#and making everyone in the room feel like the spiritual successor to andal brask having to third wheel o14

[lizzieraindrops]

Liminal - Chapter 3 (1901 words)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Ikora is terrified of losing Eris now that she has become the Hive god of vengeance. The long tension between them has finally been driven to breaking point.

Sometimes the scariest part of good old-fashioned monster-loving isn't the monster. Ikora's emotional dysfunctionality returns with a vengeance (ha) in the morning.

Warmth is the unexpected first greeting of returning consciousness. Ikora runs cool, ever since she had first touched the Void—not uncomfortably, but noticeably. It takes a lot to fluster her, in both temperature and demeanor.

The warmth is another human presence: the gentle heat of skin on hers, a more comfortable resting place than her own bed despite the irregularity of shape.

With a simultaneous flush and chill that catches her between flight and paralysis, Ikora half rolls, half falls off of—Eris. Of course.

Eris snaps to wakefulness with all the alacrity of a Hunter's reflexes. She is relaxing her grip on the hilt of a small knife at the bedside—where had that come from?—almost before Ikora registers that she has moved. Ikora draws back for another reason entirely, coiling herself around her own knees at the foot of the bed. The sheet tangles her legs.

Halfway through levering herself up toward sitting, Eris catches sight of Ikora and ceases movement. Free of their bandage at last, her three green eyes blaze bright in the dimness with only a stray lock of her short, straggly hair to intercept their fire. As ever, wisps of ink drip from her eyes like tears. Their dark tracks trail over round cheeks, returned to soft-skinned vulnerability once more—along with the rest of her. Eris' very human body lies there fearlessly despite the lacework of scars that spreads over every limb. For some reason that makes Ikora feel deeply afraid.

"Ikora. It's me."

It is, and oh, Ikora is overwhelmed by that fact, by her nearness, by her own memory of sharp satisfaction in the way claws had clutched Ikora's body close and by her awareness of deft hands that could do the same. By the way that singular voice as deep and resonant as the ocean itself is close enough to feel.

One supplicating hand extends toward Ikora. She cannot keep herself from flinching. Eris withdraws it and carefully lies back down.

Ikora remains silent. Words stopper her throat like something congealed in the neck of a bottle, leaving her mind to spin within like a trapped squall.

"Ikora?" The softer her voice becomes, the harder Ikora trembles. "I will not hurt you. I am sorry, if I—did I...?"

Ikora shakes her head violently. She has never been more keenly aware that a problem is entirely inside her own head. But she still cannot speak.

The knot between Eris' eyebrows eases somewhat. Only one of her brows has hair: the other's had apparently never regrown from the shiny scarring around her eyes. "That is a relief," she says. "But I would still know what ails you. How may I comfort you? Or rather, may you be comforted without me? Shall I go?"

Ikora presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. Light, but Eris is so unfailingly kind, regardless of her bluntness, despite all the violence and hatred she has weathered; despite Ikora's utter emotional incompetence. Ikora loves her for it, and that is the most terrifying knowledge of all.

Ikora forces herself to meet Eris' eyes over her own curled hands. "Stay. Please," she whispers. "Just. Don't touch me." If she does, Ikora might be devoured by her own inarticulate fear warring with desperate need.

Eris nods and pulls her feet a little further away from her, even though perplexion dominates her face. She studies Ikora with all the clever, relentless perceptiveness that she usually bends toward her life's work. That sharp mind has flayed the immortality from gods. Her scrutiny is as unforgiving as truth itself. Little wonder that Ikora looks away as revelation chases the intensity from her features. Whatever softer thing can subsume that, Ikora is not capable of facing.

"You fear this form more than my morph," Eris says in hushed wonder.

Ikora hides her face in her hands again. She would not have put it so, but neither can she deny it. This is Eris, as she has been the whole time. But at least last night, Ikora had been too preoccupied by the newness and dark splendor of her acolyte form to think about the terrible immensity of the feelings she has so long kept in check. Seeing Eris' familiar form before her now, so brazenly vulnerable, brings to bear the years of aching longing that she had never considered might be answered.

It isn't that she thought Eris did not care for her. She knows, in a million subtle ways she has tried not to dwell upon. She just never thought either of them would find room for each other within the straits of their callings. Eris must pursue the fall of the Hive regardless of the risks. Ikora must defend the Last City, and she will never forego her duty to it as Vanguard. Not like her predecessor.

Ikora had not considered the much more frightening possibility now before her: that Eris might accept her and still continue along a path that might yet lead to self-destruction. That Ikora might lose her after being given the briefest taste of knowing what it meant to have her.

"Perhaps this was untimely. Although I do not regret it," Eris says. She runs a hand through her hair with a sigh. "Ikora," she pleads. "Please speak to me."

Ikora nods. She gathers what scraps of clarity she can. "I don't either. Regret it," she adds in response to Eris' confused look. "But I think...you're right. About timeliness."

