Archive of Our Own

People are found after falling through time slips all the time! They absolutely are. Rips in the fabric of time aren’t exactly common, and the wix of the Time Conclave take their protective duties very seriously, so it’s actually quite a rare occurrence for people to go through time slips now. Rosie’s pretty sure you need some sort of PhD to gain official access to one, so really this entire accident is just a fortuitous event! 

How many university drop outs can truthfully say they… fell… into a time slip! And she’s landed in a truly lovely place. Lots of trees and… trees. And some rocks! That one looks particularly - old timey? Honestly, she’s very lucky to be here. She’d have to travel hours away from the city to find a place that was so green and vibrant, back home. Or she’d have to deal with those plant based wix from the Conservatory, urgh. Hard pass. Back in time without any qualifications, greenery without ridiculous travel time or snobby wix - what a marvellous turn of events! A happy accident!

Rosie sighs the sigh of someone truly aggrieved.

She fucking hates the outdoors. There are bugs, she’s probably getting sunburn and there’s the unmistakable scent of rotting animal corpse somewhere in the vicinity. Moving away from the smell isn’t an option, though. She doesn’t want to make it any harder for the rescue team to find her. Not that it will be hard to find her! Haha! These sorts of mistakes happen. They used to be quite common, so there’s procedures in place. Rescuing time stranded civilians is easy!

...Potentially less so, when the situation is slightly more complex than ‘fell into time slip.’

The thing is, you see, Rosie wasn’t exactly out for a midmorning stroll. It’s not like she was meandering along the footpath, tripped on an uneven paver and into the rip in the fabric of space-time. There may have been some running, someone might have been chasing her, a black market deal could have fallen through - look, we’re not here to point fingers about who was cutting ground basilisk eggshell with regular chicken shell, alright! 

Point being, Rosie wasn’t just running. She mightn’t be a very good student, or particularly adept at most forms of magic, but there are a few things Rosie can do well. Teleportation is not one of them. She’s almost proficient! Completed about eighty, eighty five percent of the course and with a high average grade in both the theory and practical application. She would’ve aced it, had it not been the very same semester she dropped out. 

So, basically good enough at teleportation. In structured, not especially stressful, classroom conditions. Being chased by pissed off, shady customers shouting about being owed money and being cheated and ‘was that dead mans blood even real?’ most emphatically does not count as an unstressful environment. Also, pfft, of course it's fake. She doesn’t need any vampires knocking at her door, thank you very much. They’re perfectly fine with her selling the fake shit; prefer it, actually. If people are buying her fake product, there’s less chance of someone with a grudge against a vampire stumbling across the real deal.

The local vampire community prefers it that way. Rosie prefers to not have to watch her back when she’s slinking through back alleys after the witching hour because she's been offloading vampire specific poison to racists. Win-win.

Additionally, Abuela makes the fucking best tamales, holy shit. You have not lived until you’ve eaten a seven hundred hundred year old abeula’s tamales. Not only does Rosie receive a regular batch of them, just for further cheating the same people she hustles anyway, but she gets invited to the huge cookouts Abuela and her clan throw. That's the real win-win. The history majors she knew wish they had her connections. Language barriers aren't really a thing for Rosie, after all. Nahuatl is just as easy to translate as every other language. And once more, Rosie honestly cannot underline enough how good the food at those parties is. Hardly anyone there can even eat non-blood based food. It makes no sense and perfect sense at the same time. She lives off their leftovers for at least a month after each party.

Great, now Rosie’s hungry and still stuck in the past. Hopefully just in the past. She could theorise about the potential effects that teleporting directly into a time slip could have, the possible intersection of space and time. The knowledge of other dimensions and worlds, accessible usually only through great accidents and catastrophes. Most of those people never return, lost forever. 

Good thing she’s not one of them! Haha…

Rosie’s never been inside a time slip before, so maybe what happened to her was completely normal! That’s plausible, right? Maybe everyone, even the PhD students who move through the rips in time intentionally for research, experience what she did. The sickening whirl of technicolour. The electrical storm, centered on seemingly nothing but her. The noise of it all, crackling and shrieking; completely overwhelming but somehow so quiet.

Her fingers are still twitching, faintly. All the muscles in her body tensing sporadically; an after effect of being struck by fucking lightning. Oh, didn’t she mention that before? Yeah. Electrical storm wasn’t an exaggeration. Wasn’t some little static electricity arcs zapping about. Full on lightning strikes, minus the thunderous crash afterwards. There’s a lichtenberg figure running the length of her arm now, red somehow impossibly bright against the light brown of her skin. She aches down to her bones and, worse, she can’t even heal herself.

She’s good at healing spells, little cantrips to help with joint aches and arthritis. Nothing good enough to even come close to employable. It’s not ‘proper healing magic.’ She couldn’t use it to get a degree; would be laughed out of the healing halls if she went to apply. But Rosie’s good at the small things she can do. The old people at the aged care facility she volunteers at appreciate it, as do her ageing neighbours. It shouldn’t be hard to soothe her own aches. 

Her magic isn’t working right, though. It’s there, she hasn’t lost it, isn’t stuck in some horrendous magic sink hole like she’s heard theorised about once or twice. It’s not being siphoned off, or restrained. It’s just… out of whack. Out of focus. Like when you’ve lost something down the side of a car seat and you’ve shoved your hand down there to grab it. You can feel the edge of it with a fingertip, but can’t quite get a grip. Like that, except terrifying.

It’ll definitely be fine once she gets some proper rest. Has a good feed. Maybe sidles up to the church Rio thinks it’s funny as hell to haunt and beg for some of his Abeula’s tamales. 

Easy fix. No worries. 

