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lizzieraindrops · 1 month

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Liminal - Chapter 3 (1901 words)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Ikora is terrified of losing Eris now that she has become the Hive god of vengeance. The long tension between them has finally been driven to breaking point.

Sometimes the scariest part of good old-fashioned monster-loving isn't the monster. Ikora's emotional dysfunctionality returns with a vengeance (ha) in the morning.

Warmth is the unexpected first greeting of returning consciousness. Ikora runs cool, ever since she had first touched the Void—not uncomfortably, but noticeably. It takes a lot to fluster her, in both temperature and demeanor.

The warmth is another human presence: the gentle heat of skin on hers, a more comfortable resting place than her own bed despite the irregularity of shape.

With a simultaneous flush and chill that catches her between flight and paralysis, Ikora half rolls, half falls off of—Eris. Of course.

Eris snaps to wakefulness with all the alacrity of a Hunter's reflexes. She is relaxing her grip on the hilt of a small knife at the bedside—where had that come from?—almost before Ikora registers that she has moved. Ikora draws back for another reason entirely, coiling herself around her own knees at the foot of the bed. The sheet tangles her legs.

Halfway through levering herself up toward sitting, Eris catches sight of Ikora and ceases movement. Free of their bandage at last, her three green eyes blaze bright in the dimness with only a stray lock of her short, straggly hair to intercept their fire. As ever, wisps of ink drip from her eyes like tears. Their dark tracks trail over round cheeks, returned to soft-skinned vulnerability once more—along with the rest of her. Eris' very human body lies there fearlessly despite the lacework of scars that spreads over every limb. For some reason that makes Ikora feel deeply afraid.

"Ikora. It's me."

It is, and oh, Ikora is overwhelmed by that fact, by her nearness, by her own memory of sharp satisfaction in the way claws had clutched Ikora's body close and by her awareness of deft hands that could do the same. By the way that singular voice as deep and resonant as the ocean itself is close enough to feel.

One supplicating hand extends toward Ikora. She cannot keep herself from flinching. Eris withdraws it and carefully lies back down.

Ikora remains silent. Words stopper her throat like something congealed in the neck of a bottle, leaving her mind to spin within like a trapped squall.

"Ikora?" The softer her voice becomes, the harder Ikora trembles. "I will not hurt you. I am sorry, if I—did I...?"

Ikora shakes her head violently. She has never been more keenly aware that a problem is entirely inside her own head. But she still cannot speak.

The knot between Eris' eyebrows eases somewhat. Only one of her brows has hair: the other's had apparently never regrown from the shiny scarring around her eyes. "That is a relief," she says. "But I would still know what ails you. How may I comfort you? Or rather, may you be comforted without me? Shall I go?"

Ikora presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. Light, but Eris is so unfailingly kind, regardless of her bluntness, despite all the violence and hatred she has weathered; despite Ikora's utter emotional incompetence. Ikora loves her for it, and that is the most terrifying knowledge of all.

Ikora forces herself to meet Eris' eyes over her own curled hands. "Stay. Please," she whispers. "Just. Don't touch me." If she does, Ikora might be devoured by her own inarticulate fear warring with desperate need.

Eris nods and pulls her feet a little further away from her, even though perplexion dominates her face. She studies Ikora with all the clever, relentless perceptiveness that she usually bends toward her life's work. That sharp mind has flayed the immortality from gods. Her scrutiny is as unforgiving as truth itself. Little wonder that Ikora looks away as revelation chases the intensity from her features. Whatever softer thing can subsume that, Ikora is not capable of facing.

"You fear this form more than my morph," Eris says in hushed wonder.

Ikora hides her face in her hands again. She would not have put it so, but neither can she deny it. This is Eris, as she has been the whole time. But at least last night, Ikora had been too preoccupied by the newness and dark splendor of her acolyte form to think about the terrible immensity of the feelings she has so long kept in check. Seeing Eris' familiar form before her now, so brazenly vulnerable, brings to bear the years of aching longing that she had never considered might be answered.

It isn't that she thought Eris did not care for her. She knows, in a million subtle ways she has tried not to dwell upon. She just never thought either of them would find room for each other within the straits of their callings. Eris must pursue the fall of the Hive regardless of the risks. Ikora must defend the Last City, and she will never forego her duty to it as Vanguard. Not like her predecessor.

