it happens simultaneously - the taking and the giving. some part of her had felt eva's honeyed soul against hers at the apex of her ascension, glimpsed trials and tribulations and felt the fount of an ever-bleeding heart. 

then the rains came and she turned to king with starlit drops upon her eyes, her fracturing fissures shot through with veins of gold, held fast. a body outside her own, a pressure in the heavens, housing the memories while the sky wept, and yet she could not find it in herself to thank them. not yet. 

because when her thoughts finally caught up to her, she realized what had been done. she realized what it meant - that eva was alone. feeble as she was, left in a bed freya's spent far too many hours beside in the midst of war preparations, she is alone. 

thunder cracks. her anger gets the better of her, a wild tempest that bubbles over and around herself. 

then the winds howl and she feels a pull.

eva. 

aeris is a serpentine arrow beneath her, feathered wings outstretched. her shadow flits over the ground, over the babbling water, and freya urges her to stay just above the valley's winding stream, too scared of that omniscient presence in the clouds. 

a soft trill. aeris finds her. water splashes around her. rain pelts harder now, each drop a staccato stride to her own rampantly beating heart. she drops to her knees, fishing for the woman, hands wrapping around every part of her she can get a hold on, desperate to claw her back to the surface. 

into her embrace.

i'll still remain.

Eva Morales

☉

The only familiarity to her self proclaimed purgatory is the oppressive weight. The soaked hospital gown is heavy, and her clumsy limbs make it difficult to crawl back up the bank. It’s more arduous than she expects, her body unpracticed and weak. The rain fogs her vision and the gentle current coaxes her back into the water. Nothing about it is frightening or violent, and perhaps it’s her reeling mind that finds it comforting and she’s tempted to simply let go. Nothing is clear, not even her own thoughts.

White hair and a familiar face. The flutter in the pit of her stomach is an instinct at this point, and instinct is what takes over. She claws at Freya’s arms to pull herself in closer, to surrender to the embrace. It’s a complete trust that she won’t let her go, won’t let her fall back into that awful place.

A name comes to her, “Freya...” quiet and hoarse, unpracticed, “Home.”

A humble request, but also a sentiment. Despite the empty hollowness inside her, she feels at home in her arms.

---

freya morningstar

"i'm sorry," she says to the waves, to the sodden woman in her arms who likely can't hear her as the water rushes past her ears. her fingers sift, shaking, through straw-blonde hair, made darker by the river. her knees tremble too and she folds right there; the current drifts around them and freya holds her steadfast. 

palm cupped on the back of her neck, arm around her back, she pants and looms over her, hoping to shield her face from the worst of the rain. 

the storm does not let up. lightning arcs in a panic some distance away, sparking against the ground.

"eva, i have you. i'm here. i have you. i need you to hold onto me, okay? hold on."

Eva Morales

☉

Home is a funny thing. It can be anyone, any place, or even an object with great sentimental value. No matter what or who the sentiment is tied to, you always fight to get back to it. A second wind, a renewed strength, especially when it’s so close. And when you find it, you don’t let go. So Eva doesn’t.

In response to her pleas the erratic grip turns more deliberate, snaking arms that find purchase around her waist and her face tucked into the crook of the woman’s neck. As if it all hits her at once, her voice cracks, shuddering beneath a violent sob, “Take me home, Freya, take me home,” warm tears hidden in the cold rain stream down her cheeks in earnest.

---

freya morningstar

i can't. home houses a monster of a man and she'd sooner die than matias him get his hands on her while she's like this. she blinks furiously, exhaustively, as eva clings closer. freya's own damp hair is a curtain, bouncing what warmth she can back towards her. 

and her skin is warmer now, spirit kindled, thrumming with the energy so violently ripped away from the woman in her arms. 

she is as careful as she can be when she stands. she coaxes aeris beneath them and her arms turn leaden, sygna suit slicking out under her casual wear, knitting over one of her favorite tops. she holds her until it's excruciating, and after still.

the front staff has nothing to say to the councilwoman as she walks through the front doors, completely drenched, with what could have been a limp corpse in her arms. an elevator ride later, a huffing walk, a frustrated palming of her keycard, and then eva's whisked to the hotel bathroom.

it's not home. it's not even her home, but it'll have to do. 

she works quickly and furiously, gold eyes feverish. pink has bled onto her sclera where the black has faded. water gushes out of the tap, steaming hot, and she shakes wet hair from her own shoulders, wipes it hastily from her eyes, and maintains her grip on the professor out of fear she might collapse at any moment.

"i can't believe this is twice you're making me save you from hypothermia," she teases gently, thinking come back to me. she looks at the bath and then back to eva, brows creasing. "clothes on or off?"

warmth. food. water. warmth. food. water. then rest. then you can rest. then you'll be okay.

her lip trembles.