Eris smiles sadly. "That has always been our problem, has it not?" She curls comfortably onto her side, leaning against the headboard with her head resting on her hands. "Are we too early, or too late?"

Ikora shifts to a cross-legged position and holds her hands in her lap. "Yes? No?" She gives a short laugh as unsteady as a newborn foal. "I don't know. But this feels like it was always inevitable."

"I know what you mean. Yet I thought I closed the door on this path when I awoke the Harbinger. It seems I was mistaken..."

Ikora's heart goes painfully soft, as if leaning into a blow. She should have told Eris years ago, rather than let her think herself unlovable. But would she have believed her, back then?

"Eris," she begins in a low, quiet voice. "Everything you are is dear to me. Even this—even that part of you. Especially a part of you that brings you clarity, purpose. It's just—" Her voice cracks. "I can't love you the way I want to, the way you should be, not when I'm so scared for you."

Eris lets that sink in. "I understand," she says, tender and mournful all at once. "I do not blame you. But I can do this. I can end what the Hive began. And I must."

"I know." Ikora does not know what will happen. She cannot predict any possibility that will reconcile reality with the cry her heart is making.

Ikora looks around the room while she takes slow, deliberate breaths to steady herself. She takes in details that she had been too distracted to notice before. The quarters are modest, but sizable for a ship. Eris has attired it much like the rest of her temporary wing of the HELM. Deep red hangings soften the sharp industrial corners. Another large shelf of books and strange artifacts cover one wall. How had she chosen what to keep nearest? Below a dim lamp with mica shades, her Ahamkara bone rests in a small stone bowl on the bedside table. A cloth has been cast over it to dull its glare. The bed itself is simple but utterly comfortable; the sheets have the feel of linen worn soft with long use, even if they bear a few new claw-torn tears.

Eris heaves a great sigh, then asks: "What now?"

Ikora lies down at the foot of the bed in a mirror of Eris' position, limbs askew. She is only a meter or so away, yet so far out of reach. "I guess we continue as we were. Mostly. Until...after this." If Eris lives. If they both come through this ordeal still capable of loving each other.

"After," Eris muses. "Very well." Then a wry grin tugs at her lips. "It will be terribly hard, though, now that I know the sound of your heart." Dancing humor laces the earnestness in her voice.

"Eris." Ikora laughs into her hands in embarrassment. "I'll have to give you more Hidden work after all this to keep you busy, otherwise you'll break every heart in the Tower."

Eris chuckles, and it raises chills along Ikora’s arms. "I don't think that will be necessary. After." Her hand curls and uncurls beside her face, as if she were refusing the impulse to breach the gulf that separates them.

The brief shared humor fades like ripples on the water. Soon, only uncertainty and stumbling sorrow remain to echo between them.

"Eris?"

"Yes?"

"Can we just..." This hurts too much to leave so soon. "Can we have today, if nothing else?"

Ikora can see the way Eris tamps down her own hope in the set of her shoulders. She despises herself a little for causing that, but not enough to not ask.

"Would that not only hurt more?" Eris says softly.

"Maybe. But I would rather give you a reason to come back."

Eris holds her stare, lips pressed together in indecision. Ikora curls in on herself with shame at her own presumption.

"Oh, come here, my love," Eris relents. She opens her arms.

Uncoiling, Ikora crosses the distance between them. She only hesitates a moment before tucking herself into Eris' embrace, shaky with nervous relief. She presses her spread hands to Eris' back, along her now smooth but still scarred shoulders. Did the Harbinger's spines erupt individually from the lines of those old wounds? "I'm here," she says, muffled against her. They lie there heart to heart, skin to skin. Even channeling Solar light has never made her feel this blessedly warm.

"Just today," Eris agrees.

"Just today." Ikora draws back just enough to look Eris in the eyes. She caresses her face, brushes her thumb across the unevenness of the scars just above her cheekbone. The prickling ink pools thickest there, but evaporates quickly.

"Don't forget that you are wanted for yourself. Not just for what you can do," Ikora says.

With that she kisses Eris deeply, achingly, searingly. Eris responds like a flower to the sun. The sound of unashamed pleasure that hums in her throat makes Ikora feel more wanted than she has ever been. And in this stolen moment, her want is greater than ever, as well. This time she gives it free rein with premeditated intent. She traces her passion along every curve of Eris' mouth, the arch of her neck, even the tender scarred lids of her eyes. She commits every part of her to memory, from her strong, stout arms to her soft, thick waist to the proud arc of her spine below the troubled skin.

"All of you," Ikora breathes. The hitch in Eris' heartbeat beneath her lips tells her she does not need to explain.

The warmth of skin threatens to destroy her as completely and utterly as the crystalline vacuum of space. But as she sinks into the contact, it soon soothes the part of Ikora that is shivering.