Could she be afforded such a miracle?:
It has to be her, it can’t be anyone but her, and Saint-Germain can already feel herself flooding with so many emotions she really doesn’t have the time or mental capacity to deal with, but she doesn’t care, because it’s Cagliostro, it’s actually her, she’s here and she–
Has fallen face first into the dirt from tripping.
“Cagliostro.” Her voice is weak, quiet, barely more than a whisper, and she covers her mouth, as if she’s said something horribly wrong, as if some sort of curse has escaped her lips. She stumbles forward, at first, but she’s rushing forward before she knows it, moving faster than she’s had any reason to in so long, and she’s gotten on her knees and is looming over Cagliostro, and Cagliostro’s just there, just whining on the ground about who knows what, something stupid, probably, but she doesn’t care, she can’t care, she–
She coughs, suddenly wheezing as it feels like a ton of bricks has hit her, her body trembling, her hands unsteady. But still, she puts them forward, she stares, her eyes wide. She reaches out, and–she’s able to touch Cagliostro’s shoulder, she’s really here, she’s–
Some sort of gasp, some sort of creaking, old noise, as her hand darts away, her trembling more uncontrollable. “C-Cagliostro.” Really, three months is barely any time at all for someone who’s older than 20–for someone a hundred times that age, she shouldn’t feel as if it’s been an eternity. But being aware of her loneliness, the unending solitude she thought she was to be damned to, it’s no wonder her body is shakier than a leaf in a tornado.
“Cagliostro, I–I–” What can she say? What could she possibly say? No, Saint-Germain knows she can say nothing, so instead, she offers her hand again, this time to help the other woman up. “Can–you stand?”
Finally having gotten out every indignant curse and complaint she can possibly conjure up with her imagination, she lifts her face from the dirt and the grass scattered atop it, quietly bearing witness to Saint-Germain’s reaction. She looks shaken, clearly... is shaken. How long truly have they been apart...? Her expression, the way she trembles and shakes; Cagliostro realizes that, perhaps, their time spent away from one another’s presence has been longer than she had first thought. How long? Months? Maybe years? But it doesn’t matter. The correct answer, the obvious answer is “too long”.
But she watches silently as Saint-Germain struggles with her words and watches with interest as her shoulder is touched. She witnesses with sorrow Saint-Germain processing the fact that the blue-haired alchemist really is in her presence. Too long indeed.. It really must’ve been so, so long...
When Cagliostro is offered Saint-Germain’s hand--quite literally this time, as opposed to figuratively as she did the first time they met--she nods, looking up at her with eyes still wet with barely-shed tears, and takes it, using the leverage to pull herself up. Immediately, once she’s standing steadily in front of the other woman, Cagliostro embraces her tightly. She must need it, surely. A way to assure the other of her presence more tangibly than letting her briefly tap her shoulder.
“I’m here, Saint-Germain,” she whispers, suddenly afraid to let go. Lines of wetness streaking her cheeks, the fear of possibly never seeing either of her two lovers ever again finally properly crashing down upon her. Is this how Saint-Germain must be feeling? This pain... Could Cagliostro be feeling even the smallest fraction of that pain...? She herself must need this hug too, she thinks.
