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The house is excited, the curtains have whipped themselves open and the door is flung wide. Raven must be back! Istus should think it unfair that it loved Raven better, afterall, Istus is the one who is tied to it. She understands though. She can’t think of many things she loves as much as Raven.
Istus wafts outside, hand half way raised for her usual wave, lazy and slow, there’s no rush here. She squints at the approaching rider. Raven’s slumped, barely holding the reins, her hat is squint and one saddle bag is hanging open and empty. Istus, even with her eyes as poor as they are, can see that she’s covered in mud and blood and her leg isn’t sitting right in the stirrup. Istus rushes to the boundary.
“What happened?” leaves her mouth at the same time as Raven says, “don’t worry.” She’d be more likely to listen if she couldn’t hear the tightness in the words. Raven knows Istus well, knows she’s prone to fretting, doesn’t want her to be anxious, but how can she do anything but worry to see Raven this way?
“I’ll just get inside.” Raven winces as she eases herself down from Hel’s back. She hits the ground heavier than usual, dips her hat low to try and hide the wince. Istus wishes so dearly that she could pick her up and carry her to the kitchen, scoop her into her arms and ease her pain and let her know she is there, she’ll always be there for her. It doesn’t work like that. Especially not with the sun bleeding into her.
Hel noses Raven gently and she pets his neck. “Thank you for bringing me home, friend.” He nudges her once more before he trots away and fades. Istus turns her attention back to Raven. There’s no easy choice of words. She wants to apologise for everything she isn’t; knows Raven will hate it if she tries to.
“Don’t dawdle, love.” She tries to keep the fear from her voice, hopes the disappointment doesn’t leak through the lightness of her tone. She wants more than anything to take Raven’s hand, hold her, keep her safe… It feels wrong to leave, but in here she can get the water warmed while Raven makes her way up the steps. There’s nothing she can do to help outside. Inside is better, the house will listen. The house will help. They’ll look after Raven together.
The kettle is whistling by the time she arrives in the kitchen, hopefully the handle will let her pour into the large bowl already laid on the counter top. Istus can hear Raven sucking in terse breaths which mean she’s in more pain than even she is used to. It’s not that this doesn’t happen sometimes, Istus knows her work is dangerous, but Raven isn’t getting any younger and the necromancers aren’t getting any gentler. The kettle rattles and Istus sucks in some breaths of her own, or, well, she goes through the motions. Worry won't help now, she needs to be calm for Raven.
"They're dealt with." Raven says as she arrives in the kitchen. Istus wishes it were true. This them, sure, they’re gone, Raven won, but there’s always going to be more.
There’s a selfish part of her, stuffed deep down and hidden beneath the soil of her heart that wishes Raven would just stay, let Istus hold her safe, keep all the badness of the world at bay. A life lived just them and the house, the occasional visitors. A life on the sun porch rocking gently in the moonglow. Raven shouldn't have to shoulder the weight of death. It’s an injustice, it’s an indignity, and it’s their reality. She knows Raven wouldn’t change it even if she could, she’s braver than Istus is. There’s lots she would change, but she shouldn’t so she won’t.
Raven eases herself into a sturdy wooden chair and can't hide the flinch as she rearranges her leg. Istus’ impulse is to reach for her, but her hand stays firm to her side. What can her lack of touch offer? She can feel the energy the house is sending to the wound, Raven is already healing, it'll just take time. Time time time. Istus is sick of the way it trickles when Raven is gone, flashes when she’s there, drags when there’s pain to remedy. It’s a tricksome thief.
"I think the kettle will let me pour." She's right. Steam rushes up the side of the bowl as the water mingles with the garlic and thyme. Istus gingerly pushes it along the countertop. She's lost grip enough times to know better than to try and carry it outright.
"Are you seasoning me? I'm going to taste delicious." Raven's smile is tight but Istus’ laugh is full and wild. She wouldn’t care if Raven tasted of nothing but blood and dirt, if she could, she’d kiss every inch of her and savour it.