Ikora had not considered the much more frightening possibility now before her: that Eris might accept her and still continue along a path that might yet lead to self-destruction. That Ikora might lose her after being given the briefest taste of knowing what it meant to have her.

"Perhaps this was untimely. Although I do not regret it," Eris says. She runs a hand through her hair with a sigh. "Ikora," she pleads. "Please speak to me."

Ikora nods. She gathers what scraps of clarity she can. "I don't either. Regret it," she adds in response to Eris' confused look. "But I think...you're right. About timeliness."

Eris smiles sadly. "That has always been our problem, has it not?" She curls comfortably onto her side, leaning against the headboard with her head resting on her hands. "Are we too early, or too late?"

Ikora shifts to a cross-legged position and holds her hands in her lap. "Yes? No?" She gives a short laugh as unsteady as a newborn foal. "I don't know. But this feels like it was always inevitable."

"I know what you mean. Yet I thought I closed the door on this path when I awoke the Harbinger. It seems I was mistaken..."

Ikora's heart goes painfully soft, as if leaning into a blow. She should have told Eris years ago, rather than let her think herself unlovable. But would she have believed her, back then?

"Eris," she begins in a low, quiet voice. "Everything you are is dear to me. Even this—even that part of you. Especially a part of you that brings you clarity, purpose. It's just—" Her voice cracks. "I can't love you the way I want to, the way you should be, not when I'm so scared for you."

Eris lets that sink in. "I understand," she says, tender and mournful all at once. "I do not blame you. But I can do this. I can end what the Hive began. And I must."

"I know." Ikora does not know what will happen. She cannot predict any possibility that will reconcile reality with the cry her heart is making.

Ikora looks around the room while she takes slow, deliberate breaths to steady herself. She takes in details that she had been too distracted to notice before. The quarters are modest, but sizable for a ship. Eris has attired it much like the rest of her temporary wing of the HELM. Deep red hangings soften the sharp industrial corners. Another large shelf of books and strange artifacts cover one wall. How had she chosen what to keep nearest? Below a dim lamp with mica shades, her Ahamkara bone rests in a small stone bowl on the bedside table. A cloth has been cast over it to dull its glare. The bed itself is simple but utterly comfortable; the sheets have the feel of linen worn soft with long use, even if they bear a few new claw-torn tears.

Eris heaves a great sigh, then asks: "What now?"

Ikora lies down at the foot of the bed in a mirror of Eris' position, limbs askew. She is only a meter or so away, yet so far out of reach. "I guess we continue as we were. Mostly. Until...after this." If Eris lives. If they both come through this ordeal still capable of loving each other.

"After," Eris muses. "Very well." Then a wry grin tugs at her lips. "It will be terribly hard, though, now that I know the sound of your heart." Dancing humor laces the earnestness in her voice.

"Eris." Ikora laughs into her hands in embarrassment. "I'll have to give you more Hidden work after all this to keep you busy, otherwise you'll break every heart in the Tower."

Eris chuckles, and it raises chills along Ikora’s arms. "I don't think that will be necessary. After." Her hand curls and uncurls beside her face, as if she were refusing the impulse to breach the gulf that separates them.

The brief shared humor fades like ripples on the water. Soon, only uncertainty and stumbling sorrow remain to echo between them.

"Eris?"

"Yes?"

"Can we just..." This hurts too much to leave so soon. "Can we have today, if nothing else?"

Ikora can see the way Eris tamps down her own hope in the set of her shoulders. She despises herself a little for causing that, but not enough to not ask.

"Would that not only hurt more?" Eris says softly.

"Maybe. But I would rather give you a reason to come back."

Eris holds her stare, lips pressed together in indecision. Ikora curls in on herself with shame at her own presumption.

"Oh, come here, my love," Eris relents. She opens her arms.

Uncoiling, Ikora crosses the distance between them. She only hesitates a moment before tucking herself into Eris' embrace, shaky with nervous relief. She presses her spread hands to Eris' back, along her now smooth but still scarred shoulders. Did the Harbinger's spines erupt individually from the lines of those old wounds? "I'm here," she says, muffled against her. They lie there heart to heart, skin to skin. Even channeling Solar light has never made her feel this blessedly warm.

"Just today," Eris agrees.

"Just today." Ikora draws back just enough to look Eris in the eyes. She caresses her face, brushes her thumb across the unevenness of the scars just above her cheekbone. The prickling ink pools thickest there, but evaporates quickly.