Eva Morales

☉

She clings to Freya with all that she has, until she can feel her heartbeat in her arms beneath her numb, damp skin. It takes a vice, or just superhuman strength, to pry her tangled fingers apart when it’s time to set her down on the hotel bathroom floor. Fluorescent lights, cool tile, it reminds her of a hospital but she knows that’s not where Freya has taken them. She wouldn’t take her back there.

Freya coaxes memories that seem like a lifetime ago to the surface. Delirious, her pale lips crack a smile. Glossy eyes, not all quite there, look through Freya and back again as they adjust to the brightness, “And you didn’t even love me back then,” she breathes out her unfiltered thoughts and the smile fades.

“Off, it’s heavy,” the soaked hospital gown is more of a nuisance than anything. It clings to her like tape and peels off her skin like an Arbok’s shed. And like the snake, the steam of the bath calls to her and with Freya’s guidance, she lets the warm water wash over her.

At first, it’s excruciating. Every inch of her burns and her face twists in retaliation, but she savors it. It’s better than feeling nothing.

Nothing. She feels nothing. There’s no one.

“Freya I’m…” her voice quivers beneath a storm of emotions: panic, grief, fear, uncertainty, “I’m empty.”

---

freya morningstar

love is so close to hate, don't you think?

her own words dance around her head, but the memories lay at bay, no longer pressing at invisible seams. she has felt so full for so long, too small for herself, and now? now there are vast stretches within her, centuries beyond her, easing the pressure. easing the pain. 

but relief must come from somewhere, and she would take it all back if it meant it did not have to be at the expense of her. 

freya's hands stay on her shoulders, afraid if she lets go, eva will slip back under. her skin reddens; freya's eyes travel, but only critically. surgically. she oft doesn't glean passions from the flesh and seeing eva like this puts any of their warmer memories together far out of mind. 

"i'm sorry," she says again, draping one hand across eva's chest, feeling the errant skipping of her heart. "you're not. i promise you're not. i know they're not there, eva, i know, but i'm here. i'm here and you're here and you're not empty.

"it's just going to hurt a little while longer."

she dips her hands in the water, warms them, and then brushes her cheeks with her thumb. her swollen blue lips, willing this heat and care and all the love she can offer to fill her and fill that pain. 

Eva Morales

☉

Eva hadn’t been truly alone in a long time. It was like white noise, the dull roar of it slipped into the background but when it abruptly stopped, it was a startling realization. Something that was so constant and normal left the world feeling eerily quiet.

This is worse than that. Worse than when she lost MATIAS SILPH. He may have had her heart, but he didn’t have her soul. A piece of her was torn away, leaving nothing but a sharp, consuming emptiness. There was nothing else, no one else. They had ascended her to something greater, lifted her up into the heavens as a beacon of hope only to rip an angel's wings off and send her violently crashing back down to Earth.

What is an angel without wings? A beacon of hope without a light? A servant without a god?

It leaves her reeling, confused, sick in the stomach. Everything seems so uncertain. Who is she without them? She doesn’t remember.

Verdant eyes stare forward, holding on to the pristine tiles of the bath’s wall. Her gaze is as lost as she feels. Despite the numbness, she feels Freya’s warm hand on her chest. She stirs, looking down to slowly follow the path of the limb up to the woman that saved her . . . again. Eva stares in quiet contemplation as her thumb runs over her pale lips and cheek.

Eva felt it too, the moment when their spirits, their souls, were one for that brief moment in the transition. How could Freya possibly know what empty feels like when she is now so full? So whole?

“I’m glad it’s you,” she finally says with sincerity. She stops Freya’s hand with her own, cupping it with her pal so that her cheek can rest in the other’s. She closes her eyes and pulls her knees up to her chest, “It’s your birthright.”

---

freya morningstar

eva stares past her and panic grips freya's chest. how to bring her back, when touch and nearness and her words are not enough, she does not know. lips on her forehead maybe, the way she used to press them upon eva's brow before departing for the circhester streets, but she can't lean forward. 

part of her is still back there, on that grassy knoll, thinking about the moment before this happened. before their souls were entangled, when she was so, so sure she'd gotten everything right. 

he was going to say yes. 

and now? words the winds carried to her as some cruel joke - this changes everythin'. 

she flinches, but she does not draw away. 

"i didn't ask for this," she promises, voice rough. don't hate me. i couldn't bear it if you hated me. in that other life, she was a beckoner. hardricrelgr, the scraping sound for star-callers of her people, but never the vessel. 

never the thief. 

her thumb runs circles, willing more warmth still. her lips are no longer blue, her skin a feverish red. steam still floats off the top of the water. freya is still soaked to the bone, dripping with rainwater, but she does not feel a chill where there should be.

"you wouldn't wake up," she whispers, eyes glassing. but now she's here, and she's empty, and the world is such a cruel, bitter place. "you've endured so much and i - " she swallows, chokes it down, presses her forehead to the cool lip of the tub while her shoulders shake. 