All she has to do is wait, right here. Because rescue’s definitely coming soon! It probably hasn’t even been that long, time’s just stretching because she’s bored. No phone games to play or way to track time. Her old phone hasn’t turned on since she got here but she had been playing games for most of her shift, so maybe the battery’s just flat. Hopefully it wasn’t fried by the localised lightning storm. 

She hasn’t backed her data up for a long, long time. It’d really suck to loose so many cat pictures. She’d been so close to completing her log book! 

There’s a running competition, in the little corner of the market where she sells - not the black market, haha, slip of the tongue before, it’s just a run down portion of the goblin markets, definitely nothing illegal, no siree. There were one hundred thirty stray cats lurking around their end of the markets, fed and loved by all of the stall owners collectively. First person to get pictures of all one thirty wins. Nothing but bragging rights on the line, and maybe a drink at the Silver.

Even if Rosie doesn’t win officially, she wins by making sure to pat every cat she snaps. But she’s really close to winning! One hundred twenty three! Seven more cats and she wins! 

And now her phone is potentially forever dead and Rosie feels like the ghost of every single ‘do you want to back up your data?’ notifications is laughing at her.

Maybe there’s some sort of trick to save a fried phone. Like how you shove your phone into rice if it gets wet. Rosie’s sure as shit done that half a dozen times. She’ll have to wait until she’s back home to search it up. Which won’t be too long now. The rescue team will be along soon.

Any minute now.

You know what’s worse than being stuck outdoors? Running. Running in boots, too, which always sucks. On the plus side, at least she can kind of access her innate magic again! The more the tingling in her extremities fades, vibrant red of the lichtenberg figure slowly fading back against her skin, the easier it is to access. It’s being fussy and unwieldy in a way it wasn't even when she was a child and only starting to learn, but every couple of meters she can throw herself into a jump and gain some distance. Not too much, but just enough to keep ahead of the wild boar chasing her.

That’s the real downside, not the running. The being chased. Again.

Do you even know how big those fuckers can get? Maybe it’s just some freak anomaly but the thing is huge, and its tusks are sharp, and it’s taken a distinct dislike to Rosie. Maybe it’s a sign from God that she should have been keeping kosher all these years. Fuck. It’s so fast, how is the fat bastard so fast?

The only thing keeping Rosie off its wicked looking tusks is adrenaline and she’s unfortunately aware that it can’t keep her going forever. All the branches in the part of the forest she’s been chased to are too high off the ground for her to scramble up quickly. The rocks aren’t big enough to be any sort of deterrent if she climbed them. There’s no river to throw herself in, and the boar’d probably be able to swim, with her luck.

So Rosie runs. Chest heaving, lungs constricting, thighs slowly starting to turn into unstable jelly. Holy shit, she’s gonna die. She’s actually going to die. She’s gonna die in this stupid forest, chased by a fucking beast of a pig, in the past and all because some dumb wix motherfucker wanted to snort basilik shell! To test for purity! Who even snorts that shit! It’s toxic! Even using it in potions is a bit up in the air, if you’re trying for anything that isn’t a poison. Rosie still cannot believe that it worked. Does basilisk shell just have a distinct smell or... nose... flavour? Wait, does chicken shell!? Not the time to be thinking of it but Rosie isn't sure if she's got much time left, period. If she doesn't work this out now, she's not going to.

Then again, who wants to die by boar and pondering an unknowable mystery? At least the frustration she's feeling is making her run faster. 

The thundering of hooves through the underbrush is getting louder and louder. The forest in front of her is clear of trees for a few meters, thank fuck, and Rosie scrapes against her not-quite-right magic, throwing herself forward, next step a handful of meters in front of her last. Hard to jump like this in a forest, where there are trees everywhere and terrible sight lines. If she’d finished the bloody uni course, she wouldn’t need to rely on line of sight so heavily. 

At the sight of his prey even further ahead, the boar lets out a sound that Rosie honestly thinks anything related to a pig should be incapable of. Where’s the cute little oink, oink, huh? What the fuck is this demon groan?? How does it have enough breath to make that sound and run so fast? Fuck. Fuck.

Rosie darts around the trees, hoping desperately that the maneuvering is killing the boar’s speed as much as it’s ruining hers. There’s leaf litter underfoot and fallen branches and, ah shit, moss as well. The forest terrain is getting rockier, too. Good thing her boots have grip; slipping now would be a death sentence. Trees getting thicker, taking more concentration to navigate around at high speeds. Rosie resists the urge to look back and see where the boar is. 

With her luck, she’d slam face first into a tree, break her own nose or knock herself unconscious or something ludicrous like that. 

Hoofbeats sound heavier, oh fuck, they’re really thundering now. Shit. Rosie forces her legs to work harder, gasping for air as she runs. This is bullshit, fuck, should she start praying? Seems a little disingenuous, to be -

That horrendous sound again, some unholy, guttural cross between a roar and a growl. 

Y'hi ratzon milfanekha Adonai, Rosie starts, thinking more than speaking because she’s got no breath to spare. Shit what comes next, Adonai, Adonai, fuck, this is what she gets for skipping Temple. Something something guide our footsteps to peace, God the sound of hooves is still getting louder.  

Rescue us from the hands of, of wild beasts and hear the sound of, ah fuck that hurt, who put that fucking tree there, shit.

The trees part, suddenly, leaving a wide track. Oh that’s perfect, she can just-

The sky’s spinning. It’s a nice blue, though there are some weird, fuzzy black dots floating about. The dots fade away but Rosie doesn’t get to appreciate the way the sky’s moving for too long. There’s a face. The face is spinning, too, and kind of blurry; out of focus. Weird. So weird. The face opens its pretty mouth, and speaks from underwater. That’s pretty cool. 