"Don't forget that you are wanted for yourself. Not just for what you can do," Ikora says.

With that she kisses Eris deeply, achingly, searingly. Eris responds like a flower to the sun. The sound of unashamed pleasure that hums in her throat makes Ikora feel more wanted than she has ever been. And in this stolen moment, her want is greater than ever, as well. This time she gives it free rein with premeditated intent. She traces her passion along every curve of Eris' mouth, the arch of her neck, even the tender scarred lids of her eyes. She commits every part of her to memory, from her strong, stout arms to her soft, thick waist to the proud arc of her spine below the troubled skin.

"All of you," Ikora breathes. The hitch in Eris' heartbeat beneath her lips tells her she does not need to explain.

The warmth of skin threatens to destroy her as completely and utterly as the crystalline vacuum of space. But as she sinks into the contact, it soon soothes the part of Ikora that is shivering.

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lizzieraindrops · 1 month

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[rips my way out of my armor to take my final form]

I'M A GARDEN GREMLIN NOW!!!!!!!

#garden of salvation #thank you worm server for making my dreams come true aaaaaa #lizzie taking up space #destinewt #my brain is full of LORE THOUGHTS NOW.#both canon and oc lmao #this is cyane_storm btw if any of yall are on here lol #thank you <3 #it was an honor to be stuck in the hilarious death timeloop with you c:

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lizzieraindrops · 1 month

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prisoner's thoughts going miles per hour...

listening to this song last year i started making connections to outer wilds and this part of the song reminds me so much of the owlks story...

version without the lyrics too, because i really like how it turned out :']

#oh.....#outer wilds #outer wilds spoilers #echoes of the eye #echoes of the eye spoilers #fanart #the prisoner

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lizzieraindrops · 1 month

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the dawn of a new day

#cryign #outer wilds #fanart #the sense of sky in this.........#space

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lizzieraindrops · 1 month

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I turned to face what was hidden in the darkness.

And with a heart full of hope,

I made my choice.

#WHOAAAHHH #gosh.#outer wilds #outer wilds spoilers #echoes of the eye #echoes of the eye spoilers #the prisoner #fanart #THE FLOWER!!!1 #the flower from the broker antler oh wow.......

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lizzieraindrops · 1 month

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#CHERT!!!!#chert #outer wilds #outer wilds spoilers #fanart

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lizzieraindrops · 1 month

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I wanted an outer wilds poster on my wall, so i made one

#AAAA SO COOL #outer wilds #fanart #this style is so crisp??? i love

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lizzieraindrops · 1 month

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Women want one thing and it's quite obvious, A large affordable interconnected North American Rail Network

#gnashing biting thrashing #trains

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lizzieraindrops · 1 month

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Liminal - Chapter 2 (2034 words)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Ikora is terrified of losing Eris now that she has become the Hive god of vengeance. The long tension between them has finally been driven to breaking point. Can the two of them reconcile their conflicts and misunderstandings before it might be too late?

Some good old-fashioned monster-loving.

Eris transforms.

Eris stands indomitable in the center of her spell circle, catching her breath as her body attunes to the pulse of ichor and soulfire rather than blood.

She does not turn around. The tatters of her Hunter leathers hang about her waist, girding her full-body chitin plate armor like a Hive Wizard's careless robes.

Ikora steps closer behind her. Boots sound against the stone-flagged floor like a sonar signal. Slow and deliberate, she approaches Eris' broad, spined back.

Hands close on Eris' upper arms from behind in a grip that is firm but not rigid. Eris rumbles in surprise and goes stock-still. She hadn't known Ikora's arms could reach hers, not without impaling herself upon the massive spines that have sprouted from her back and shoulders like raised hackles. Slowly, Eris relaxes somewhat into the touch. Those human hands are ungloved; she can tell by their flush, static friction against the roughness of chitin. Through Eris' modulated sense of touch through her exoskeletal plates, those hands feel different, their pressure spread more lightly but more broadly across the subsurface of her body.

The two of them stand there like a diorama within the ring of columns, unmoving except for their breath.

Stealing a quick glance over one shoulder, Eris catches a startling glimpse of Ikora's face among the forest of spines. Her eyes are closed, her head bowed. Smooth, elegant features have tautened into an expression of deep worry. Her mouth has fallen slightly open, yet her breathing is very shallow.

Eris averts her eyes before Ikora's can open, feeling like she has seen something she shouldn't. She has never seen emotion that extreme writ across Ikora's face before.