"i promise. i promise i won't leave. you don't have to do anything alone."

Eva Morales

☉

Eva Morales is capable of a lot of things. Hate isn’t one of them. The concept had seemed to elude her over the years of her life. She could say she hated Rocket, but did she truly? A Rocket soul tortured and corrupted by power and ambition. Twisted by cruel minds that were twisted by others at some point in their lonely life. A vicious cycle. Some souls were given no choice. How could she hate them for that? Pity them, yes. Pray for them, yes. Help them? If they would accept it. Hate them? Never.

So how could she ever hate Freya? A woman she has grown to love so dearly? Someone who would undoubtedly risk it all for her? But not be with her.

Cruel world, indeed.

“I know,” she whispers softly, knowing Freya, and even herself, didn’t have a choice. Eva knows Rayquaza better than anyone. They’re a fickle god. Eva played her role and now it was over. Something must be coming that requires a storm, not the serenity of a peacemaker. That doesn’t make it any easier, doesn’t fill the gaping void or stitch her fractured soul back together. Mortality, and everything that comes with it, isn’t something the gods understand.

“I’ll be ok,” she lies as easy as breathing. She’s said it before when she knows it’s not true. She’s survived the impossible, what makes this any different? “I am ok.”

Eva peels Freya’s hand from her cheek with gentle pressure and passes it back to her. Her warm palm gently presses into Freya’s shaking shoulders. She can feel the frustration and desperation in Freya’s promise. Eva swallows back the lump in her throat, already heartbroken. She knows it’s a promise Freya won’t be able to keep. There’s nothing Fryea can do to heal her soul, but Eva won’t tell her that. She won’t make this any more difficult for her. She’d let Freya believe it’s what she needs, “I know you won’t, Freya,” she lies again, dipping her head down to kiss the seam of her hairline with her tingling, pink lips, “I’ll need you,” that isn’t necessarily a lie.

---

freya morningstar

she will not let her become undone. her own soul hangs in the balance, a bet made over a few whiskeys, shadowed by her worst vice. pride refuses to show her what's right in front of her: that she's already lost her bet, that she'd lost it the minute she was told eva wasn't waking up. 

it makes hearing the lies more bearable, bends them into truths she has no choice but to believe. 

of course eva morales will be okay. nothing has ever kept her down before. nothing has ever had the power to break her. pieces of her are strewn about; bits of her linger in freya's soul, but with care, with dedication, she can be put back together. 

warm lips on her brow. freya lifts her head, noses her way to the hollow of her throat, and slides her arm around her in an embrace. her back aches from kneeling on the hard tile floor, but she stays there, holding her, and something in her soul quivers at the nearness. 

warmth. food. water. rest. 

"let me help you out and dry you off. i think i still have some prepped meals from Hyakkaryōran Tsubaki in the fridge." she draws back, brushes wet strands of hair from eva's face, and pulls back until only their fingers are entwined. 

Eva Morales

☉

The language of two kindred spirits is not the words spoken, but meanings. The mutual understanding weaved into the silence of their embrace speaks volumes in itself. She doesn’t need to hear another apology or another promise and Freya doesn’t need any more reassurance spoken from Eva’s lips. In the quiet of their embrace, beneath the rhythmic drip of the bath’s faucet, the first stitches that would piece together her fractured soul begin.

Eva stirs when she does, pulling back slightly to let Freya coax her out of the bathtub with a supportive hold. She’s wrapped in a soft, cotton towel that is not nearly as soft as Freya’s embrace, but it would do. It’s far better than the soaked hospital gown.

“Hmm, food sounds good,” She seems steady enough on her feet. The fog of the initial shock has lifted. Though the pain remains, it’s bearable, “Do you have any real clothes? Or a robe I could borrow?”

---

freya morningstar

the hospital gown lay in a soaked, discarded heap by the tub. water covers the bathroom floor. when eva's dried off, freya peels off her outermost layer, fingers sliding under her own tank when eva asks after some clothes. 

oh. right.

she leaves dark splotches on the floor, droplets from her heel soaking into the plush. the sheets are mussed and on them lay discarded pieces of clothing, a few stray arrows. a tablet lights up on the bedside table, alerting freya that it's low battery and to please, for the love of god, charge it. 

"yeah, i do." she pulls open the topmost drawer and panic floods her eyes when she realizes her burner phone isn't where it should be and then she remembers. it had been on her person. it's on the pants she abandoned in the bathroom, right beside eva's feet. she relaxes, tugs out a couple pairs of sweats and digs around for a loose sleep shirt. 

"half my wardrobe's here now - ah, here we go." she shakes out an old oversized shirt from an archery competition from years ago. beside it, one of king's beat-up tees. after a second, she snatches it up and slips out of her own wet clothes, hopping into sweats, confused because this, right here, getting dressed with eva, feels so unbearably familiar.

Eva Morales

☉