Kiriona Gaia, like Gideon Nav before her, is a creature of surprisingly strict routine.
At around seven in the morning, a light in one of the tower rooms switches on. At eleven, it switches off. Whoever lives there never opens the curtains, but occasionally, one can make out the shadow of a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a sloppy haircut. She sometimes lingers behind the curtain, as if thinking about opening it.
She never does.
Kiriona knows Paul is out there. He's stayed put, so far, but there's no guarantee that will continue. After a day or so of this, Kiriona stops leaving her room. She's got her sword and her magazines and a thoroughly comfortable bed. What more could she want? It's not like she needs to go eat. This way, she doesn't have to risk running into him downstairs.
Time passes. Kiriona grows bored, and restless, but not lonely. She was always lonely. That's nothing new.
A horse has appeared, emerged from the hole in her chest, and it paces around her room. There are flesh-colored scars running down its coat, as if Kiriona's fractured ribs have scraped it clean off, and the horse remains little more than insubstantial smoke, trying and failing to coalesce. Kiriona hates looking at it, so she sends it away. Outside, where it belongs.
The mare approaches the maker. She is tentative, frightened, flickering in and out of existence. She is a sentinel, a messenger, a --
"Come on. Give up already, and get the fuck outta here."
Kiriona steps out the front door. Here, by the light of the fire, she is terrible and handsome and perfectly, awfully dead. Her coat has been replaced by one that is equally fine. Atop her head sits a wreath made of ferns. She knows to stay away from the flames, this time.
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At around seven in the morning, a light in one of the tower rooms switches on. At eleven, it switches off. Whoever lives there never opens the curtains, but occasionally, one can make out the shadow of a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a sloppy haircut. She sometimes lingers behind the curtain, as if thinking about opening it.
She never does.
Kiriona knows Paul is out there. He's stayed put, so far, but there's no guarantee that will continue. After a day or so of this, Kiriona stops leaving her room. She's got her sword and her magazines and a thoroughly comfortable bed. What more could she want? It's not like she needs to go eat. This way, she doesn't have to risk running into him downstairs.
Time passes. Kiriona grows bored, and restless, but not lonely. She was always lonely. That's nothing new.
A horse has appeared, emerged from the hole in her chest, and it paces around her room. There are flesh-colored scars running down its coat, as if Kiriona's fractured ribs have scraped it clean off, and the horse remains little more than insubstantial smoke, trying and failing to coalesce. Kiriona hates looking at it, so she sends it away. Outside, where it belongs.
The mare approaches the maker. She is tentative, frightened, flickering in and out of existence. She is a sentinel, a messenger, a --
"Come on. Give up already, and get the fuck outta here."
Kiriona steps out the front door. Here, by the light of the fire, she is terrible and handsome and perfectly, awfully dead. Her coat has been replaced by one that is equally fine. Atop her head sits a wreath made of ferns. She knows to stay away from the flames, this time.