In the center of the Athenaeum, their soundlessness is wreathed by the quiet-whispering flames of Eris' spell drawn into the stone-paved floor.

"Eris..." Ikora murmurs.

"Yes?"

But that is the only word Ikora says. "Eris," she says again. "Eris." Her name is a beautiful ache in her mouth. It makes the woman who bears it both uneasy and touched.

"What? What is it, Ikora?" The layers of her new voice tend toward restless dissonance.

Another repetition is her only answer, this time approaching a muted, pained whine. It alarms Eris enough that she lays a rough palm over one of the hands on her arms, then unlatches the other so that she can turn to face Ikora in her morph at last.

The silent tears streaming down Ikora's brown cheeks shock Eris to her core. She takes Ikora's hand between both of her own and weaves her claws carefully around it in a protective net of living chitin.

"Ikora, what is wrong?! Why are you saying my name like that?"

"I am afraid, Eris." Her voice is wet, broken gravel scraping over the raw muscle of Eris' heart. Eris drops her hand with a stab of hurt which is instantly overridden by a wave of complete confusion as Ikora seizes her face with both hands, bare skin against her carapace. Eris stares back into those deep amber-brown eyes, speechless.

"I—I," Ikora says as if choking on the prospect of her own perspective. She takes a deep, ragged breath before letting the words out in a sprawl of agony sharpened by her own reluctance. "I need you, Eris,” Ikora scrapes out as if her throat is bleeding. “And I don't know if you're coming back this time. How many more times can you survive certain death?" Unable to hold Eris' aghast stare, she hangs her head. Her body tremors like a tree in a quake, steadfast yet shaking. Her hands fall helpless from her face to the upper edge of Eris' chestplate where her collarbones have fused into it.

The depth of Ikora's raw pain horrifies Eris. She cautiously circles her armored arms around the shaking form, gentle and then fierce as Ikora throws both arms around her neck and sobs with an ugly sound. Eris bends over as she holds her, as much because her morph is taller than Ikora as to bring her under the shelter of the Harbinger's immense shoulder crests. That great forest of spears points backward and skyward in defiance of any tormented past or presumptive higher power. She barely notices the rumble that emanates from her own chest, half protective and dangerous, half solicitous and soothing.

Their sounds soften as the storm blows over. Ikora's arms slacken in the just-wide-enough space between Eris' neck and the first angular spikes that spring from her shoulders. Sorrowful echoes fade, glancing more quietly off of each green-gilded pillar of the pavilion until they vanish into the throne world's haze-shawled, burning sky.

Eventually, Eris kneels in the center of the Athenaeum holding Ikora's drooping shape against her chest, bearing most of her weight. The claws of one hand dance lightly over Ikora's scalp with soft scratches. Various small creatures chirrup and buzz and rustle in the quiet patches of marsh outside the gazebo. Through it all, that vibrating thrum in Eris' chest never falters, only softens into a more comforting timbre.

Eris will stay here as long as is needed, as long as it takes for the strongest person she knows to be able to stand again.

With a brief articulated gesture of one hand, Eris collapses the glittering portal to the HELM. They need no interruption. Ikora needs her—needs Eris, for once. When she returns to caressing Ikora's head, she leans into the touch.

"Are you well?" Eris says in a rattling whisper.

Ikora's eyes open. "Don't let go," she answers.

Eris chuckles like boulders crashing underwater. She strokes the back of one claw down the side of Ikora's face, making her eyelids flutter. In this form, somehow, some unseen, unspoken wall between them has crumbled and fallen away. "You seek strange comfort. Many fled from merely the sight of my eyes years ago, much less this."

"I never did."

Eris hums a deep harmony. "No. You didn't.” Ikora has never been anything but kind to her even at her remarkably terrible worst self, and her gratitude for that is boundless. So are the depths of her affection, even if she does not act on it, and has never planned to.

In thanks, she bends to touch the crest of her brow to Ikora's forehead. That's all. But when she tries to lift her head away, fingers catch at the ridges behind her jaws. She cannot draw more than a hand's span away without wresting herself loose. She does not want to do so. Ikora's nearness is a balm, one she has never permitted herself to seek. So she gazes back at her in contentment and waits to see what she will do.