Rosie would really like the world to stop spinning, now. It kind of hurts and it’s making her nauseous. Oh, oh it’s making her real nauseous. Rosie clamps her eyes shut tight, fingers digging into the dirt beneath her to hold on. Why is the earth doing this? Spinning and heaving.

Something cool, pressed against her forehead. That’s nice. She leans into it, some of the tension between her shoulders releasing.

“Easy,” a voice says, less underwater than before. Is Rosie underwater, maybe? Did she find a river? She’s safe then. Or is she? Can boars swim? She still doesn’t know. Better safe than sorry. Gotta move. Keep running. Swimming? She doesn’t want to move at all but she’s gotta.

Rosie somehow manages to struggle upright without throwing up. With the way her head’s pounding, it’s honestly a toss up as to whether the sitting or the not puking is the more impressive bit. There’s a broad hand on her back, supporting her, so maybe she didn’t sit up by herself anyway.

“B’r,” Rosie manages to get out.

“It is alright,” the voice says again, soothing. Rosie doesn’t want to be soothed, thank you, she wants to not die because a damn feral pig took exception to her.

“Bo’r,” Rosie warns again, trying her best to speak clear and loud and not quite getting there. Hurts to fucking speak, too. Why does she hurt so much? Did… did the boar already get to her? 

“You are safe. The boar was frightened away, back into the forest. You are safe.” Oh. Oh thank fuck. Thank God. She sags against the person holding her up, face pressed once again to something delightfully cool. The relief is overwhelming. She feels like a cooked noodle. It almost doesn’t seem real, being safe, but maybe that’s just the way the world is still somehow swaying, even with her eyes closed. Maybe it was the praying that did it? Eh, probably not. 

...Still, better safe than sorry on that front. It seems extremely insincere to turn to God only when faced with imminent peril; seems worse to ignore it, when it worked. (Kinda? The jury’s out on this one.)

“Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu,” Rosie starts; she doesn’t even get to melekh before she passes out completely.

“Ah, you are awake.” A voice says, before Rosie even realises that she is awake. The sky is a gorgeous sunset orange at the moment, purple just starting to creep into the edge of Rosie’s vision. She’s been watching the colours change so she must’ve been awake for a while, now that she thinks about it. She’d just kind of been floating, like a jellyfish. Mindless; not really here, there or anywhere.

“How are you feeling?” The same voice again, words slow and well enunciated. It really is a lovely voice; clear and strong. She could listen to them speak forever. Rosie turns her head to look at the voice and hisses. Ah, there’s the pain. Not horrendous but a fairly bad headache that’s for sure.

“Do not move too much, you will be sore for a while.” And then who should move into Rosie’s vision but - a vision. Absolutely gorgeous. Bright blue paint a sharp juxtaposition to dark black skin, slashing in from her hairline, across her temples, swirling down over soft cheekbones and leading the eye to a perfectly formed jaw. Deep brown eyes staring straight into Rosie’s own hazel ones, potentially seeing straight through to her soul.

“Can you understand me?” The stunning woman asks, tilting her head to the side. One of her many braids slips over muscular shoulders, drawing attention to her - armour.

That’s armour.

Why is her rescuer from the time squad wearing armour? Maybe it’s to blend in. Right. Of course it’s to blend in. Just… chilling. In medieval looking armour. Maybe it’s really comfortable.

“Yeah.” Is all Rosie can think to say, half her brain scrambling frantically to convince herself that the Time Conclave absolutely sends their wix out in very distinctive, beautifully wrought armour. The other half is extremely busy being a lesbian. There’s clearly no brain power left to hold a conversation.

“That is good. I worried, when you spoke your foreign tongue, that it would be hard to communicate.” Rosie lets loose an awkward chuckle.

“You’ve… you’ve never heard Hebrew?” That’s a bit weird, but alright. There are probably lots of people who’ve never heard Hebrew. Doesn’t mean-

“Never. An interesting language. Where is it from?” ...Okay, Rosie will admit that never having heard of Hebrew is probably a bit more of a stretch, but lots of people live in their insulated little worlds! Maybe the Time-

“And you, with your odd manner of dress?” Rosie's in a t-shirt and stretch jeans.

Ah fuck.

“Where am I now?” Rosie asks instead of answering. The woman gives her a bemused look, which is honestly very attractive. Hopefully the time wix will come find her before this woman smiles, because Rosie thinks she might die on the spot.

“A few days ride from Arteq.”

“And where is Arteq?”

“...You are quite lost, are you not?” Rosie thinks of too many things to say in response and so says nothing. Nods her head, hoping she isn’t looking as wide eyed as she’s feeling right now.

“I’m Rosie,” she finally manages.

“My apologies, I should have- they call me Blue.” Now, Rosie is well versed in name etiquette. Working in the goblin markets, you rub shoulders with all sorts of beings. There’s more than one species out there who hoard their names, careful of the inherent magic in them. Humans generally don’t bother; their names have so little intrinsic magic, it’s not worth the effort to steal them, honestly. Better to barter with them, if you’re really struggling for money. The point being, Rosie has heard all variations of ‘here’s what you can call me instead of my true name, human friend/acquaintance/fellow stall holder.’

Blue being not human would explain how devastatingly attractive she is. But whatever the reason for the not true but maybe not false name, Rosie isn’t going to pry. 

“I suppose your being so lost would account for why you were in Shergi Forest.” 

“Do people… not go into Shergi Forest?” It would certainly match up with Rosie’s recent luck to be punted through time (and not dimensions, this is still Earth! Just… a different time period! It’s fine!!) and end up in some forbidden place.

“There is no taboo against it, fear not. It is simply teeming with dangers. Ferocious wild beasts like that which you encountered, fell creatures, witches as well.”

...wait. Uh. What was that last one? Rosie’s bad feeling - which she didn’t have, because everything was fine - begins to grow worse. 

