[ About a week later, the thing that used to be Gideon's body begins to rot. It happens unnaturally quickly, as if making up for lost time.
The next day, Gideon stands in the entrance to the dojo, an angel by her side. Her hair is a mess, her clothes rumpled and ill-fitting, and it definitely looks like she hasn't slept in a week, but she is, without a doubt, alive. Some tension in her shoulders unwinds, as if relieved to finally have made it to a place of safety.
(And this is a safe place, isn't it? It has to be. There's nowhere else she can think of to go.)
Gideon doesn't expect to find the cots and crates, set up as if a whole group (a House?) of people have moved in. She spots her sword, and a tentative, grateful smile threatens to break across her face. ]
Hey. [ Gideon says to whoever approaches, trying to keep her voice level. There are still patches of muscle and bone where her skin has yet to heal, and the chill and numbness have yet to fully go away, but still. She feels warmer than she has in days. ] Sorry I'm late. I know, I know, I didn't bring coffee or anything, don't hate me.
for harrow.
Gideon has been rehearsing this conversation in her head over and over, all through the journey from Gaze to the dojo, although part of her feels like she's been practicing it for longer. Maybe she has, in one way or another. It's been long overdue.
She approaches Harrow when she's relatively secluded, which, thankfully, happens often. Gideon takes a seat beside her necromancer, without warning or introduction, and resists the urge to pull her knees up to her chest. Her heart races like she's about to fight a Lyctor, or a seagull, or God. Which is so stupid, she thinks, because she's not about to do any of that. She just has to talk. That's it.
Part of her wishes she was here to fight. She's fought Harrow so many times that it's become the easiest, most second-nature thing in the world. A good fight might even calm her down. But they're well past that, aren't they? And they have been for months.
Instead, she swallows, picking at a ripped spot in her pants. "Um." Wow! Great start, Griddle, you're killing this. "Hey. Can we talk?"
i have seen the writing on the wall (open + closed; one week later)
for harrow.