Warning: This fic makes no sense.
Détente
It brings me peace.
Festering here.
She is dead. She can taste the stench. Thick, it inundates her senses and seeps through her flesh. She curses (the abiding, artless trickster who dreams up this miasma) loud enough to wake invisible monsters.
It's not heaven, nor is it hell. And since purgatory doesn't exist (heretic) she must be—
"So you woke up. How disappointing."
Lan Fan draws her sword and readies herself for sabotage, scanning the vicinity for a point of exploitation. Assassination and aggression.
"Oh, stop being so dramatic."
"Show yourself!" Lan Fan commands, braver and steadier than she really is.
"Hey, calm down, kid. Don't want to lose an eye now, do you? Or an arm."
"Who're you?"
Lust smiles. "Your new friend."
With an elegant flourish, she extends her hand. Hesitant, Lan Fan (eyes quickly darting around) takes it.
...
Bitter, the water tastes like salted acid rinsed over copper. A bloodbath, blooded trough. Lemonade, Lust calls it jokingly. But it's the only liquid for miles (millennia) around. And so, imprisoning her breath, Lan Fan swallows.
Shudders. Waits as it courses through her, filtering into her core.
It is worse the second time around.
Next to her, Lust laughs in that awful, scornful, exquisite way of hers. And promptly—almost gentle—she pries the cup from rigid fingers. In one gulp, she downs the thing.
Lust doesn't like to lose, even now. Here.
...
One day, fed up, Lan Fan asks her companion—friend, former foe, something or other—where they are.
"I don't know," is the reply.
Frustrated, Lan Fan resists the urge to scream. Her throat is dry and gritty. She simply hasn't got the energy left.
Besides, there's no one to hear her (to rescue). Only Lust.
...
It seems like they've been wandering around, winding back and forth, this-way-that, for an eternity already. And there's no termination in sight to this emptiness.
By the fourth week (Lan Fan stops counting) their routine has fallen into a derelict comfort. They wake up (whenever that is) and start walking. Continuing. Unremitting. Forever and ever and—
"I'm tired of this," Lan Fan cries. "We're only walking in circles! Tell me the truth, there's no way out, is there?"
Sighing, Lust strokes the girl's hair (is careful to sheathe her claws). She produces a red ribbon to tie up Lan Fan's hair. To rule over her unruly strands. "I told you already. I don't know."
"How long have you been here? Before I arrived, I mean."
Lust thinks hard, tracing back the span of an impossible number. "A long time," she answers at last.
There's no beginning or end in death.
...
A storm is brewing. Shivering, Lan Fan feels the sizzle in the air. Coarse and brittle, her skin crawls, knotting into spasms that barely contain her sore muscles. She is covered in sweat and sand and stars exploding.
Soon, they are drenched. Gripping onto Lust, she races for shelter.
Soon, Lan Fan is running a fever. She is hot, moaning about an emperor and honor.
Slowly, Lust pours the poisoned water into her mouth. In her heart, she hopes Lan Fan will die because then she'll be free.
But on the third day, the fever breaks. And Lust pretends that she's happy.
...
"Hey, Lust. I've been wanting to ask you something."
"Speak."
"Well…are you—were you—the homunculus who killed that man?"
"Yes."
"Oh. That's what I thought."
"Why?"
"Nothing. Just that, I—forget it."
It's not important anymore.
She could've instigated a genocide for all that matters now.
...
It is not surrender. It is not forgiveness.
Gasping, Lan Fan tosses her head, is desperate. Is not retreating (never). Is merely—
She loses the thought as Lust kisses her again. Brutal, this time.
...
In the morning, she will be gone.
Lan Fan knows this and so does Lust. But neither are willing to comment on it, that—the inevitable. And so, lacing their fingers together, she patiently waits for Lust to instill her with the rot of absolution.
In the morning, Lan Fan opens her eyes and sees Ling standing over her.
He hugs her close, relieved and teary. Coughing, she withdraws from him. Her head is pounding. A limp ribbon half-holding up her messy hair. She winces as her neck twitches. Delicately, she traces a thin scar at the base of her throat, just below the jugular.
In the morning, Lust wakes up alone.
Blood on her claws.