“You’re terrible, wonderful, terrible. Now, let me see if I can dip the cloth.” She can, thank the fates, so the ritual begins. She starts with the forehead, always, ‘the top down approach,’ Raven calls it. It’s common sense as far as Istus is concerned, the muck runs down; there’s no point starting in the middle. She cups Raven’s cheek with her hand, not quite touching, but the gesture holding her in place nonetheless.
Raven hisses softly as Istus eases the cloth across her hairline, grit and blood streaks from her tight braids down her face. “I know, love, I’m sorry, but I can’t leave it.” Istus knows what infection can do - there’s a reason she learned her herbs, a reason the house grows so many. The discomfort now is worth it considering what could otherwise come later.
“I know, I know.” Raven grumbles but there’s no heat in it. She’s always grumpy about being taken care of, not used to a body which doesn’t do everything she asks of it and not patient about it either. She still closes her eyes obediently, allows Istus to pass the cloth across them softly. Istus doesn’t know if she feels the whispered kisses on either cheek but she places them there reverently anyway.
The swish and rinse of the cloth mingles with the ticking of the grandfather clock, at some point a fire crackles to life in the kitchen hearth. Raven tells her it smells like stew, one is no doubt simmering in the cauldron hanging there. She pushes some gratitude towards the house.
Istus manages to undo the first button, but the others escape her hands. “Can you manage them?” She tries not to let the sadness bleed through her voice. The first button worked, why couldn’t they all work? Raven is hurt and Istus was here safe. She couldn’t do anything to stop it, and now she can’t even remove a simple shirt to clean away the aftermath.
Raven snorts. “If you want a strip tease you just have to ask.” Istus swats at her arm ineffectually. This woman was impossible, incorrigible, and she loved her with every bone she didn’t have. “Oooh, do that again, it felt great! Like swimming in the ice pond.”
Istus laughs softly. Raven hates swimming, passionately, hates the feel of the weeds on her skin and the fish bumping her legs. Istus passes her hand slowly over the worst of the still swelling bruise anyway, smiles to herself as she sees Raven relax some. She revels in the feeling of her chill against Raven’s warmth, usually she just guilty saps it (the nights are always cold here) but today she’s not a problem, not just an issue for Raven to work around. Today she’s a solution.
They settle back comfortably into the swish of the clock, the pour of the kettle, the tick of the clock, and the crackle of fire.
"It was bad." Raven says eventually, lets the words twist in the air. Istus waits, knows Raven will say more in her own time, knows pushing might spook her to silence. "Would I…" she tails off. Istus whispers a kiss to her shoulder, holds a hand above Raven's, wishes she could run a thumb across her knuckles, and waits. "...would I come back here?"
Oh.
Fates. Istus doesn't want to think about it. Raven's alive, she's meant to be alive, warm and whole and vibrant. She wouldn't suit anything else. Istus doesn’t want to consider the possibility of her being anything else. Not yet, not now… but Raven needs an answer.
"I hope so." She says, honestly. Because she does, she hopes that in a far off future Raven does come back… but not soon, not for long years.
"You haven't peeked?" Raven's voice is even, too calm, too measured. In that moment Istus hates whoever scared Raven this badly. She hates them with the dust and the grit and the gravel of hard worn roads, with storms and flames and violent rains, with every inch of her that isn’t and is all at once. There’s not usually room in her heart for anger or violence, but today there is. Today someone broke the most precious thing she’s ever treasured.
"No." It's a simple answer, too short, but how can she explain that she doesn't dare poke at that particular future. Doesn't think she can bear to know this is only temporary, that this, them, is just an ephemeral whiff of a life she can’t live, a death Raven won’t have.
Raven reaches out for Istus’ hand. They don’t quite meet. “I want to.” A whisper, a prayer.
Istus wants it too. “You’re always welcome here.” Istus hopes she knows that. “You’re always wanted.”
–
Later that night, wind faded and stars bright, two chairs creak on the sun porch. Moonlight bathes the place where lovers’ fingers can interlace.