Chapter Text
Harrow, I tried to behave myself. Honestly. It might not seem that way when you wake up, but I swear I did at least try. Anyway, not that I don’t appreciate the save, but if you didn’t want me using your body for the type of things Gideon Nav does for fun, you probably shouldn’t have rescued my soul and glued it to yourself in the first place.
When you awoke, it was like watching a frozen corpse rise from the end of an eternity in slumber. It took time to thaw. First, you took stock of yourself, no doubt wondering why your head felt like an axe had been driven through your frontal lobe and embedded in your cerebellum. You pushed the covers off your face. You moved at a glacial pace, and since I was along for the ride in the back of your head I could tell you were trying not to make any sudden moves. Just thinking, let alone moving your hands, was painful enough.
You gripped your face between your palms, the coolness of your hands a relief against your skin, which was like a pointed little furnace, and let out a pained breath.
“Nav. What contemptible activities have you subjected me to?” you groaned.
I couldn’t answer, of course, but if I could, I’d have told you I’d been living it up, and that you should be grateful, really, for me getting you out there and making new friends. Instead the only reply you got was the sound of your heartbeat pulsing through your head, each throb a torturous stab of agony. Your ears were ringing, too (the music had been loud). Even the sound of your own breathing registered as distant and vague.
Eventually you scrunched open your eyelids. The ambient lighting in your cramped, undecorated quarters was identical to that found in any of the other crew quarters aboard the Akira, your assigned Cohort battlecruiser. Your peripheral vision caught the edge of my empty, disused bunk – oh, how you had whined and whined when we were assigned quarters together. The LED strips recessed into the bulkheads glowed a harsh white that felt like hot knives where it met the back of your retinas. It was actually almost completely dark in your room; the lights were at their lowest setting. You were just really hung over.
My bad.
After a myriad spent re-learning to think, you sat up and hoisted yourself onto shaky feet and trembling knees. In a fuggy shuffle, you crossed from your cot to open the door on the little cubicle that was the head.
“I feel… sluggish. I can’t- my extremities are not…” you trailed off, peering down at your feet, wrapped in sleek leather boots, which you gently shook. First your left foot, then your right. “You’ve injured me, Nav. This is nerve damage! Curse the stars, you imbecile! Obviously you have trained too hard, or you have been sparring again – something I expressly forbade you from doing with my body!”
I thought it was pretty obvious what I’d been doing, but then I remembered you’re a sheltered little Ninth nunlet, a gothic bone witch, a devout oblate of the Locked Tomb. Of course you’d never been drunk in your life.
You stepped inside to inspect yourself in the mirror above the sink and your eyes went wide.
“Griddle!!”
Were I not already dead, were my own body not torn to pieces and strewn across a barren planet lightyears from here by Blood of Eden operatives, I would have died anyway from laughter. I’d certainly have been comatose within seconds. My sides! They would have departed my rib cage, taken flight, and left for orbit around a distant star. I wish you could have heard my laughter. You’d have turned my bones into a frame for the tapestry you’d make from my flesh. You’d have made a skeleton construct so colossal and angry it could have punted me to a different universe.
I couldn’t, though, so you just fumed in silence for a moment, unsure what to do, unsure what to think. You gestured the lights on and blinked in the brightness, furrowing your brow as it played prettily off the glitter that subtly adorned your eyelids.
You see, Corona had joined me for drinks the previous night while I was in control of your body. In a moment of pure evil, I had agreed to let her wipe your face clean of the Merciless Penitent skull paint you had selected that morning and instead give you a makeover.
You looked beautiful, Harrow. Your hair was its usual short bob of messy scrunge the colour of coal, but it was pinned to one side, resting just beyond the arch of your brow in a way that framed the perfect structure of your cheeks. Your eyes were shadowed subtly in bronze which shimmered, thanks to the glitter (I know you’ll kill me for that), and your lips were more full and voluptuous than they’d ever been thanks to a sultry blood-red lipstick which, in my opinion, was totally your style. I’d left in your bone spacers and assorted studs that adorned your ears, and you still had the choker of fangs and phalanges about your neck.
Coupled with a frankly artistic layering of foundation, blush, and highlight that made you look slender and lithe, you had been completely transformed.