“Witches?” She asks, and Blue nods. 

“Mm. Vile creatures. Do you know this word? Witches?” It’s really considerate, Blue being conscious of what she thinks is a language barrier. Very kind. Chivalrous, maybe. The sort of lady that'd hold a door for Rosie, and who Rosie'd think about for the rest of the week.

“I know the word. I just didn’t think they were that vile, haha...” Everyone tends to use the gender neutral wix nowadays, though being so far in the past would certainly explain the use of outdated terminology.

“It must be a strange place that you come from, to think of witches as anything other than murderous crones who prey on the young and the lost.”

“They can’t all be that bad, surely! Some nice witches, just living their lives. Day to day, murder free.” Blue laughs, loud and free. The broad grin on her face is near enchanting. Rosie can literally feel her heart tripping over itself, racing away in her chest. She would really like to see this smile, hear this laugh, over and over again.

“Apologies, Rosie, I laugh not at you. Would that there were such witches, the world would be a better place. My people have been warring with them for generations. I am honour bound to defeat their scourge.” 

Haha. Rosie’s in danger.

“I would assist you to sit up, should it please you.” Blue offers, apparently content to change the subject. Rosie would actually like to know more - like, which direction she should be running away from - but lets the topic drop with good grace.

“That’d be good. Thanks.” Blue helps her up, excruciatingly slowly. Slow enough that Rosie’s head doesn’t hurt any more than it already did by the time they’re finished. Whatever gauntlets the woman undoubtedly has, she's not wearing them now. Her calloused hands are warm on the bared skin of Rosie’s arms, easily felt on her back through the thin material of her shirt. Rosie’s never been in a life or death situation that felt so non threatening.

Usually there’s a lot more running and fast talking, her heart pounding for an entirely different reason.

Rosie’s not the type to try and seduce her way out of something, but she’s willing to give it a go! ...Perhaps that would be more effective if she were the type of person to make the first move. She’s confident enough in other things! Obviously, otherwise her business model would’ve fallen through the first time she sold illegal goods. There’s a world of difference between professional confidence and putting yourself out there to get a date, though. 

She’s been searching for that type of confidence for years. Luckily, her past girlfriends have been the outgoing sort, ready and willing to take a chance on love.

“I must apologise for your injuries. I have done my utmost to attend to them, though thankfully there was no need for stitching.”

“Thanks. No need to apologise, either. You weren’t the one chasing me.”

“But it was my steed with which you impacted.” Oh, that does explain a few things. Her memory of what happened before she passed out was especially muddied. Hitting a horse and then the ground makes a lot of sense. 

“Is your horse okay?” Rosie doesn’t know a lot about horses, but she’s heard they’re pretty skittish and fragile. Blue smiles, gentle amusement in her dark eyes, and any swooning that Rosie does is because of the head injury. 

“Yes. Abasi is fine.” Blue gestures and Rosie looks, though slowly. It enables her to get a good look at where they are. It’s a campsite of some sort, in a small clearing. There’s a low fire, a small canvas tent and - holy shit. That horse is jacked. Anyone who’s ever called a horse fragile had clearly never seen Abasi.

“That’s a large horse.”

“He’s a destrier; bred and raised for battle. He must be large, to carry an armoured knight.”

“Are you a knight?” Rosie asks, forgetting to move slowly for a moment. She winces at the brief stab of pain. One of Blue’s hands comes to cradle the base of Rosie’s head, exactly where the worst of the pain was. 

“Slowly, my friend.” She cautions. It’s a rather stunning display of positive reinforcement for bad habits. If every too quick, pained movement will end with Blue’s hand cradling her so gently, Rosie is never going to move any other way.

“I am currently on a quest, a noble journey as befitting a knighthood.” Blue says, unfortunately taking her hand away from Rosie’s head. 

“Oh that’s pretty cool. Where are you going?”

“Into Zomte, to the Njasa caves.”

“I have no idea what either of those two things are.”

“Yes. How have you come to be so lost? Arteq is a city so large I had thought it known to all.”

Saying she teleported into a jagged tear in the fabric of time-space is not exactly an option, what with the ‘witches are foul and vile and I’m honour bound to destroy them’ thing. But there’s also no easy answer. No matter what she says, it’s going to be vaguely sketchy at a minimum.

“I have no idea. One minute I was in Narsillit City, next I was in that forest.”

“Witchcraft. You are lucky to have escaped unharmed. I admit that I am just as unsure about your Narsillit City as you are about Arteq. I do not think I can assist you in finding your way back there. Perhaps some of the scholars in Arteq, or Mchiza.”

“Maybe.” Rosie says, supremely unconvinced that these scholars will be able to get her back to her Earth, given the apparent distaste for witchcraft and magic in general. What Rosie should do is head back into the forest, back to the clearing she’d arrived in, and start waiting again. An easy job for the time wix. Nothing to worry about. It's just... just the past. Nothing else. Nothing...

She desperately wants to cling on to the idea that she’s only back in time, not thrown somewhere completely unreachable, but the evidence is starting to pile up. Rosie payed attention in high school history, took a couple of uni level courses. There are very few times and places in the past thousand years where magic was seen as a negative thing. Where it was reviled wholesale, to the extent of knights being honour bound to kill all wix they found.

She’d remember those places, if she heard them again. Hell, give her three minutes and someone to bounce ideas off and she’d be able to name them herself. The names that Blue speaks of - Arteq, Zomte, Njasa, Mchiza - they’re meaningless to her. They’re so far from ringing a bell that the mere sound of the names has in fact melted the bell down and reburied the metal.

Rosie isn't sure if even the Tempus Mage could find her now, so deep a hole she's found herself in. Not in Kansas indeed.

