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It’s really not an exaggeration: Casmyn is going to burst at the seams.
Or implode. Or disintegrate, splinter, crumble right into dust and blow away on the breeze. The early twilight bears down on her, oppressively quiet—lying still on her bedroll is nothing short of torment. Every time she convinces herself to close her eyes, thoughts and visions seethe in the empty dark.
The caravan, gutted. Everything they need (they need everything!) thrown out, rendering them unprepared. Doomed. The others, they wouldn’t do it on purpose, they just wouldn’t know. They don’t understand. Dahm’s grains, Laen’s sap, the stockpile of softwood bound three blocks to a bundle. That’s why Casmyn should be helping them. The grains, the sap, the softwood. Not lying here restless and useless with this oily balm smeared across her forehead and wrists. It isn’t working. The band tried so hard for her—Brynn tried so hard for her—but it wasn’t enough.
Grains, sap, softwood. She needs to say them again, even if it’s just in her head. It’s important. Grains, sap, softwood. Her throat itches, burns. She’s exhausted. It’s her fault the balm isn’t working and she’ll be to blame when everything else goes wrong, too. Grains, sap, softwood. Mouths the words without sound. Hands clench at the blanket beneath her like ships caught on a storm-tossed sea, desperate for a mooring. Her lungs hitch out of control. Grains, sap, softwood.
Grains, sap, softwood.
Grains, sap, softwood—
The frustration, the sharp-fanged fear, they crash in and overwhelm. Casmyn is too weak to fight it.
Her eyes come open.
Brynn is still right there by her side, bathed in the muted glow that blossoms only in the moments between sunlight and starlight, smiling gently down at her. So steady. So sure. So capable. All standards Casmyn holds herself to but has utterly failed to reach.
(Pathetic. Incompetent. Freak. Pathetic. Incompetent. Freak. Not enough. Never enough. She has to make up for what she is. What kind of child terrifies her own mother?)
And maybe Brynn’s constant composure alone should make her feel even worse—her own collapse’s diametric contrast—but somehow, it doesn’t.
“How about we breathe together?” Brynn says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Just try it with me.”
The suggestion riles a reflex: an irritable refusal. Casmyn knows how to breathe. Been doing it since she was born. And if taking a few breaths could solve anything, their caravan wouldn’t be in the state it’s come to, and she wouldn’t be clinging to sense by a fraying thread.
But she bites the protest back. Because Brynn is looking at her in that soft, hopeful way that cuts straight to Casmyn’s center—the way that’s begun to lay roots in her ribs. She’s only hoping to help. And despite the gnawing hesitance, Casmyn agreed to let her.
No—Casmyn wants to let her. There’s a distinction there, one that frightens her. To want something is vulnerable. To want something is dangerous. It’s a risk of further failure. She can want this for all she’s worth and still never find it in the end. Just drown in it all the same.
But the least she can do is try. For Brynn’s sake, if not her own. Show gratitude. Take her diligence and reflect it back—accept the care she embodies and conveys so effortlessly.
With a trembling sigh and a tight croak in her throat, she relents. “Fine.”
The heartened gleam that brightens Brynn’s eyes makes the concession worth it. No further prelude needed. She keeps her gaze fixed, intent enough to leave Casmyn feeling stripped bare in every way that matters, as she makes a show of one deep breath.
Casmyn counts its duration in heartbeats. Slow in. Her chest and belly expand beneath her cuirass, only just. Slow out. Even-keeled.
Then she waits.
And even though the voice hasn’t stopped deriding her, Casmyn braces against it and follows in Brynn’s wake. Breathes in, counting heartbeats, until her lungs are full. Then lets all the air out at the same tempo.
There’s this fleeting instant right before she runs empty where her head swims lighter and the voice quiets to a dull roar. A split second of reprieve. It’s not much, but it’s more of a break than she’s gotten in a while. Mildly surprised, she hiccups as her chest rebounds.
Another voice interrupts: Brynn’s. It comes low, tender, breathy. One step past a whisper. The smoothness of her tone could tame the wickedest tangles. “How do you feel?”
“Like now I have one more thing to worry about getting wrong,” Casmyn answers honestly, after a moment. “Concentrating this hard won’t lull me to sleep. Counting is my problem, Brynn.”
A little bit petulant, maybe. Luckily Brynn takes it in stride.
“See, the trick is,” she says with a teasing smirk, “you have to try it more than just once before you write it off entirely.”
