢͞e̶̡͍͚͉̫҇̏͛̔́͌o̴̖̱̠̔̂͢͡n̷̢͍̘҇͐͌̈ͅ G̵̨̖̠̪̬̦͐̈́̃̚͝I҉͕̤̌̑͜͝Ḍ̶̨̠̫҇͗͌E҉̰͖̞̱̅͗̕͜O̸̘̞͈̞͙҇̌̀̃̀͜N҈̧͙͓̲̆̆͂̏͠
Three bodies swinging from the rafters, a stone rolled away from the Tomb where rests God’s Death
Ą̸̟̣̳͗̐̑̑̇̕l̶̡̛̥̘̝̀͒̆̀͑e̷̖̪̜͂́͜͞c҉̜̬͆̃͌̀̎͜͞t҈̫͇̦̅̏͢͠o҉͍̘҇̀̃̊̌͜
Blood on her hands
An icy coffin wherein lies her only love
Truly? What about G҉̘̠̭͌̓͐͜͠ǐ̷̢̟̬̮̬͗̈́̓͞d̵̨͓͖͈͙̾̅́̕ȩ̷͎͎̫͇̈̎̓͐̓̕o̸̢̗͓̬̪̒̎͝n̶̬̩̠̝̯͗̌͌̑̇͢͞
Two hundred souls
You killed them YOU KILLED THEM Y̴̧̱̯͕̝̞̔͒͒̕o҈̢͍̣̗̲̋̏̓̕ȗ̶̡̫͎̈̌̀͝ K̷̡͙͔͙̥̖҇͊̊̾ỉ̶̧̛̫͙̭͓̲̅̿̒̿l҈̤͔͙̎͗́͐͗͢͝ḻ̵̢͕̮̤͊̀̊͂͒͝e҉̰̜̖͉̝̅͌̏̕͜d҈͕̙̯̱̲̆̑͢͞ t̴̳͓̟̳͓̂͒̀̑͜͝h҈̮̤̮̏̋̈͗͜͝ḙ̷̭͐́͜͝m҈̢̩̤͕̤͓́̀̆͋̅͝
Bright light tears the dark asunder, a sword stabs the darkness’ heart and light spills through the wound. A voice, strange but known to even the deepest depths of her soul: “Wow, this place is a shit hole. What’s somebody like you doing here, sweetheart?”
She closes her eyes against the light, flinches back, because even as the light heals her, it wounds her, and despite everything, she still remembers pain, and fears it. “Damien Ennea,” she murmurs. “Mara Novum. Miriam Navidius. Oribel Nonideus—” “
What the fuck, Nonagesimus?” The bright voice is closer now, and hands tilt her face upwards. The light burns her eyes and she cries out.
“Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, Harrow! Here—” A callused hand covers her eyes, and strong arms pull her into a well-built chest. “What the fuck did those fucking RBs do to you?” The voice is soft now, appalled while hands trace wounds she’d ceased to notice. Those hands land hot on a particularly deep wound on her back, and Harrow shudders, tears coming to her eyes completely against her will, and she buries her face in what feels like a shoulder. The arms holding her tighten, even as they tremble, but not in weakness.
Soft lips brush her forehead, then brush lightly against her lips, and Harrow tastes salt. “Fuck you, Harrow…” that bright voice is faint and watery, and tremors run through the body wrapped around her. “Fuck you so much. Why would you do this? This is not what ‘one flesh, one end’ means.” The name of the person holding her finally resurfaces, and rings through her entire body, and Harrow pulls away with a start…or tries to. Gideon holds her so tightly. “No. I’m not letting you go.” Gideon’s tears fall on her like a benediction. Her voice is rough and jagged. “I’ve lost you too many times. If you leave me now, just kill me. Or take me with you.”
“Gideon,” she tries, but pain tears through her, leaving her breathless.
“I’ve got you. Sex Pal will fix you up, and then we can talk about the stupid shit you pulled.” Callused hands run through her hair. “But rest for now. And no dying.”
“Pot, kettle,” she gasps out.
A watery chuckle, and Gideon presses a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep, my midnight queen.”