Chapter 40: Grey Threads

Elara left the bathing room wrapped in a towel and closed the door behind her. Minutes passed. When Alvia still had not emerged, she knocked lightly.

“Are you coming?”

A muffled voice answered from inside. “There are no clean clothes…”

Elara blinked. “Clean clothes? Ah—I completely forgot. Wait there.”

She went to the bedroom and dug through the old wooden chest. Most of what remained from the war years was practical and worn. She found two pairs of simple bikini bottoms, a single soft white shirt that had once belonged to someone taller, and nothing that resembled a proper breastband. With a small shrug she carried the items back and opened the door just enough to set them on the stool inside.

“This is all there was. We’ll wash our old clothes tonight and dry them by the fire by morning.”

Alvia’s reply was tight. “Fine. Just… go. I’ll get dressed.”

Elara returned to the bedroom, still wearing only the bikini bottoms and the oversized white shirt. The fabric was thin and a little translucent. She noticed a small shelf of books against the wall and felt a sudden, unexpected warmth in her chest.

“Books… there were books here too, weren’t there? Those were good days.”

She pulled one free at random, climbed onto the wide bed, and settled against the pillows, already half-lost in the first page.

A sharp voice carried from the bathing room.

“Elaraaa!”

“What is it now?” she called back without looking up.

“You forgot a breastband!”

“There isn’t one. Just manage.”

“How is there not one?!”

“Because there isn’t. Stop complaining and come out before you catch cold.”

Inside the bathing room Alvia muttered a string of frustrated sounds. She dried herself, stared at the offered clothes, and finally pulled them on. The white shirt was soft but almost sheer; the peaks of her breasts were clearly visible against the fabric. She stood for a long moment, arms crossed tightly over her chest, face burning.

Is she doing this on purpose? she wondered. How am I supposed to walk out like this?

She forced herself through the door.

The main room and bedroom were essentially one open space. Elara was already stretched out on the bed, golden hair still damp, white shirt slipping off one shoulder, completely absorbed in the book. Alvia crossed to the old armchair by the cold fireplace and sat carefully, trying to make herself as small as possible.

Elara glanced up after a while.

“Hey. Why are you sitting over there looking miserable? Come here. Take a book. There are some really good ones.”

Alvia wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “I’ll sleep here tonight.”

Elara closed the book with a soft thud. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re too tall for that chair. You’ll wake up with a broken back. The bed is big enough for two. Come on.”

Alvia’s long ears flushed a deep pink. She kept her eyes on the floor.

“I’m basically half-naked.”

Elara’s mouth curved in a small, tired smile. “So am I. What’s your point?”

Alvia finally looked up, expression caught between accusation and embarrassment.

“Just tell me the truth. Did you do this on purpose?”

Elara set the book aside, swung her legs off the bed, and walked over until she stood directly in front of the chair. She looked down at Alvia with mild confusion.

“Do what on purpose? What exactly is your problem?”

Alvia couldn’t meet her eyes. “I don’t have a problem. You’re just… too comfortable. And it’s making me uncomfortable.”

Elara let out a long breath, then sat on the arm of the chair.

“Look. Clothes are limited. The ones we washed are still wet by the fire. I didn’t dress you like this on purpose. My intentions aren’t bad.”

Alvia’s voice came out small and tangled. “R-right. Okay. I… believe you. I think.”

Elara gave a soft, teasing huff. “‘I think’? And just now you were mixing up your words completely.”

She started to stand, lost her balance on the narrow chair arm, and tipped forward. Alvia’s hands shot out on pure instinct, catching her by the waist. For a moment they were frozen—faces close, breath shared, Alvia’s fingers pressed against the thin fabric of the shirt. Neither of them moved.

“…Are you all right?” Alvia whispered. “You’re not hurt?”

Elara pushed herself upright a little too quickly, ears pink. “I’m fine. Really. Come on. Let’s just rest.”

She climbed back onto the bed, retrieved her book, and opened it again as if nothing had happened.

“Where was I… ah, here.”

Alvia hesitated a long time before finally following. She lay down on the far edge of the mattress, stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling. Elara read with quiet concentration, the soft glow of the single night crystal painting her face in warm light.

After a while Alvia spoke again, voice sleepy and plaintive.

“Hey. Aren’t we going to sleep? I’m exhausted.”

“You sleep. I’m reading.”