Meeting fire with fire. Casmyn can respect that.
What she doesn’t expect, though, is for Brynn to start shedding her armor. Which she does. Deft fingers make quick, practiced work of so many buckles and straps as she removes each piece, one by one.
“Wait, what—Brynn, what are you doing?”
Eyes catch in the dwindling light. Brynn’s still smiling, crooked and nonchalant, as she works at her chest plate. “Well, I can’t really lie down wearing my cuirass, can I? Not comfortably, at least.”
Gods, all that’s missing is a damned wink. Casmyn’s heart bounds into her throat, unruly thing. Every other part of her is frozen in place. “What do you mean, lie down?”
A blink later she’s too distracted to demand an answer. Brynn’s already dressed down to the garments she wears beneath her panoply: beige breeches, cropped at the ankle, and a sleeveless cotton shirt. It’s not often she’s seen without armor. Since she took on point duties, she’s always sprinting into and bursting back out of the camp’s loomgate like an overexcited hurricane, her mantle whipping out behind her.
And it’s not like Casmyn’s been prowling around, looking for chances to see her without it. Not on purpose. Definitely not. Her sense of dignity is too great for that.
Right now, though—right now not looking isn't really an option.
The bulk of Brynn’s gear belies her actual shape. Casmyn knows she’s strong—her athletics, viewed through the scry, make that clear—but knowing it conceptually is different from seeing it in the flesh. She’s slender and lean-muscled, scrappy and streamlined. The sinew lines of her shoulders and biceps are etched deep, defined in dusky shadow. It’s—profoundly attractive. Unreasonably attractive. Attractive enough to quiet even Ira, for the briefest moment. Casmyn’s cheeks flare with heat as she tries to keep herself from gawking.
Brynn doesn’t seem to notice. After she nudges her discarded armor and mantle into a not-so-orderly pile, she asks, “Do you still trust me?”
Casmyn could tell her that, lately, she hasn’t trusted much else.
She nods instead.
“Alright then,” Brynn says. “Make room.”
It’s a relief (and—only slightly—a disappointment) that Casmyn’s bedroll is wide enough for two. Carefully, Brynn moves in and lies down on the empty half, facing her. The change of proximity registers as a low swoop in Casmyn’s stomach, a throb in her knuckles.
This is the closest they’ve ever been to one another. If Casmyn were to nod again, their foreheads would touch. She’d barely have to reach to brush those wayward strands of dark hair away from her eyes. The scant space between their bodies thrums with—raw comfort. With potential and promise held on tenterhooks. It’s a strange sensation, but not at all unpleasant. Not at all unwelcome.
That part is new.
As Brynn’s face eclipses her vision, its finer details leap out, clamoring for admiration: the high arch of her cheekbones, the clean symmetry of her paint, the scar nicked through her right eyebrow. By the look of it alone, Casmyn can tell it’s an old one. Must carry a story. One she thinks she’d like to hear sometime, if Brynn would be willing to share it.
“Don’t focus on the breathing.” Brynn eases off the volume to match the distance. The murmury sound of her voice throngs up and down Casmyn’s backbone. Can’t help but be caught by the motion of her lips. “Focus on me.”
A shock of honesty, held inside: right now, with Brynn’s eyes aligned securely with hers, there’s nowhere else Casmyn would rather look.
Brynn takes her silence as indication of her attention. Which it is. Mostly.
“When I was little, I had a hard time with my temper,” she says, trailing Casmyn along with every word. “I’d get so angry. At—well, anything I didn’t like. Other kids not playing how I wanted to play, my parents telling me no, you get it. And when you’re that small you can’t just channel all of your indignant rage into smacking hostile arks and mean beasts with a sword, like I can now.”
“Is that why you’re so enthusiastic about it, then?”
“Only sometimes.” This time, Brynn does wink. Damn her. “But back then, all of that anger would build and build until I lost control, and nothing could bring me back down. Happened more than a few times over the years. After one particularly bad episode, I told my parents that whenever I got angry like that, it felt like I was filling up with flames.”
In that instant, it’s impossible for Casmyn not to imagine Brynn’s five-year-old self beside her own. One scarlet-faced and furious as a wildfire blaze—the other sitting rigid at her school desk, fighting back hours of terrified tears, pleading with herself to just be good.
