come again

---

It's the slightest tease, the strangest bit of anti-overconfidence exchanged from each side.

Nia, gifted with Mythra's first voluntary transformation. Mythra, gifted with the precious knowledge of Nia's truest nature.

Obviously. That's the basis, obviously.

And then...they don't ever seem to get more.

It's always Pyra, Pyra, Pyra, isn't it?

Oh, sorry Pyra, not to be nasty upon your name, but it's the nasty fate of those who get hung up on things never to be allowed to get hung up on each other.

Always wondering about others' fates, and hiding their own because it couldn't possibly matter.

Couldn't? Could it? What good could it do?

Not more in Indol. Not nothing in Elpys. A fantasyland fable set to table in Leftheria.

"Don't you ever wonder..."

"What would have happened if you'd woken up sooner?"

Nia pouts. "Not fair to yourself. Too literal."

But Mythra's literal like that. Mythra's blunt. Mythra's up-front, down-low, call it like you see it.

And Mythra sees Nia, all of Nia, the fears and the fury, but can't find the courage to tell her so.

Isn't that so horrible? Isn't that so quaint?

I'm wondering all the time, thinks Mythra, fists curling as they are so terribly wont to do. Nia is so obvious to me, so present. And yet...inaccessible.

I want more. I feel more. I need more.

But Nia won't look at herself. Mythra has seen every scrap of her own ugliness and turned her cheek to the side. Nia won't even nudge the eyeballs over.

I want to say something beautiful about you. About us.

Nia swears. It's beautiful. Mythra trips, and it's graceful.

And the thing is, I like whatever's wrong with you so ever-freakin' much more than I can get along with my own mispieces.

Fill up my cup with your own overspill. Pour out of yourself and let me pour in.

Aren't light and water so wonderfully clear? Aren't they so mystifyingly transparent?

Don't they just mix like holy oil?