Something changes in the bearing of Ikora's supine frame within the unfamiliar cradle of her arms. Her movements become both more tentative and more purposeful. Exploring her craggy face with deft fingertips, Ikora traces the line of her chin, the pitted hollows that pock her cheeks, the bony ridge that surrounds and shelters all three eyes. Ikora's two search every feature with a golden brown gaze as darkly brilliant as sunlight struggling to seep through summer honey. Something that Eris has never seen before floats up through the depths of that gaze as if from an abandoned well. She wants to understand what it is, needs to know with a consuming hunger akin to the exponential voracity of the knife-void that has split open wide within her, clamoring to devour the entire Hive for her divinity.

Those captivating eyes dip toward her shielded mouth more than once. If not for the protective plate covering it, it almost seems as if Ikora would–

Fingers skirt the marge of Eris' mouthplate; then lips brush, once, twice. Eris trills in surprise. Both sensations are strange, yet not unpleasant.

"Ik—what are you...?"

Her fingers run along the seams of the plates of Eris' face and neck, where chitin gives way to toughened connective membrane that yields slightly to the touch. Below those thin bands, the nerves are not shielded by rigid armor. The sustained contact gives Eris chills that make her spines bristle like windswept trees.

"Trying to understand all of you," Ikora says. "Should I stop?"

"...No, but—"

"Then let me. Please." She braces one hand on the flat plate of Eris' chest and weaves the other among the jagged spikes on one shoulder like a curious serpent. She examines each one from multiple angles with both touch and sight, dedicating her every attention to the cartography of Eris' utterly inhuman body like—like—

Even in her most idle, unrealistic fantasy, Eris could scarcely imagine Ikora ever touching her like this, even were she still human. How can she do so now? With greater caution than she would approach the maw of the Hellmouth, Eris eases one palm onto Ikora's hip, slowly wraps her fingers around. Including the talons, her hand circles half of her entire waist. Ikora doesn’t retreat.

"What...why?" Eris asks, but she cares about the answers less and less every moment.

"Eris," Ikora says again, damn her. The rampant want and pain in her voice rends Eris from the inside out like a blade of bittersweet tithe.

An involuntary growl rips out of Eris as Ikora scrapes her nails against the grain of the fine ridges across her chestplate. Although less sensitive than the seams, there are far more tactile receptors beneath each plate, and any pressure activates all of them in tandem. The rattling scrape, multiply so. The combination of the unexpected feeling and their current close situation is nothing short of intoxicating.

Ikora's eyes go wide with surprise, then narrow with a satisfaction approaching smugness. That won't do.

"I-chorr-ahh," Eris says in her deepest growl. She plants both hands firmly on Ikora's shoulders. Her eyes fly open wide again, accompanied by her blown pupils. Eris presses the tips of her claws into Ikora's flesh—not hard enough to puncture skin, but enough to make her freeze. "Are you certain you want what you are asking for?"

In a subtle yet sublime implosion of effortless Void Light, Ikora surges forward and pins her acolyte morph to the floor, bent back over the spikes of its crest in the center of her own spell circle. The mouthplate drops away from the hidden jaw in an appreciative, terrifying grin.

"What I want is Eris Morn. Are you not her?" Ikora retorts. A drop of blood seeps into her pristine robe beneath the indent made by Eris' thumbclaw. With every striving sinew of her Light-suffused body, she challenges the being before her to deny it, challenges herself to doubt it. She is incandescent, powerful, passionate. Beautiful.

Like a whisper from a crypt, a deep chuckle ascends from Eris' throat. It grows louder and redoubles upon itself until she is but the chamber for a choir of pleased humor.

"I am."

The look in Ikora's eyes is both tenacious and tender. And it is completely, entirely for her, as she is.

In a sudden contraction of movement, Eris reverses their positions and fully looms over Ikora. She runs the point of one claw along the entire length of her soft, strong body. They both shiver.

With a casual hand, Eris waves a new portal open, one that leads directly to the private quarters set aside for her in the HELM.

Despite the fact that this netherworld's queen is currently dead, Eris begrudges her every iota of joy she has found in this last life of hers, and she will not share it with her throne of memory. Besides, Ikora deserves better than this accursed place. Eris' morph will last for a little while, outside of the spell circle. Long enough for the way Ikora clutches at the chitin of her shoulder crests, making the muscles attached beneath them strain with sweet pleasure.

With an earthen croon, Eris gathers Ikora up into her arms as carefully as if she were made of orchid petals the color of her robes. Then she sweeps them both away to somewhere more sheltered from prying eyes. The portal winks out in a glimmer of green sparks behind her.

