😴
Send '😴' To Fall Asleep In My Muse's Arms
Rahela couldn’t convince Lyse to head all the way back to Gridania so they could rent a room at the Roost; whether it was from wanting to avoid questions from Mother Miounne, or simply not wanting to leave the Spire, she didn’t ask. But despite the pugilist’s insistence that she liked sleeping in the forest, Rah finally got her into one of the spare beds in the Hawthorne Hut.
The two lay there embraced on the same bed, talking in hushed voices. Talking about lemon cakes and mun-tuy sauce. About dancing and leg cramps and squats. About Little Ladies’ Day. About Moenbryda and Papalymo. About Yda. About what parts were Lyse and what parts weren’t. Rahela expects there to be tears from at least one of them, but they never come.
She doesn’t have any timepiece, but it’s surely in the wee hours of the morning when the conversation hits one final lull. Lyse rests her head on Rahela’s shoulder, and her breathing slows. The mage’s thumb gently strokes the blonde temple she had never seen before, and she kisses her forehead. It’s difficult to tell if Lyse looks peaceful or not; Rah had set her spectacles (Papalymo had always insisted she acquire a pair, and he’d scold her whenever she made a mistake due to her poor eyesight) aside for the night. But she hugged her close, stroking her fingertips through the locks of free-flowing sunshine (just like their owner) she’d never touched before.
“Good night, Lyse.”
Both were proteges of Papalymo; Rahela in magic, Lyse in everything else. He taught them both well.
