It was sudden.

One quick flick of a blade and Teresa's golden hair fanned around her face, faint smile replaced by an expression of incredible surprise.

Then Priscilla moved, faster than anything she'd ever seen, and Irene's heart leapt into her throat and hung there. She fell to her knees, eyes wide, limbs frozen. The world slowed, and Teresa's head spun obscenely through the air. Irene could make no noise, could only kneel there dumbly, ragged breaths sounding in her ears. Hers. Sophia's. Noel's. They knew there was nothing they could do now but die.

Teresa's head landed with a sickening thud. The world sped up again. Irene's heart fell into her chest and roared back to life like fire, blood beating the rhythm of Teresa's name. She had never known such agony. Her vision went white-hot, and then dark with rage.

She charged.

- - -

Irene bolted upright, gasping, lone arm wrapped tight around her chest. That dream again, almost three weeks now and every night's the same, forcing her to watch Teresa's death in excruciating detail as she slept. The realism of it was agonizing, the fear and pain of it all twisted, a heavy knot in her gut. And the guilt. The guilt was something like a wild thing, gnashing its teeth with every move she made, following her like some sinister shadow. There was no escaping it.

Irene had been complicit in the murder of the most beautiful creature she'd ever known. She'd taken that knowledge, taken it and held it close, clutching at it as if it would save her from drowning in sorrow even as it burned her. She must never forget, never forgive. She carried the memory of Teresa, and accepted that duty with the solemn dignity of the silent clergymen tasked with preserving what remained of their fallen idols. The burden was hers alone.

Some days were harder than others and nights like these were worse, when the memories overtook her and she lay for hours suffocating under the weight of her own grief. The dreams shook her, brought back the flood of emotion she had worked so hard to keep tightly bound. She clamped down on her unease, forcing it back into the depths it had risen from. The Organization would not find her here, would not find the cabin she and Teresa had used for their secret meetings. She had made sure of that.

Irene threw her legs over the edge of the bed, feet on the cool floor helping to ground her. It was only a nightmare. Teresa would be pleased that she had allowed herself to succumb to something so human. Irene allowed herself a tiny smile at that, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, lips pressed back into a thin line.

There would be no smiles anymore. She had made sure of that, too. The air felt heavy all around her, too thick to breathe. Too thick to think.

Perhaps some tea was in order. She didn't need much in the way of sustenance, but she'd learned in her time that the act of making tea was soothing. Boil the water, add the leaves. Steep. Breathe in deeply and inhale the steam. It made life easier to bear, such a simple thing. She put a pot of water over the coals left from an earlier fire, leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes.

- - -

Irene opened her eyes and blinked against the harsh daylight. So she had survived after all, her duty done. But what terrible work it had been, to destroy the sun.

Irene was no stranger to the dark, no stranger to pain. She'd been baptized in suffering, they all had, each and every one of them. Their very existence was testament to strength of will, to how much a mind could be twisted before it snapped. These were hard lives they led, and lonely ones. And hers would have been just as desolate, had it not been for Teresa.

It was with a great deal of effort that she pushed herself to her feet, slowly, careful not to tear the healing wound across her chest.

The scene was oddly peaceful. There was Noel, and next to her, Sophia. They could have been sleeping, but for the blood. And there was so much blood. They were gone. Their silly squabbles over rank meant nothing now. The world would go on as if they had never been in it. The Organization would see them replaced just as quickly as Priscilla's claws had torn through them.

Next to them, Irene knelt, and with her one hand, began to dig.

- - -

The sound of water hissing on the coals as it boiled over brought her back to the present, and Irene reached out to drag the pot from the fire. Her motions were awkward and mechanical, containing nothing of her usually fluid grace. Her stoicism warred with the ache in her heart as she added the tea leaves and waited for the water to color, waited for the steam to take on that familiar flowery scent. The one blend of leaves and blossoms that Irene loved best of all was also the one that hurt the most. It was a test, every morning when she awoke. Was she strong enough to face this daily, tangible reminder of the time they had shared?

Today Irene's self-control won out, and she deemed herself worthy of bearing the memories she kept.

Teresa had made tea here. It was the first morning they had spent alone together, having found the remote cabin on an Awakened Being hunt some months before. Teresa had commented that it looked like a lover's retreat, and those words had held such sensual promise that Irene could only stare as the other woman lifted an eyebrow in silent question. "Yes," Irene had said. Teresa had only smiled that infuriating smile, the one that said she knew what Irene would say before she'd even thought it. Irene loved that smile.

Teresa had made tea that morning, and every morning after, experimenting with the plants and berries she added until it was perfect. She did not care that she didn't need it, she'd said. She simply liked the smell, the taste, the act of making it. And then she'd smiled that smile again and Irene had forgotten all about tea, about anything other than Teresa and her powerfully soft body, limbs long and loose like something beautiful and feral.