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lizzieraindrops · 2 months

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Some good old-fashioned monster-loving.

I simply cannot accept that so few Eris/Ikora monsterfucker fics have been written when Season of the Witch offered them up to us on a silver platter. I had to take matters into my own hands. So I offer you: some deeply fucked-up women who love each other so very much. Absolute shout-out to my mvp of a beta @jazzhandsmcleg.

Liminal - Chapter 1 (1728 words)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

All things considered, Ikora has done a remarkable job of keeping her apprehensions under control. However, after a violent week of tithes and transformations, Eris turns an assessing look upon her as they discuss strategy in the HELM.

"You are troubled by this," she says flatly. Ikora cannot deny it, so she doesn't. Although Eris' posture these days is already impeccable, she draws herself up even taller as if bracing for something where she stands, precisely in the center of the stern wing of the HELM. The shimmer of the Hive portal to the Athenaeum behind her frames an imposing portrait. "Is it the form my vengeance takes that upsets you, or the part of me that chooses to take it?"

The impact of those words in Ikora's chest makes her gape in dismay. "Eris, no, that's not..." The sheer harshness of perspective that only shows Eris possibilities of judgement leaves Ikora at a rare loss for words. She surges a step forward before halting her half-reaching hand, retreating like an uncertain eddy in the water.

"My concern is for your safety, Eris. I have others, but none so pressing as that."

After a moment's consideration, Eris turns away. "Of course it is." She sounds faintly abashed. “Nonetheless, I must press forward. Surely you can see that this is the best strategy available to us."

With another soft step that narrows the gap between them, Ikora dares to lay a hand on Eris' upper arm. Though she is often strict about intrusions into her personal space, Eris merely turns back to her in open surprise.

"As far as I can tell, it is the only option currently offered to us. I don't like it. But it is where we are."

Eris acknowledges her with a nod, but dissatisfaction still shutters her demeanor.

With a light squeeze on her arm, Ikora asks: "What is it, Eris?"

Eris does not meet her concerned gaze. "The shape of my vengeance has not changed, only altered its direction as I have walked its path. This spell unbinds the limits of my body, yes, but the shape I take within it is still mine. It has always been a part of me. Did you know that, before this?"

They do not move except to breathe, drawing neither further away nor closer together. Ikora thinks long and hard, reaching for both honesty and compassion.

"I'm not sure that I can ever know it with the same intimacy that you do. The Hive and their lore have been so intertwined into your life, but...you are the only one who can decide their role within it. They can't. You've clearly demonstrated that over the years. And neither can I. While I don't think I knew the depth of that connection, before, I understand that this is how you are choosing to define it."

Silence. "You didn't answer my question."

Ikora had, but only the surface inquiry, not the deeper meaning beneath it. Do you realize that this monstrosity is not only who I have become, but part of who I have always been? Has it changed how you see me? "You didn't actually ask it," she says quietly.

Eris gestures open-palmed acceptance. In her other hand, her lurid Ahamkara bone casts shadows and sickly green light that wreath about it in perpetual unrest.

Ikora would not make her ask.

"I didn't know, not quite. But all of...this, it makes sense for the Eris I do know. It's everything you've ever striven for since you escaped the Hellmouth. I don't fear that this spell is controlling you, because I know you are perfectly capable of choosing such a drastic course of action all on your own. And I will defend your actions to the others, despite my own fears for you."

Eris lays a gauntleted hand over hers in brief acknowledgement. "I believe you, I think. Time will tell."

Ikora nods. Her heart sinks, but the soft rebuff does not take her by surprise. She had not supported Eris through the relatively tame controversy of acquiring Stasis: why would Eris rely on her now? "Truth in action," she says like a promise. Their old refrain, from long before this; before many of the latest losses in their neverending list. Asher. Sagira. The Traveler itself. Everything they still have to lose looms over them like a promise of failure.

Yet Ikora is rewarded with a faint smile. It only soothes the very edges of her glass-sharp fears, and only for a little while. That is not the reason why she treasures it, why she tucks it away deep within herself where the shards will have to tear through her own flesh before they can take it from her.

___

As the weeks pass and Eris grows ever stronger by the tithes of the sword, Ikora keeps her promise despite her concerns growing in tandem.