I’d actually been quite drunk by the time this conspiracy had unfolded, and I’d only had a few short moments to appreciate Corona’s work via the tiny, dented mirror she had in her makeup kit. Now, sober(ish) and with a proper reflection before me, I was breathless. I was frozen. Had I the ability to speak, I’d have been lost for words (although, you’d have told me, “Griddle, the day you don’t have something to say is the day Dominicus turns into butter and we all become popcorn.”).
I realised you were staring. I was definitely staring. Your heart rate had increased. Adrenaline was coursing through your veins and a feeling of warmth had ignited within the depths of your flesh. At first, I thought it was shame, or anger, or simply shock, but then you turned your head to the side. Your eyes were fixed on the way your skin glimmered and blushed as the light from the panel caressed you with your movements. You turned your head the other way, eyes following the bow of your lips, which you ever so gently puckered. The corners of your mouth lifted just slightly.
This would have been an enormously entertaining revelation for me – Harrow feeling pretty! – except that I was still, internally at least, cacking myself because you had yet to notice the greater of my crimes.
The dress you wore hugged your form. You had carefully not registered this fact the moment you realised that There Had Been Shenanigans, even though you felt exposed and lewd, and your arms were cold because it had no sleeves, something you were utterly unaccustomed to.
Your eyes eventually complied with your subconscious and took a look at your left arm, which had been gently stinging since you awoke.
Your lips parted and you froze.
“Nav. Griddle. What have you done to me?” you screeched, voice edging further into unhinged octaves with each syllable.
Your hands were suddenly in your hair, and you were breathing hard. You drew long, shaky breaths that betrayed your rage, and you clenched your hands into fists so hard your scalp stung. Bobby pins went everywhere (Corona would be furious). Even through your makeup I could make out a twitch below your eye and the redness rising in your face.
You turned abruptly away from your reflection.
“This is not happening,” you whispered. You measured three long breaths, urging yourself to calm and your vision to stop swimming, and eventually turned back to see if you had imagined it.
Despite your hopefulness, your entire arm was still entwined in an intricate and very large tattoo of two skeletons, one wearing a shining gold cape, adorned with a giant sword across its back and a lopsided jaw wide in a toothy grin, doing the dirty bone dance with another scraggly little skeleton which was on all fours, a black Ninth robe hiked irreverently up around its scapulae. Other smaller bones lay scattered around them while a number of grinning skulls watched this act of smut take place.
I thought it was absolutely brilliant and since bones are totally your thing how is bones boning a step too far? Regardless of my drunken brilliance, you made a disgusted noise and let your head fall back in frustration.
“Griddle,” you said, having reached a finality. “You are never using my body ever. Again. You oaf. You cretin. You utter moron!”
You glared daggers at your arm, twisting your measly excuse for a bicep around to inspect my handy-work for another long moment, then stomped out of the head muttering curses. You searched your quarters, eventually fishing a pen from a drawer, and dropped yourself into the seat in front of your desk. You snatched a used sheet of flimsy off a pile of paperwork and flipped it over. Placing the pen beside it, you closed your eyes and exhaled slowly before speaking:
“I am going to turn over control of my body. You are going to explain to me exactly what has transpired. Then you will return control to me. I swear upon the Locked Tomb that if you play any games right now, I will pull you from my mind. I will eviscerate your soul, and I will laugh as I cast each pathetic, depraved piece into Dominicus one at a time. Do not test me, Griddle.”
After a moment’s trepidation, you switched from driver to passenger, and as I slipped into your body like hand into glove, my laughter took corporeal form. Your stern, pinched face split into a massive, lopsided grin and I belched forth great booms of guttural sound that sounded totally wrong coming from your sour, pointy features.
I wish you could have seen how gorgeous you looked with a smile on your face. You refused to let me leave you a video recording though, and whatever theorems you had used to anchor my soul to you didn’t work the same for both of us. While in the back seat, I could either fall asleep at will until you were done being in control, or shadow your every move: see what you saw, feel what you felt. When you went under however, you went to the River. You called it a bubble, but you described it as a library, an atrium, a park, a street, a conservatory, a café, a desert, a waterfall, a tomb. Wherever you felt like going, you could create a limited facsimile of a world and go there, for a short time.
Where you went this time, I don’t know, but I bet bulk cash it was a gallery of Gideon statues, each posed in ways which undoubtedly made me look fabulous, each accompanied by a different tool with which to smash it into a thousand tiny pieces. I bet you loved it there. I bet you wondered why you hadn’t thought to conjure up such a place sooner, and henceforth vowed to oft return.