“From then on, anytime my dad would see the heat rising, he'd get down on my level—just like this—hold my shoulders, and tell me to feel the fire and let it out with my breath. Then we’d breathe, slow and together, for as long as it took me to calm down. It worked more often than it didn’t. And eventually, I got pretty good at doing it on my own.” An encouraging nod. “So that’s what we’re going to do now. No thinking about it. No counting seconds. None of that matters. Just keep your eyes on mine and breathe like I do. Just—be. Are you ready to try it?”
“Yeah,” Casmyn says, throat thick. For once no anxious fuss bubbles up to counter her first instinct. It’s easier to feel braver than she is when Brynn’s eyes, always alight with conviction, are trained safely on her. “I’m—ready.”
The first few breaths are admittedly pretty awkward—the intensity of the staring, the awareness of the intensity of the staring. Before long, though, the rhythm becomes natural. It sweeps Casmyn up and leads her as it goes. And Casmyn—she trusts, and lets it happen.
Slowly the waystation begins to fade. Everything else fades with it, besides her and Brynn lying close but not touching, the latch of their gaze, the current of calm running between them. The rare quiet in Casmyn’s mind. Brynn’s steadfast, genuine care, teeming with safety offered freely. Casmyn wants to deserve all of it. Maybe she can. Maybe she does.
The cadence glides along. Casmyn’s eyelids grow heavy—her limbs, weightless and slack. Feels like she’s back on a ship, being rocked by gentle waves, the sound of their breath the sound of rolling breakers. Soothing warmth tingles on her wrists, her forehead. Scent of pine and leather and clove enfolds her—balm, or Brynn? Can’t tell. Nice either way. Tugs at something buried deep inside, draws it loose.
Brynn hasn’t glanced off. Not even once. Just keeps breathing at pace, soft gaze riveted and undaunted.
An anchor. A mooring in the storm.
There’s vulnerability in that, and even more in the slow spiral toward sleep. Oria had asked Brynn to stay with her until she fell asleep, but it’s not the act of falling asleep that scares her. It’s what will—could, only could—happen after she does. Just like that, stripped of all pretense and all resistance, she’s that scared little girl again.
She’s always been that scared little girl, terrified of losing everyone and being left alone.
“Stay with me?” She asks it before she realizes she’s asking, in the smallest and most desperately hopeful of voices. “Please.”
Without deliberation, without wariness, Brynn brings a cool bare hand to Casmyn’s face. Her thumb strokes idly along the arc of her cheek.
“I’m not going anywhere, Cas,” she promises, whisper-hoarse. “There’s nowhere else I need to be. Nowhere else I want to be.”
It’s achingly genuine, carefully sincere. Enough of both for Casmyn to really believe it.
In the quiet that follows, moonlight grazes Brynn’s clear eyes. Casmyn has never noticed the freckles of darker brown strewn throughout her amber irises. They look like constellations. Like star charts, waiting to be read.
And she doesn’t have the chance to start counting them before she drifts off and away.
No dreams. No visions. No voices of scorn or doom. Not the goddess Ira’s, nor her mother’s, nor her own.
For the first time in too long, Casmyn sleeps well and comes awake feeling so, so warm—warm like the handful of clear summer days Donbrennig sees during a lucky year. With her eyes closed, she can tell the day hasn’t broken yet, so she keeps them that way. Doesn’t want to unravel herself from the haze of drowsiness just yet.
Usually rest is breakneck to bear. Time spent lazing is time squandered when there are always a thousand other things to be done.
But right now, it’s—nice. Yeah. Nice. To lie here tangled with the soft, comforting source of heat resting beside her, letting it seep into and through her. Aimless, unhurried. For once it doesn’t fill her with guilty shame. Might not last long, but it’s worth something.
Grounded, enfolded in congruence, she clings to it with radical abandon.
Bit by bit the world around her weaves itself back into substance. In her half-slumber, it takes longer to recognize presence beyond her own borders. It takes longer to realize that the solid heat she’s clutching is body heat, and that the gentle, even motion rolling beneath her cheek is the rise and fall of a rib cage.
…oh.
Letting out an incoherent mumble, Brynn stirs.
Casmyn nearly chokes on the convulsive lurch of her heart.
Her eyes snap open, thunderstruck by an onrush of lucidity. Their sleep-warm bodies are entwined in the middle of the bedroll—she’s nestled snug against Brynn’s side, head resting in the crook of her shoulder. Tucked right up underneath her perfect gods-damned chin, like she belongs there. Like the space has been shaped to cradle her close. Her arm and leg are both splayed across Brynn’s supine form, bracketing her in. Resonant comfort blooms in every place they’re touching, aligned at the seams.
