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Kiriona Gaia laid there, a live body in a dead bed.
In her mind, she chuckled, creating a newly offensive joke at the expense of someone’s mother. Her body, however, laid as still as the stone beneath her.
It had been shut off- she had to play the part. The thing about being dead, then alive, then playing dead was that no matter how many times Kiriona blinked or slept within 1.5 lifetimes, she had never gotten friendly with the blank void behind her eyelids.
Frankly, things get boring too fucking fast when you can’t see or move.
Instead of sleeping for the sixth time in a row, Kiriona tossed around ideas and dreams. Kiriona thought about herself as Gideon in her current state, which lasted a total of maybe 19 minutes.
Still hot, more mortal, less mouths. Killed it with the ladies, including herself.
But this is the name of a girl who died with the Ninth on her lips. No matter what happened after, Gideon stayed on the Ninth just as imprisoned as the day she was born.
Kiriona the First tasted this on her tongue like a half-hearted sommelier and thought, Not my problem.
Gideon was old news anyway. She was a girl that craved what Kiriona has, and she paid the price with the only two things she ever had: Harrowhark and her sword. Ironically, Kiriona now found herself at the tail end of a narrative ouroboros where she was waiting to give up what else she had to see Harrow again.
The room around her was still silent. Kiriona wondered where Gideon’s sword is now. She hoped it’s been polished.
She wondered what time has done to Harrowhark- nothing too flattering, hopefully.
What does that even mean? The most flattering she can look is when she’s face down eating dirt. Kiriona corrected herself of the uncharacteristic idea of Harrow without eyebags and replaced it with an image of her looking like shit. Maybe with another permanent frown line, a more pronounced hunch in her back, and a black eye.
Something made her believe Harrow’s hair would still be cropped short, for convenience. It’s not like she ever combed it anyway.
Against her best wishes, Kiriona briefly stepped back into Gideon’s mind once more, if only to remember that loathsome face in detail. Gideon pictured her perfectly: A menacing little thing with bruises littering her arms and blood sweat making the face paint blur into a dull, warm, gray. She remembered strands of damp, black hair plastered to the sides of Harrow’s face. She remembered beholding her proud, victorious smile, and the blood that stained it.
Maybe the Harrow to walk through that door would be caked in just as much blood as she was before. Maybe she’ll have more bones to add to her freak repertoire; hopefully she’ll have none, and would have to admit Kiriona is something else with that perfect invulnerable body. How could she not? Kiriona’s skin is impenetrable - she no longer had a heart to die with – and of course, by the love of the Emperor, her father himself, she was still something else with that sword.
She remembered Harrow’s reflection with the wrong eyes. This time, though, the gold would be all Kiriona’s.
The air shifted. Kiriona’s heart would have started beating faster, if she still had one. It was cliché; she had no lungs to breathe, no blood to blush, no guts to flutter.
She held her breath anyway.
She listened to Harrow shuffle across the floor- no bone clinking to be found- and waited, and waited, and waited. Of course she kept her distance. Of course she stayed back. Kiriona wouldn’t have had it any other way.
She wished she could see her, but Kiriona still reveled in the knowledge that the room just got smaller. Things had been far too empty for far too long. It was another thought that she chuckled at, before she felt her hand being touched. It was so light she could have imagined it. She might have imagined it.
Kiriona opened her eyes and saw Harrow, and she pleaded for the space between them. It was cruel to suspend them like this when Kiriona wanted to reach out and rip at her cheek. She cried at the girl who threw her away and came back to scavenge at the scraps. She wanted to be the scabs on her skin. She wanted Harrow to scratch her off time and time again, knowing she would keep coming back. She wanted Harrow to look at her with disgust befit of a burden, so Kiriona could continue hating the things she had done until the rest of her soul burns itself out.
She looked at her, and found no hatred, and was kissed.
Her heart broke.