The tunnels are wide enough now, at least, that Treila can pull Voyne’s corpse alongside her as she descends. It is not easy, and in the dark, she feels too dearly how Voyne’s skin is only the temperature of the air, how strange and slack her limbs are. She will stiffen soon enough in the rigor of death, and she will be even harder to move, so Treila does not allow herself to falter. She gives herself no breaks. She pulls and tugs and when Voyne’s armor catches on the rock, Treila squirms between the body and the stone to get to the blockage, to maneuver them both to safety.

Safety. Treila wants to laugh. Treila is laughing by the time she reaches the cavern.

It’s still lit by Phosyne’s candle, flickering bravely against the black, and it gives her enough light to find a good spot to lay out Voyne’s body. It’s a flat stretch just beside the glowing little creek, far from the crack in the wall at the other end. Between the golden light of the candle and the blue cast of the stream, Voyne’s face is a sculpted death mask.

She looks peaceful, somehow. Even where the stone has scraped her forehead raw.

Treila settles a hand on Voyne’s chest. Her fingertips can just reach the blood-sticky skin of her throat, and after a moment’s resistance, Treila gives in. Feels her skin simply to feel it, instead of to perform a task. She is so very solid. So very real. Not a ghost, not a fragment of Treila’s past.

When Treila bows her head, she feels a surge of longing. It is clear, and piercing, and it cuts through everything else inside of her.

This is not how Voyne was meant to die. This is not how Treila wanted to be reunited with her.

Treila wanted Voyne in her glory days, after she had liberated Carcabonne and come to Treila’s home to recover. She wanted the woman, strong and beautiful and noble, who had indulged Treila’s desires to learn swordplay, who had allowed Treila to fawn and flirt. A kindness to Voyne’s host; generosity to his daughter. Treila has always wanted that Voyne precisely for her impossibility. To find her would have been to go back before that long winter. Back before Voyne had sliced Treila’s father’s head off.

Before Treila had learned what suffering was.

She curls her fingers around the hilt and wishes she had Phosyne’s power to remove the blade. She longs for the safety of the knife in her hand once more.

But no, that’s not right. She doesn’t want to hold it; she wants it gone.