“I could deliver you to Arteq, should that be your decision. Or Mchiza.”

“Aren’t quests kind of time sensitive?”

“The need is not so great that I could not find the time to see you to safety.” Quick, Gooble, where’s the closest date spot?

“I’d be happy to tag along on your quest? I can visit the scholars once you’re back in Arteq. Assuming you came from there? And assuming that you’ll have me. It’s not a quest you need to complete alone, is it?”

“No, solitude is no requirement for this task. I would enjoy your company on this journey but I must warn you; this is a dangerous undertaking. Many have failed on this path and there is a strong possibility that I will join their numbers.”

For a brief second, Rosie can’t really think past ‘I’d enjoy your company.’

“I don’t mind some danger. Besides, with the two of us, it mightn’t be so dangerous! We can can watch each others backs!” Blue smiles again, nodding. She’s got a dimple. One single, gorgeous dimple. Rosie would like to kiss it.

“It will be pleasant to have you accompany me on this quest. Might I inquire as to which weapon you favour? Though you have lost yours in Shergi Forest, this road takes us past Igasindi and the blacksmith there is well regarded.”

“Weapon?”

“Yes. As you can see, I favour the assegai for horseback.” Blue gestures towards to her right. Not too far away there’s a spear on the ground, next to a large, sheathed sword. Rosie has no idea which one the assegai is; doesn’t even know if assegai exist in her world or only in this one because she’s never done more than take a few self defence classes. The only knives she’s ever picked up have been used in the safety of her kitchen.

“The longsword, also, although I do prefer my simi for closer combat.” Blue pats her hip where, yep, there’s a smaller sword strapped there. Wow. At least that explains which one the assegai is.

“I don’t know how to use any of those weapons. Or… any weapon.”

Blue looks astonished. Stunned. Still gorgeous. 

“You know no weapons?”

“None at all.” 

There’s silence between them for a few moments.

“The place you live must truly be wondrous, if people have no need to learn.” 

“No. It’s not like I live in some sort of utopia. People still use weapons to hurt and kill each other, to defend and attack.”

“Ah. I am sorry to hear that. People remain people, I suppose, no matter how far apart they may seem.” 

“People are still beautiful and creative and inspiring though, even with the violence.”

“Because of it, perhaps.” Blue’s soft smile looks as though it should have poetry written about it.

“I will find you safe harbour at Mchiza. I have family there.”

“What? I thought we were questing together?” Is questing even a word? 

“As I said, this quest takes me towards many dangers. I cannot take you there when you cannot defend yourself.” Rosie can defend herself well enough! ...Probably not as well as she’d like, if she’s avoiding all her magic tricks. Which she officially is. Due to the possibility of death.

“Then teach me.” 

“You wish to learn?”

“Yes. Teach me how to defend myself with your weapons. You said it’s not a time sensitive quest, so you can teach me on the way.” Blue gives her a long, steady look. Assessing her. For what, Rosie has no idea. Strength of will, perhaps. Determination. Hopefully not assessing her looks, because Rosie’s spent however long running through a forest and that was after working five hours of her shift. She can feel the way her short, wavy hair has plastered itself to her neck and forehead. 

“I know that you are in a foreign place and that I am the only friend you have here, but I promise you my family will make you welcome. You have no need to follow me into darkness, simply because I am familiar.”

Blue does make a valid point. Is Rosie simply clinging to Blue because the woman is the only face she knows in this whole world? Maybe. She could let Blue drop her off in one of the cities, meet new people, start a new life while waiting for some scholars somewhere to figure out that she’s not from anywhere around here. 

Or she could go with Blue, who she has only just met. And while, yes, the woman is gorgeous and that plays a factor - she’s also kind. She stopped to help a stranger on the road with no obvious benefit to herself. She acknowledged and attempted to bridge what she thought was a language gap without looking down on or shaming Rosie for her perceived lack of knowledge. Blue’s hands were roughened by years of use, but gentle.

She accepted Rosie’s offer of help easily, happily. 

Blue is currently waiting patiently for Rosie’s answer, unbothered as the minutes tick by. 

“I want to learn.” Rosie says, having thought her options through. Blue smiles.

“Then it is agreed. I will be glad to have you and to teach you. The pursuit of knowledge, no matter the area, is a great thing.” Rosie would be very glad to be had! Uh, to accompany Blue and be taught. That’s what she meant. Absolutely.

“Awesome! Let’s get started!” Rosie says, jumping to her feet. Attempting to jump to her feet. Her head throbs and her butt barely makes it off the ground before she’s sitting down heavily, groaning quietly.

“Rosie,” Blue chuckles, “slowly.” Her hands are back on Rosie, warm and rough and perfect.

“We have time, my friend, we can take a few days while you heal.”

An important announcement - very important. Alert the Council important. Shout it from the rooftops important:

Blue can physically pick Rosie up and carry her.

Over the shoulder is least comfortable, due to Blue’s metal armour. Bridal style is probably the worst for Rosie’s heart. She’s got no problems with Rosie latching onto her back like a barnacle.

If Rosie’s practicing for too long -

You need to give your muscles a break. The stress of constant practice will do nothing but injure you.

I’ve almost got this move, I know it! Ten more minutes, Blue! After a week of travel, Rosie had explained to Blue what minutes were, given that whatever time system this land uses is apparently different. As such, Blue raises an eyebrow at the pleading.

You may pick it up in the morning, after food and rest.

Rosie keeps swinging her own short sword, again and again and she’s disarmed by Blue, easily. The woman throws Rosie over her shoulder with ease and then squats down to pick up the weapon. One of her hands is on Rosie’s thigh, keeping her stable. Rosie’s brain checks out of reality for a few seconds, desperately wishing that hand would slide higher.