Casmyn is disoriented. Casmyn is embarrassed and unworthy.
Casmyn is—safe, regardless. And that feeling of safety keeps her from scrambling away.
Swept up in its reckless gravity, she risks lifting her head to catch a tentative glimpse of Brynn’s face in the emerging predawn glow. Her expression, mere inches away, is the picture of tranquility: brow soft, mouth askew. Peaceful despite all the uncertainty—peaceful without her mantle. Her bravery and brightness are drawn from within.
Another version of Casmyn might envy her bitterly for that. Maybe, in the beginning, this version of Casmyn did. But knowing her has changed that in a way that now feels inevitable. Now Casmyn only wants more. So much to learn from her, to learn about her. So much to reach for and try with all her might to deserve.
Those roots in her chest grow a little deeper.
Casmyn wants—
If she was still asleep, and this was a very nice and very selfish dream, this is the part where she’d brush the hair back from Brynn’s face, close the distance, and kiss her awake.
But she’s not dreaming. And Brynn’s eyes just fluttered open.
Everything goes stock-still. Caught, pulse hammering, Casmyn freezes at the sight of drowsy amber. She took it too far. She probably crossed so many boundaries—gods, practically crawling on top of her in her sleep—and now their good terms are going to wither into abject awkwardness. There it is: more penance. Comeuppance. The good always gets balanced away.
As Brynn’s gaze settles into focus, Casmyn winces, bracing for what she deserves.
Brynn—smiles at her. The most genuine, most open, sweetest smile Casmyn has ever been offered. It shines through all the fluster and sets Casmyn’s heart ablaze. Disarms her. Leaves her incandescent.
“Hey,” Brynn says, her voice rasped with sleep.
Oh, gods, wait, Casmyn is still on top of her. Untangling herself with haste, she sits upright, cheeks burning. “Brynn. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Brynn cuts her off with a shake of her head. “Cas, it’s fine. Really. I didn’t mind. It just kind of—happened. And the last thing I wanted to do was wake you. Then I couldn't help but fall asleep, too.” Her smile turns into a crooked smirk. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell the rest of the band you’re a big cuddler.”
Casmyn’s flush deepens. They both fell asleep, and nothing horrible happened. The sun is getting ready to rise. “I would—very much appreciate that,” she mutters.
“Secret’s safe with me.” Brynn sits up, then, and levels Casmyn with a look of earnest import, eyes searching her face. “Look. I’m—not going to ask you how you’re feeling. Not right this instant, at least. This was the first tiny step. It might take a while to really feel better, and I don’t want to put any pressure on the process.”
That—admittedly, that surprises Casmyn. But it makes sense. And it holds more meaning than she realized it would. Nothing is solved, and everything is fragile. Already that voice is starting to intrude again, rearing back to lash and howl. Reliance still feels unaccustomed. But maybe—with a promise of patience—she can make an exception for Brynn. For all of them. Even if it hurts. It’s a nice thought, not having to resign herself to loneliness. “I—yeah. Yeah. Okay.”
“But I’m proud of you, Cas.” Another broad smile proves it beyond any shade of doubt. “I hope you’re proud, too. This was brave. And—it means a lot that you trusted me. With everything.”
“I really do,” Casmyn all but whispers, raw honesty scraping her hollow. She’s not proud of herself, not yet. But maybe someday she will be.
For a long moment, neither speaks. Shoulder to shoulder, eye to eye, words run empty. The space between them keeps on realigning. Casmyn breathes in, savoring the scent of pine and leather, and gives herself permission to hope.
“Sunup soon,” Brynn says, finally, nodding towards the new day’s light breaking through the miasma of the Veil. “Well. I’m guessing you’d like to check on the caravan.”
Casmyn flashes her a guilty, sheepish grimace. “Would it be so bad if I said yes?”
“Not at all. I’ll go with you.” Brynn stands. “I want to see the great job I’m sure Oria and the others did.”
“Alright, fine, but—” Ah, the voice. The impulsive doubt crashing in from all sides. This is where the hard work starts. “How are you so sure? You weren’t there.”
“I just am.” Grinning, she offers Casmyn her hand. “Come on.”
Choosing to trust—Brynn, and herself—Casmyn reaches up and lets Brynn pull her to her feet.
The road is long, the voice is loud, the Enclave is still seething around them, and the only way out is to go through.
Casmyn won’t have to walk through any of it alone.