Regardless, I was sitting at your desk, scolded and alone, awaiting the wrath of my shadowy warrior nunlet while I thought up how best to explain a night I barely remembered.
I wrote, still chuckling:
“My caliginous cenobite, my lady of darkness, my tenebrous vestal, please forgive me, for I have sinned. Corona can hold her booze far better than you and is a bad influence, and while you would never rise to such juvenile provocation, I was in charge of your body at the time and am easily led. Surely, you knew that I was like this before you let me hitchhike on your brain.
“This inevitability led to my agreeing to going along with Corona, Cam, and JM to get completely awesome tattoos. You should go see them at once to see what they got, because honestly I can’t remember. I’m actually a bit shocked that you’re upset, considering how much you love bones. I could have gotten naked ladies, you know, but since bones are, like, your whole life, I combined your love of bones with my love of boning and swords and came up with something I thought we could both appreciate.
“Anyway, you look AH-MAZING, really, you’re totally stunning in that getup, Harrow. I hope you’re not mad for too long. Lots of love, Griddle xox
“PS. I’m sorry about your robes. The gang came back to your quarters to play some poker and Ianthe was here, and I’m pretty sure I saw her leave with some of them. Don’t ask me what she was doing with them, that girl has some weird kinks… for a necromancer.”
I made sure to sign off with Griddle even though I hated that nickname because I thought it might appease you just a little. As I relinquished your body, which felt how I imagine it would feel to fall backwards through your miserable wardrobe filled with black robes and shadows, I realised how foolish I’d been and considered that perhaps I should have spaced the makeover and the tattoo out over a few weekends to dilute the intensity of your fury. Alas, hindsight is always 20/20.
While I mused on my decision making, you snatched up my letter. I could tell you were still pissed (probably because even in your River bubble, your noodle arms lacked the muscle to smash my fabulous statues), because the hand you held the flimsy with clenched into a fist while your eyes scanned my writing, and you made a horrid grinding noise with your teeth. But also, you said through grit teeth:
“Griddle, you have abused my hospitality long enough. When we return to the front line, you’re going in the first body I find. I don’t care if it’s decrepit and covered in boils. I don’t care if it’s so bloated from gluttony you require lifting equipment to move. I don’t care if it’s a scrawny, shrivelled wraith unable to ever lift a sword. You are getting out of my head.”
If I had a throat, I’d have gulped.
You stood so suddenly we almost passed out and stomped over to the wardrobe. You threw open the door and sucked a breath in through your teeth.
For a long moment you shut your eyes and held the bridge of your nose, grinding your teeth and squeezing your other hand into a fist.
“Of course my clothes are gone. All of them. My paints, my veils, everything.”
Shit. Fucking Ianthe. Suddenly I wasn’t finding the whole scene all that funny anymore. Harrow, I swear I didn’t know she was going to take your paints.
You sighed and returned to the mirror, your deep frown and twitching brow ruining an otherwise perfect reflection. You picked up your packet of makeup wipes, but glared at it for a long moment before slamming it back onto the bench.
“If I remove this makeup, I’ll appear even more ridiculous than I already do, gallivanting about a Cohort battlecruiser in this obscene excuse for clothing. It’s morning, if I’m—if I’m dishevelled, people will… draw assumptions.” You said this deadpan, your voice an expression of defeat. You were actually trembling. You met your eyes (my eyes?) for a drawn out moment.
You continued softly, “Never in my life have I been so humiliated, Gideon.” Shit, you called me Gideon. This was serious. “Never have I faced strangers without my face properly presented in the tradition of a Black Vestal. Never have I so wantonly exposed my flesh, nor flaunted it in such a puritanical way. You are not from the Ninth, and I know you do not know this, so allow me to spell it out in way even you can understand:
“There is no insult, no humiliation, nor no disgrace that can shame me more than to strip my beliefs from me and parade me about for entertainment. Since joining the Cohort, I have heard many whispered remarks, been the subject of many unabashed stares, and been kept at arms’ length by my co-workers due to my Ninth origins. Thank you, Gideon Nav, for doing far worse to me in a single night than I could have ever imagined.”
Your eyes stung and the moistness blurred your vision, but you stared me down. I didn’t look away – I couldn’t look away.
You stepped briskly over to the hatch, took a deep breath, and thumbed the panel to open it. Cool air and white light washed over you. You straightened your spine and left your quarters.