- she gets picked up. It really does not encourage her to listen when Blue tells her to stop training the first time. 

“If I did not know better,” Blue says, talking to Rosie who is right now over her shoulder. They were practicing hand to hand combat, today. Much more intense than the couple of self defence courses she’s done over the years. She’s been getting stronger over the past few weeks, Rosie can tell that even with the aches of regular, intense workouts. She’s probably never been this fit in her life, and Blue still outstrips her by a ridiculous, arousing amount.

“I would think that you liked being over my shoulder.”

“Saves me walking back to camp under my own power,” Rosie retorts, instead of saying that she very much loves when Rosie manhandles her like this. She’s also trying to distract herself from the possibility that Blue’s hand is slightly higher up tonight. Just that little bit closer to where Rosie’s starting to become desperate for those fingers to be.

She has unfortunately made no inroads into being a more outgoing lesbian. Hey Blue, Rosie desperately wishes she could say, would like to fuck? She’s blushing just thinking about it. Shit, would you like to fuck. Even in her head she can't be smooth. This is a disaster. 

The tent is small. Decently sized for a singular person, although perhaps still a tight fit for Blue on her own, given that she towers over Rosie by a solid foot. And Rosie, for your edification, is a solid hundred and sixty five centimeters. Five foot five flat. Blue could, if she wished, tuck Rosie under her arm easily. Bring her tight against her as they talk, or when they’re settled by the fire for the evening. Rosie certainly wished for it.

Was it not enough, when Blue was nothing more to Rosie than a kind woman, so beautiful as to be literally stunning? But her companion is so much more than that. She is a patient teacher, her laugh is like wildfire, she recites poetry over their evening meals. Love poetry, sometimes. 

What better way to know a people, than by the poetry that sings of their hearts? Blue had said, many nights before.

I’m not sure I know enough poetry to make it a very interesting conversation.

I do, Blue had smiled, firelight kissing her black skin. Illuminating her; caressing her face the way Rosie wishes to.

The tent is small and the nights are getting colder. The fire is banked, hot coals waiting for their breakfast. Rosie is tired from travelling, from training while they give Abasi a break, from not kissing Blue at every opportunity. Sleep should be easy, but the easy words shared between them even as they ready for bed make it hard. Rosie’s out of poetry, now a month into their journey, but Blue’s still going strong. Tonight was another night for love poetry and Blue does not abate even as they slide into the bedding together.

“I want to be your love for ever and ever, Without break or decay.” Blue starts. The night is quiet around them but for cicadas; Abasi snorts softly, tethered close by. The quiet rustling of blankets as they settle, side by side.

“When the hills are all flat, The rivers are all dry.

“When it thunders in winter, When it snows in summer.” The cadence of her voice draws you in. She knows how to speak, how to evoke emotion. Or maybe it’s just that the words she says pierce Rosie’s heart.

“When heaven and earth mingle, Not till then will I part from you.” Silence between them, as deep as the night itself. Rosie wants, viscerally. Wants Blue to say those words again, this time muffled by the delicate skin of Rosie’s own throat. She wants a confession whispered in the night, wants that calloused hand to take her own.

“Have you heard that one before?” Blue asks, voice quiet. A reminder that this is just a culture share, though Blue has admitted that not all that she shares comes from her own people. These words are not meant for Rosie, though they are spoken to her.

“No. Never.” Rosie’s voice cracks over the words, throat dry. “To have a love like that…” 

“There would be no higher honour,” Blue says, when it becomes clear that Rosie has no intention of finishing her sentence. The cicadas continue to chirrup in the distance. Sleep starts to press in on Rosie but it does not quite have her in its hold.

“This night is cloudless; it will be colder than it has been. You may use my warmth, should you need it.” Blue says, kind as always. It is not so cold that Rosie needs to get closer. Their shared warmth in the small tent, beneath the covers, is enough. She slides across the minute distance between them anyway. Presses their arms together. Barely restrains herself from rolling over, pillowing her head on Blue’s chest.

Rosie understands every instance of the ‘sharing a bed’ trope now. It was cute, before. Reading about it; living vicariously through media. It’s a heartache, now. Experiencing it.

There’s something so isolating, so moving, about listening to the steady, even breathing of the person your heart is starting to yearn for. Feeling their body heat, a strong line against your side, and wondering if they’re thinking of you, too. The knowledge that you could reach out, slide your hand against their own, if only you had the courage.

This night is exquitiste torture.

“Ah.” Rosie says, looking at the black blood dripping from her short sword. Different to the simi that Blue carries, but effective nevertheless. Because there’s the blood of some creature dripping off of it. The creature that Rosie just killed. It stains the ground, as well. Life blood, weakening with every second. Going from a gush to a trickle even as Rosie watches. Death. So simple.

“Rosie,” Blue says, voice low and soothing. She must’ve finished with the others. There were more. Now there’s none. More death. They were vaguely humanoid. The right shape. Distorted faces. Snarling, snapping maws that would consume them. Blue had warned her of the dangers they could and likely would face.

Rosie just wasn’t expecting them to look human.

“Rosie, it is over. Breathe. Easy, my dove.” Rosie’s breathing. Everything’s fine. She’s breathing. Gasping, more like, but that’s still breathing. In and out, just like Blue’s demonstrating. In and out, in and out-

“Yes, dear one, exactly. Deep breaths. In and out.” The weapon slips from Rosie’s suddenly limp fingers. It hits the ground with a muted thud, grass absorbing the impact. Blue’s gauntleted hands are still gentle, even with the leather and metal. She turns Rosie away from the corpse - the corpse she made, with her own hands and blade.

“Blue,” Rosie says, stunned when the woman wipes away her tears. Oh, of course Rosie was crying. That makes sense. How else was she to deal with the clench of her heart; her very soul cries out in agony.

