Test Snippet
This assumes that Lapis (re)introduces themselves after a battle, which I’m pretty set on, but might experiment with later.
“We did it!”
Rosewood’s triumphant cry was enough to pull you back to awareness; you’d lost it again, you supposed, but it didn’t feel as urgent as it normally did, or maybe you weren’t done being angry.
Shattered crystals were scattered around you like dark glass or black ice, the power that had possessed them sifting away into the air like smoke, and you took a step forward, crushing one of the panes under your heel.
Your breath came heavy to your own ears, but Rosewood didn’t seem to notice as they launched themselves at you, still merged with Abaddon, and wrapped you in a hug.
>> You barely noticed, feet planted firmly in the gravel and dust, the Ozymandias of the abandoned schoolyard. When you didn’t respond, Rosewood reluctantly let go.
>> You almost toppled over, arms pinwheeling as you tried to regain your balance, and shoved Rosewood off roughly.
“Sorry,” they didn’t sound sorry as they backed up, but you supposed they had stopped touching you, so they probably meant it on some level; the exuberance of victory still seemed to have them in it’s grip, “You were amazing.”
“Was I?” you asked, dimly; you didn’t look at Rosewood; you stared at the dissipating crystal you could see over their shoulder.
“You always are.”
Your breath caught; Rosewood didn’t miss the gesture — their eyes flicked up from your throat to your eyes, but you didn’t look back at them, not really, as you turned your head, slowly, towards one of the trees.
You’d had lunch with them under that tree, and somehow, seeing them there now, perched on the branches in the Kingdom of Fear’s uniform and colors: the dark green and purples of the new leaves under the setting sun slowly gave way to the black fabric, form fitting and high collared, and the dusky brown of Lapis’s fingers gripping the wood.
Their mask almost seemed to glow, the white painted a strange orange pink, and your heart suddenly seemed like it was pounding so hard it might burst.
>> Each beat was the beat of a war drum. >> You didn’t know with what — anger, love, betrayal? — you only knew that it hurt, and you didn’t like pain. >> For a moment, you were ten years younger and you had never known them to be unkind.
Rosewood moved in front of you almost instinctively — a funny prospect, like they might protect you from Lapis — and you felt movement from Iriel’s corner of the battle field. That felt weird, and wrong somehow — you shoved back the image of Iriel in their battle armor, trying not to think about where that lead — and forced yourself past Rosewood, reaching up to shove them aside when they didn’t immediately move.
“[Name]—” they started, but you weren’t listening.
“Lapis.”
You said their name like a weight; the feather of truth on one side of the scale; you said their name like a prayer that could rewind time, or like the sword of Damocles hanging over their head.
They stood on the branch with the same effortless grace they’d always moved with; their head turned and their shoulders twisted as though they didn’t need to think about the placements of the branches they were weaving around.
Their steps were so light that the tree itself didn’t shake, as though they weren’t quite real, as they approached the edge of it.
You braced yourself; the sword in your grip seemed to sing.
“I’m not here to fight,” they said; they sounded almost cheerful, as though the last ten years hadn’t happened, and there was a shadow behind them that you didn’t recognize at first as their hair — a long braid that was wound down their back, trailing behind them like a devil’s tail.
You didn’t like it.
They’d never had long hair before, and your fingers twitched around your sword, as though preparing to cut it.
“What do you want?” Rosewood broke in; you might have — if Lapis didn’t have so much of your attention right then — you might have waved them off, but instead your eyes followed Lapis as they reached the very edge of the branch, so far out that it seemed impossible they could stand there, much less do so without the branch bending under their weight.
“To make an offer,” they said from behind the mask, and then they reached up, and your heart leapt in your throat as they pulled it off.
It was the same face you had known all those years ago; they hadn’t changed nearly as much as you’d have expected them to — heart shaped, high cheekbones, broad nose. Tawny skin dusted with freckles and dark lashes framing eyes the color of the summer sky or a polished river stone. You’d memorized them before, you’d thought, but now the memory seemed imperfect, intangible.
Now you could imagine what the warmth of their cheek against your palm could feel like again, and you weren’t sure where that memory was coming from.
You turned your blade; light glanced off the edges like it was dancing, like it was alive, like whatever destruction it wielded had a different master than your own heart.
“We don’t want anything from —” Rosewood started, but you found your own voice breaking in.
“You might have started with an apology,” you said.
Something flickered over Lapis’s face. Rosewood shifted beside you — they had taken a step forward, so that the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder, and in the back of your mind you wanted to berate them for cutting into your mobility.
Your voice had been soft, but it had cast a spell of silence over everyone — even the tree seemed not to want to rustle, as though you’d commanded life to simply stop, like a murderer.
Everyone here would know about murder now, wouldn’t they?
“Apologize for what?” Lapis said, lightly, and it was like a movie skipping at a key part, as though you hadn’t been privy to a line that would explain something, or a meaningful cut.
Your throat closed up; whatever had driven you to speak was gone.
Your sword wasn’t.
You shoved Rosewood aside — they let out a gasp, as though they hadn’t expected that, and the back of your head, where some part of you cared about Rosewood, marveled that you’d still caught them by surprise — and dove forward, sword singing out to cut through the place Lapis had left behind already, spinning out of reach. You fancied that maybe you cut the edges of their braid, where it had already been tied off, and then they were out of reach.
Overhead, you thought you heard thunder.