The corridors you stalked through were featureless metal bulkheads with hatches every few metres on both sides for crew quarters. You turned towards the elevators and two of said crew stepped out wearing their on-duty uniforms.
“Ninth?” said the one on the left, mouth agape.
I felt you tense so hard you were at risk of snapping in half. You moved as though you intended to pass, but in their stunned silence, the two officers were blocking the way. Belatedly you realised they were the two staffers who ran the cafeteria and served you breakfast every morning.
“That’s Lieutenant to you. Now step aside,” you snapped, levelling a glare on them so cold it could freeze a star.
“Oh, of course, sir. Sorry, sir…”
Their stares bored holes into your back as you swiftly made your way to the elevators and stabbed the call button with a bony digit. The whispers carried.
“-can’t be her, she’s not, you know-”
“-an’t believe it. I heard-”
“-but she’s the one who-”
“-with Sergeant Nav, their souls are-”
Your face was burning, despite the cold biting your exposed arms and making you shiver. You shifted closer to the elevator door, trying to obscure your face and your new tattoo.
A ding sounded and you gratefully tucked yourself into the elevator and pounded a knuckle against the button for Ianthe’s deck.
You stormed towards her quarters, corralling your anger into a storm that promised violence and I admit, I was a little worried right now. I wish I could have grabbed your arm and said “Hey, Harrow, maybe let’s take five to chill?”
Your anger all but dissipated when you heard voices and laughter. Oh, right – Ianthe’s quarters were on the starboard wing, yours were on the port side. The two wings were separated by a common area, which you’d have to walk through to get to hers.
You slowed to a stop and clenched your fists. Your face was radiant with embarrassment. You leaned one hand against the wall, muttering curses and steeling your nerves.
Just go back to your quarters, Harrow. Send Ianthe a message over the comm and tell her to bring your shit back.
You lifted your chin, forced your mouth into the smug rictus of Ninth superiority I was so used to seeing, and strode into the common area.
The place was a hive of activity. The night shift had just ended, so there was a pool game in progress, a gaggle of technicians were nerding out about the latest engine tech over by the coffee machines, a squadron of droppers (that’s what I do!) were making a din watching sports reels on the holo, and everywhere in between were off-duty crew grabbing a snack or some breakfast and catching up for a chat.
You hated all of it, so you swept through the room like an angry, black storm cloud.
The noise died before you’d even crossed the threshold. You were suddenly aware of the squeak your boots made on the rubber, which was impossibly loud. Every set of eyes turned in your direction. The grunts even muted the holo.
Your blood rushed in your ears, and your legs felt like rubber. You stared straight ahead, willing yourself not to stumble. Crew were standing in the way, and you had to weave between them. The whispers started up en-masse.
(“Is that the Ninth?”)
(“What is she wearing?”)
(“Forget the dress, get a load of that ink!”)
(“Dude, she’s actually, like, hot.”)
You ignored them and pushed through the crowd.
“Harrowhark?”
You stopped dead as a hand reached out to grab your arm. You instinctively hissed with pain as their fingertips dug into your freshly tattooed bicep.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” They loosened their grip and you snatched your arm away. “Hey, are you okay?”
You finally met the eyes of the person who was speaking, and were taken aback by the brilliance of them; a startling blue, like deep ocean pools.
“Dulcinea Septimus,” you managed to say. The Seventh House heir was much like yourself, in a way. She had pissed off every one of her House’s leaders signing up for the Cohort. Your cheeks burned with shame and you realised you were breathing in short, shallow gasps. Dulcinea’s eyebrow crooked in concern.
“I’m – I’m fine. Excuse me,” you turned on your heel and stepped away, crashing face-first into an officer who was a giant slab of muscle. You shoved past him and the crowd parted just enough for you to escape into the adjoining corridor.
(“Protesilaus, don’t be so clumsy,” you heard behind you.)
You barely managed not to break into a full-blown sprint. The moment you were out of sight you slackened, the massive tension you had been holding dropping all at once. You collapsed against a hatch, breathing in great, heaving gasps. Tears streamed down your cheeks, wetting the neck of your dress. Shit, Harrow, you were having an actual panic attack and all I could do was watch it happen.
Eventually your heart stopped trying to beat its way out of your chest and you were able to begin gathering your courage to confront Ianthe.
Before you got the chance, the hatch you’d been leaning against opened and you fell backwards onto a pair of feet.
“Oh. Hi, Harry,” Ianthe said from above, eyes bright with glee.