“Come, sit,” Blue continues to soothe her, with word and gesture, as she guides Rosie over to sit on the ground, facing away from the bodies. They’re at Njasa, now. The caves Blue needs lay beyond this field. They loom in the distance, guarded. They have to cross it. How can they cross it if this is the way to do so? And this is the only way. The caves stand alone, surrounded by plains.

Rosie feels sick. She has never before wanted to be held so badly in her life. Never been so sure that she is undeserving of it. Blue wraps an arm around her shoulders anyway, pulling her in tight. She does fit, perfectly, even with the armour. Like little nesting dolls, shaped to go together. Rosie can barely feel it. Can’t seem to feel much beyond the specks of ichor, flecked across her hands. 

She stares at them, black stains on her brown skin, and distantly feels her breathing grow heavier. Rosie starts to sob, great, wretched things, as Blue begins to wipe the blood off her hands. She’s not wearing her gauntlets now. Time seems to lose meaning as she sits, barely meters away from the life she ended, and cries. Blue rocks her gently. Lets her cry without attempting to quiet her. Runs a hand over Rosie’s hair every so often. Allows Rosie to hold onto her free hand, both of Rosie's wrapped tightly around it.

“It is always the hardest, in the beginning.” Blue finally says, when the sun has started its descent. The noise Rosie makes is not a laugh, though it tries.

“I don’t want it to get better,” Rosie’s out of tears to cry, though they still burn at her eyes. “I don’t ever want to do that again. I can’t, Blue, I can’t.” She trained so hard and it’s meaningless. She doesn’t want to look at her weapon ever again, let alone touch it.

“I will make sure of it,” Blue promises, bending down to press her lips against Rosie’s temple, words spoken directly into her skin.

“Never again, Rosie, I swear it on my honour, on my life. I will find another way.”

Camp that night is subdued. Even Abasi, undaunted war horse that he is, seems quieter than usual. The fire seems colder, for all it must burn just as hot. Rosie sits still pressed against Blue’s side. There will be no poetry tonight.

“Do you think they had family?” There’s no need to clarify who Rosie means.

“...I do not know. I have been raised to view them as beasts; monsters. Beings unworthy of my pity. Of more thought than it takes to slay them.”

“Everything has family.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I could make reparations? Nothing will give back the life I stole but... I don't know. Maybe I can do... something.”

“They would ask your own life,” Blue says, sounding near panicked, grip tightening around Rosie’s shoulder.

“Would they?” Blue seems taken aback, startled blinks visible even by firelight.

“I… I have no knowledge of what they might do, truly. My words come from no place but prejudice.” Blue looks away, back into the fire. Rosie can still see the troubled expression on her beautiful face.

“I have spoken with peoples from many races, from the furthest reaches of humanity, and yet I have never once thought to speak to my enemies. The hatred runs so deep; has for so long. I have never questioned it. Not for the witches, or their dogs.” She means the beings they fought with today. With such language, Rosie had been expecting some sort of mutated canine. Like something from a video game. It’s so easy to kill things, in a game. In real life Rosie can still feel the heat of their blood as it splatters against her.

“You’re questioning it now. Most people wouldn’t ever do that much.”

“How could I do anything but, in the face of your own compassion?” 

“You give me too much credit. It takes someone special, to put aside such long held convictions so easily.”

“This is not easy, Rosie. You cannot feel the torment in my mind, my heart, to come face to face with this knowledge and continue to look."

"Many people would ignore it, Blue. You're-" a thousand words crowd Rosie's tongue but the one that falls free is inadequate, lacking. "You're something special."

"I know the same of you. Perhaps we were both needed for these revelations,” Blue allows. Her hand smooths up and down Rosie's shoulder, absent minded. A much needed comfort.

The fire cracks and burns before them and Rosie doesn’t bother to turn her mind away from the murder she committed. She’ll dream about it tonight, that much is certain. As much as she’d like to, Rosie never wants to forget today. To forget the being she killed. The awful noise they made. Their dying breaths. Pained. If she hadn’t been in so much shock, so repulsed and confused and horrified, maybe she would have remembered her magic.

She hasn’t used it in so long, since she was fleeing that boar. She wasn’t great at healing, mediocre, but maybe she could have done something.

“I do not know if they speak. Whether they're capable of doing so in any manner of language that we could understand.”

Rosie almost wants to laugh. She might have dropped out a semester and a half short of the finish line but she still sat through three and a half years of uni. Of a linguistics degree. She knows how to translate, know the tips and tricks that go into figuring out how to make a translation spell. Knows language structure and syntax and how language influences culture and society and vice versa.

“I can translate.” Rosie assures Blue and then stares directly into the fire so that she doesn’t have to see Blue’s expression. That must’ve raised some questions. Some red flags. If no one knows the language of the witches and their guards, their people, how is it that Rosie can translate? 

Blue doesn’t question her further. Silence falls between them. Rosie wonders if it feels as loaded to Blue as it does to her. She has no way of knowing and no intention to ask. Blue keeps an arm around her as they watch the fire burn.

The thing about translation spells is: they need the language that’s being translated to work. Without at the very least a sample of the language, there’s no way to translate it. Duh. Obviously. It’s usually a very simple process. Usually. Less so when the language being translated is going to be spoken by some probably very aggressive, if not very angry, beings. Whose friends/co-workers/family Rosie and Blue cut down the day before.

So that’s the plan. A fairly simple plan. Activate the translation spell, be within range to get a language sample - preferably a wide and varied sample, but Rosie will work with what little she’ll get off a battlefield - and then voila. Communication.