“I can’t sleep with the light on.”

“It’s only a tiny night crystal. It won’t bother you.”

“It bothers me. Turn it off.”

Elara turned her head, mildly annoyed. “No.”

Alvia made a frustrated sound, lifted one hand, and snuffed the crystal with a small pulse of magic. Darkness settled over the bed.

Elara sat up at once. “What do you think you’re doing? I told you I was reading—”

Alvia plucked the book gently from her hands.

“We need to rest. You’re still carrying too much. Sleep.”

Elara opened her mouth to argue, then simply lay back down with a defeated sigh. Silence stretched. After a minute she shifted restlessly.

“Hey, Alvia.”

“What now?”

“Can I have your pillow? I… I can’t sleep without something to hold.”

Alvia rolled onto her side to face her. “Then use your own pillow.”

“I can’t sleep without a pillow under my head either.”

Alvia’s voice turned dry. “So I’m supposed to sleep without one, is that it, Lady Hero?”

She turned her back deliberately. “Fine. Sleep.”

Elara lay still for a few more seconds, looking at Alvia’s long back and the pale hair spilled across the mattress. Then she scooted closer, slipped one arm around Alvia’s waist, and settled her forehead against the space between her shoulder blades.

“There,” she murmured, already half-gone. “You’re a very tall, very warm pillow. This works.”

Alvia went completely rigid. Her ears burned. Elara’s arm rested loosely across her stomach, breath already evening out against her spine. She waited for another comment, another tease.

None came.

“…Elara?”

Only soft, steady breathing answered her.

Alvia stared into the dark, heart hammering so hard she was certain the other woman must feel it. She whispered under her breath, half accusing, half helpless:

“You can’t fall asleep that fast. Are you doing this on purpose? Are you making fun of me?”

No answer.

Eventually the warmth and the exhaustion won. Alvia closed her eyes, still held, and let sleep take her.

—

Four hours later, Elara opened her eyes to grey.

There was no sky, no ground, only an endless, soft expanse of ash-colored mist. She stood barefoot in it, wearing the same white shirt. Far ahead, a figure sat on nothing, calmly drawing a long-handled brush through cascading grey hair.

Elara’s breath caught.

“You’re the thing inside me.”

The figure paused mid-stroke. She turned her head slowly. The face was breathtaking—pale, ageless, with eyes like polished gold and a mouth that held the ghost of a smile. She lifted one finger and wagged it gently.

“One. Tut-tut. I am not a power inside you. I am myself. Separate.”

Elara took a hesitant step closer. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I? You’re in my dream.”

The Goddess of Ashes set the brush down on the invisible surface beside her. Her voice was mild, almost conversational.

“Not entirely a dream. You can still feel things here, after all.”

Elara swallowed. “Then… what are you? What’s your name?”

The Goddess rose in one fluid motion. Grey hair spilled around her like living smoke. She smiled, small and knowing.

“I am the Goddess of Ashes.”

Elara’s voice cracked. “Wh-what? You’re… a goddess? My goddess?”

“Yes.” The Goddess tilted her head, mildly puzzled by the reaction. “Why so surprised? There are many goddesses. Peh. You too.” She glanced around as if searching for something. “Now… what was I doing?”

“You were brushing your hair,” Elara managed.

The golden eyes settled on her again. The Goddess walked forward without hurry until she stood close enough to touch. Then her arms came around Elara from behind, gentle but inescapable, and the brush began to move through Elara’s golden hair in long, careful strokes.

Her voice was soft, almost scolding.

“You haven’t been suffering much lately.”

Elara’s eyes fluttered half-shut under the slow rhythm of the brush. She did not pull away.

“…Do you enjoy it when I suffer?”

The brush paused for a fraction of a second.

“No. Where did you get that idea?”

“Then why did you do those terrible things?”

The Goddess resumed brushing, voice light.

“I didn’t do anything. They asked for it themselves.”

Elara’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean? Are you saying I wanted to suffer all this time too?”

A quiet laugh brushed the shell of her ear. The Goddess finished the last stroke and rested her chin lightly on Elara’s shoulder.

“Your hair is done. It looks lovely.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Elara whispered.

But the grey mist was already beginning to thin at the edges, and the warm weight of Alvia’s body in the real bed was pulling her back toward ordinary sleep. The Goddess of Ashes only smiled against her skin and did not answer.