For such a force of nature, Teresa had an oddly domestic side, Irene had found. She'd used whatever money she got from the Organization to buy dishes enough for the two of them, odd bits of furniture here and there. Irene had found it amusingly endearing, and she'd had to admit that, in spite of her disdain for human comforts, she quite enjoyed spending time with Teresa in bed. The other woman had known it, as she had known everything, and used it to her advantage as often as possible. It was not something Irene had particularly minded.

It had ended when Teresa asked her to stay. "Live with me here," she had said, and Irene's body had gone stiff, spine ramrod straight and shoulders rigid. I cannot, her body had said, and it had been more than enough answer for Teresa. Her eyes had shone sadly then, though her mouth still smiled, and Irene had wanted nothing more than to say yes. Yes to everything, yes to this cabin, yes to days spent making the bed, making tea, making love. Yes to Teresa. But she couldn't. She had her duty, her obligation. It was not for them to wish for such things, was not for them to go against their fate.

Teresa had laid a kiss, the gentlest kiss Irene had ever known, upon her brow. "Goodbye," she had said, and gone.

Irene gripped the handle of her cup tightly, and looked out the window. The sun was rising.

- - -

It took her hours.

It was routine, standard procedure for death of a teammate. Dig the grave. Bury the body. Mark the place with their sword. Custom. She buried Noel and Sophia first, taking great pains not to look in Teresa's direction. If she didn't look, it couldn't be real. Any moment now the Number One-ranked warrior would come up behind her, push her hair to the side, and kiss her neck. "Leave with me," she would say. "You're no Rabona priest. Funerals aren't for you." Teresa would switch to the other side then, trailing little bites up the long column of exposed skin there. "Leave with me," she'd say again, running a hand across Irene's stomach. Not begging, no. Teresa never begged. She commanded, and either you obeyed or you lost her. Irene had lost her. But this time she'd say yes. This time she would leave.

The fantasy held firm until Irene placed Sophia's sword in the dirt above her grave. It began to crack as she walked toward Teresa's body. When she touched the fabric covering the woman's arm, it shattered. Teresa had found a light in the darkness of their lives, had found something more than duty and killing to live for. And she had died for it.

Irene had come thinking to die by Teresa's hand, but it was Teresa who had fallen. All of them had fallen, but Irene alone had survived.

She wished she hadn't.

- - -

Irene stepped outside to greet the dawn, cup of tea cooling in her hand. She had passed the test she imposed upon herself each day, the ritual that determined the worth of her very existence. She would enjoy her drink and savor the sunrise, would watch the brilliant yellow glow set the sky ablaze. This was the nearest to prayer Irene had ever gotten, this time spent in worship of the sun. It was the loneliest time of day, but it was also the time she felt closest to the woman she had known. They had often stood like this, just outside the door, leaning against each other and taking in the view. Irene had loved the way Teresa's hair shone, white-gold and gleaming in the early morning light, loved the way those silver eyes grew dark with want, enough heat to catch her heart on fire. She had rarely seen the sunrise, had been too busy watching the beams of sunlight play across Teresa's face, casting her delicate features in high relief. It had been all Irene had ever wanted. But she had said no, and doomed them both.

They were each terribly different when they met again. She had grown sharper, more distant in the years away from Teresa's light, and Teresa had found someone else to share that light with. Irene had burned with jealousy, at first tiny tendrils of flame licking up her spine, and then an inferno, blistering in her chest like a funeral pyre. But she had cultivated cold in those years, thick walls of ice along her most tender places. Teresa would not get through.

But gotten through she had. With her blade, with her eyes, with her dangerous grace, she had cut through all of Irene's defenses. Do not take from me what light I've found. A warning. Irene could read it in the absence of her smile. It was a warning she did not heed, not until it was much too late.

There were few things she regretted as much. Nothing she regretted as much, as she stood outside their empty home and drank tea made by the wrong hand. Teresa's hand had always been all elegant lines and refined strength, like the rest of her. It wasn't just the hands Irene missed.

It wasn't until Irene was sure that impossibly lovely face would never turn her way again, that deep and lustful voice would never speak her name, that she allowed herself to fall fully into her despair. She had been on the edge, for long moments, of throwing herself beside Teresa's body in that grave she'd dug, the pain so overwhelming that she could not imagine how it was her heart kept beating. Teresa had died, and she had watched, had let it happen and done nothing, done worse than nothing. For the first time since she had received her sword, Irene had wept.

The tears had not lasted long. The apathy she had ingrained in herself had asserted its presence, her survival instinct coming back to life in the night. She had suppressed her yoki then, while trying to gain control of her tears, two different struggles with self-preservation all that held her together as she lingered by Teresa's grave and tried to will herself to leave. At long last, she had kissed the blade that served as headstone, her lips leaving a faint mark there, a lover's epitaph. And then she had gone.

Irene turned her face up, toward the first rays of the sun, just peeking over the hills, finding simple pleasure in the warm wind that caressed her face, the heated glow that kissed her lips. "Hello, Teresa," she said.

- - -

In the last of three shallow graves high up on a mountain top, Teresa of the Faint Smile opened her eyes.