Oh, on a battlefield? Yeah. Neither of them know a way to draw out the worker - they’ve decided to call them workers, in lieu of dogs, at least until they’re given a proper name - in a peaceful way. So the pair of them are going to gain the workers attention by trespassing and then hopefully no one will be injured while Rosie does the quickest but hopefully not shoddiest translation spell in the history of translation spells.

Just thinking about it has Rosie feeling jittery. So much is riding on her casting a spell. Their lives, for one. Casting a spell in front of Blue, who apparently is not as dyed in the wool on hating magic as originally thought. Which is great. But she’ll still probably take exception to having spent the last however long with a wix. 

It’s entirely possible that, even if everything goes well and they open up a dialogue with the witches, these are the last moments of friendship between Blue and Rosie. It doesn’t change her decision; this is the right thing to do. It just feels like a hole is attempting to open up in the space where her heart should be. 

It’s not something that can be avoided, either. Rosie’s magic isn’t invisible; it sparks. It twinkles. Sometimes it even arcs through the air on gossamer strings. Some people work real hard to make their magic invisible or quiet, as unobtrusive as possible. Rosie never bothered. She likes how it actually looks like magic, like a child's story book, instead of some high brow, unnoticeable bullshit. 

There’s something freeing about it. About knowing the end is near, one way or the other. It gives her courage.

“Blue,” Rosie calls, once the woman’s finished saddling Abasi. Blue takes a step away from the horse and Rosie takes a step forward. Rosie tugs at the front of the woman’s armour and Blue obliges her by leaning down. Rosie’s done this a few times on their journey, to wipe road dirt of Blue’s face, to place a flower behind her ear.

Now she places a kiss instead.

Her lips are as chapped as Rosie’s, worn from their time on the road, but they still feel like salvation against her own. Eyes closed, she could spend years like this. Rosie spends not even a minute, not even thirty seconds, before she pulls away. It aches, deep within, to see Blue’s brown eyes, so wide and stunned, staring back.

“Sorry,” Rosie says, taking a step back and trying for a smile. She’s not quite sure how well she does.

“Why do you apologise?” Blue asks, tilting her head, still leant forward. Rosie would have though Blue would've taken the chance to step as far away from Rosie as possible.

“If it is for thefting a kiss, then you have my forgiveness. If it is for kissing me in the first place… I could never accept such an apology, for my heart has ached for yours so sincerely that even the simple press of your lips against mine is euphoric.”

“Blue-” She’s cut off by another kiss, by hands coming up to hold her face so gently, so tenderly. Their lips slide against each other, deepening the kiss with every movement. The kiss feels like a lifetime, like a lifeline, rescuing Rosie from the mire of her own emotions. Blue pulls away before their tongues do more than brush, pressing her forehead against Rosie’s own.

“I would pledge my troth to you,” Rosie has no idea what the fuck that means but she wants it. Whatever it is that Blue is saying, dark eyes so intense, Rosie’s in. 

“Yes. Absolutely. Troth away.” Blue kisses her again, fiercely this time. Lips and tongue and enough passion to shake Rosie down to her very core.

“Before this, I must tell you. I am sorry to have lied though it felt necessary at the time. I apologise for the deception and again for my lack of true remorse, for the idea that you could have treated me differently these last weeks is an idea that I cannot stand." Blue pulls away slightly, straightening up. She lets her hands fall from Rosie’s face but Rosie catches them before they can go too far, holds them within her own like they’re precious. They are, to Rosie.

“I am Kinaya, though there are enough people who call me Blue for it to not be so egregious a lie. Queen Kinaya the Great Hearted, of Arteq and Kilisa and all the lands in between.”

For a moment, Roise has exactly no reaction. Then, as the words sink in, she can feel her eyes go wide. She tightens her grip on Blue’s, Kinaya's, hands. What the fuck.

“I don’t agree with monarchies. Ideologically.” Rosie says instead of anything useful, like an idiot. Kinaya stares at her for a few moments before she laughs that wild, free laugh.

“You are a wonder. No word of the deception or my status. You make my heart light with joy for every moment that I am with you.” Oh, that’s really lovely, but now the weight of Rosie's own secrets are settling onto her shoulders. Her euphoria, her delight, are starting to waver at the knowledge that she must show Kinaya her truest self. The one which will have Blue pulling her hands away; pulling herself away irrevocably. 

“It… it would be hypocritical of me, if I said anything. About the deception. Lie. Whatever.” Rosie grimaces, hyping herself up to give her own honesty in return. Kinaya twists their joined hands, her larger hands enveloping Rosie's own. Rubs her thumbs against Rosie's skin, soothing.

“I do not care. Rosie, whatever it is, nothing between us is insurmountable.” Kinaya lifts her hands up, presses a kiss to each of them. Holds one of Rosie's hands to the side of her face. What can Rosie do but lean into her? 

“No matter what happens. No matter how it is that you can translate between this language and that of my enemies.” Kinaya holds eye contact as she says it. That she has an inkling of what Rosie was about to say is no great surprise. Blue’s a smart lady, that much has been obvious from their very first conversation. Rosie would say meeting but she had a minor concussion at the time and wasn’t really able to notice anything.

“You can change your mind later. After. Once you know.” Rosie tells her.

“I will not, though I thank you for the consideration. I offer the same to you. I would not chain you to me, were you ever to decide that our paths diverge.”

“I love you.” Rosie thinks but - says. Ah. She did not mean to say that out loud.

“I love you too, sweet Rosie,” Kinaya says, sweeping her up into another beautiful, passionate kiss. It leaves Rosie breathless, heart racing, full of hope and love and giddy excitement.

“Let’s go not die.” Rosie grins up at her love. They can do this. A translation spell on the fly? Easy. Rosie could teleport to the moon and back right now. Nowhere is too far, nothing is too much and no one is impossible to reach.

“Let us go make peace,” Kinaya returns, smiling like the sun.