She maintains her distance from the throne world. She has many other duties, after all, when she needs to keep her mind off this mission of utmost critical importance. But she remains within close call on comms as often as possible while Guardians cavort through the endless, treacherous floors of the Spire, sweeping across its buried Altars like a wavefront of death.

She has not seen Eris transform since that first time; never up close. But her voice changes as she drinks the lakes of lifeblood Guardians spill upon Savathûn's Altars for her. In its cadence and flourish, it's completely recognizable as hers; but the deepened tone and even fuller timbre buzzes in layered intervals, at turns grating against or harmonizing alongside each other. The sound of it makes Ikora shiver to hear, even over comms. The many voices of the many-mouthed hunger multiply and grow ever more potent. How much more Hive-sculpted power can she possibly contain without searing herself from the inside out?

Yet whenever they meet to discuss strategy, Eris is the same as ever. Perhaps she stands a little taller, now, a little prouder in the shoulder than before. She has every right to do so. She is a god now.

It makes Ikora's heart quail like nothing else has in her life. She is losing her. She cannot stop her. She can only aid her, so she does. She tries. Her chest won't stop hurting no matter how long she ignores it.

In a feeble attempt to wrest a nonexistent solution from an impossible situation, she meets Eris at the Lectern in the Athenaeum to assess her Deck of Whispers. Perhaps before the sheer force and breadth of Ikora's analytical skills, the strange cards' paracausal potential will yield something, anything—anything.

She is losing hope that she can make any difference to Eris' survival. Once more betrayed by her doubts, the shivering of Ikora's traitor heart makes her hands just a little unsteady as she draws a card from the gleaming deck.

Before she can turn the card over, Eris closes her fingers on the other end of it. Surely she feels the tremor through the heavy gilded paper. For a moment, thick silence holds them.

"Even you tremble in my presence now?" Eris asks softly.

"What?" Ikora whispers, crestfallen.

"It is all right," Eris says. Her voice hangs heavy with resignation. Her hand falls from the card as she retreats. "Others who did not shrink from me before do, now. I merely thought...you never recoiled from me even at my worst. But I know what I have embraced goes far beyond what most could condone. I could never expect of you—"

"Eris, do you think that I am—afraid of, or—repulsed," she lets the word fall off her tongue like vomit. "By—this? By you?"

"You have every right to be."

Whatever Ikora had been feeling before, this is far worse. "Eris, no. No..." Ikora puts her card down on the Lectern’s table without even looking at it and reaches for the hand Eris has withdrawn. So gently, she cups those slack fingers in her own palms, as if they were burned and in need of bandaging. "That's not it at all. Please don't think so little of me."

"I don't. I have always thought most highly of you. Therefore, I should expect you to eschew...this."

Ikora sighs. "I may have reservations about the high risks of your strategy, Eris, but that doesn't mean I'm going to abandon you. I won’t listen to you speak of yourself this way." Then again, can she truly blame Eris for expecting more of the same pattern? "I know that my actions in the past have given you reason to expect such disregard. And for that, Eris...I'm sorry."

Eris stands silent for a moment. "That is kind of you to say." Her tone is smooth with sincerity, yet relatively unaffected. What she leaves unspoken sours the air between them like the obscuring cloud of a Wizard's poison curse. Her hand twitches in Ikora's as if to draw away. Ikora wraps her fingers more firmly about hers, but not so tightly that Eris cannot escape.

Desperate not to let any more of her actions drive Eris further away, Ikora speaks before she even knows what she intends to say, only that she means it.

"Will you transform for me?"

Silence rings. Standing perfectly still, Eris stares at her. "Why?" Minimal emotion inflects her voice, neither reluctant nor eager, but more simply curious than anything else.

Ikora chooses her next words very carefully.

"I wish to bring my actions into harmony with what I speak." Her heart is pounding like a premonition of battle, except for the fact that Ikora is afraid.

For a long time, Eris merely watches her. Then, in a strange, delicate voice, she says: "Yes. Then I shall."

A chill like undiffused static runs down Ikora's back, and it is not unpleasant. A gleam of blue catches the corner of her eye among the green chiaroscuro of the Athenaeum. The card she had cast aside lies face-up on the red velvet tablecloth, showing jagged curves that branch off a whirl of crackling Arc energy. She had drawn Liminal.

The spiking electric potential between them reaches a height that makes her skin prickle. For the first time, Ikora thinks she may finally understand the beauty, the glorious inevitability, encapsulated in the prayer and invocation of Aiat.