Solo Log: Uncontrolled Fires

**Day 1, Year 1 After The End**

Marcel dismisses them immediately after hearing about Dreues, and though she’s quick to grab her things she stops in what used to be her own office and begins stripping her filthy constabulary uniform, first the jacket and then her practical pants and blouse, shakes dust from her hair. She digs out a plain shift and the overalls she’s not worn in months, wraps a scarf around her hair and then her warmest cloak over her shoulders and head before stuffing everything back into her haversack and heading for the door. She just doesn’t have *time*, to be recognized in the street as one of the Knights of Risur or as a member of the King’s new court. Dark as night or not, she can't risk it. Sticking her hands into her pockets and walking with her head down, she manages to make it through most of the Central District without incident.

Then she sees the fires.

Hoya knew about them before, from reports at the constabulary. Seeing them is something else entirely, and the anxiety coiled in her chest unspools into genuine worry. The smoke is chokingly thick, the smell of ash overwhelming, and she tucks her face further and tries to close her ears to the sounds of the living and the dead mourning. By the time she reaches the street her own apartment is on, Hoya’s physically wrapped her hands over her ears, wide eyes searching for a familiar face in the throngs of people scrambling to safety.

The building–her building–is burning, flame twisting around the only place she’d ever called home, fire licking through the windows of her apartment and *where is she*? Stay calm. Breathe. Hoya tries to remind herself that panic won’t help her here, but it’s growing harder to wrangle her nerves as the last eternity presses feverishly in, as their lack of downtime coalesces into a single pinprick of a single thought: *where is she where is she where is she where is–*

Someone grabs her, hands larger than her shoulders as they bodily pull her away and to the side of the street where several families huddle around a manageable fire. He’s shouting at first, and then shaking her, and it takes Hoya several more seconds to realize it’s the father of the family that lives next door. “Oi, will you listen to me?! Snap out of it!”

“Let me,” a gentler voice answers, to her right, and a cool hand finds her wrist where she belatedly realizes her hands are still pressed over her ears. The relative stranger uses his grip on Hoya to seat her on the cobblestone path before turning back to his own family, exchanging a quick glance with the redhead similarly seated on the curb. She nods, once, a silent dismissal.

“You’ve been missing for so long,” it’s too much like learning how to operate this mechanical wonder all over again, limbs uncooperative and heavy, as Xambria wraps her arms around Hoya’s thin shoulders and pulls her close. Though she can’t cry, emotion chokes her just the same. “We were starting to…”

Wrapped tight, the medium begins to quake with sobs, tiny hands gripping her blouse tightly and burrowing as close as she can get. Xambria shifts, giving the other several minutes to cry before she smoothes an unsteady hand over her wife’s back, trying to quiet the sobs. “Hoya, you have to breathe.”

From her place buried into her wife’s chest, the gnome starts to talk, unsteady and frantic. “Th-they made Marcel K-King–”

“I know.”

“And–and they m-manged to do what they were going to do to the p-planes, everything’s sh-shifted and nothing w-works the way it did b-before–”

“I know, Hoya–”

“And R-Roland tricked Delft, and Serena and C-Carlao and D-Dima, and they were–and I t-tried, b-but–”

“Hoya, please–”

“B-but when I t-tried to get Carlao out of the circle, vines gr-grabbed him and–and then Dima–” she hiccups, a shaking breath in, and shakes her head once to stop the thought. “And the Voice of Rot wanted us to b-be ‘busy’–and we were stuck, we were *stuck* in the Dreaming, Xambria, we c-couldn’t find any way t-to–and we had to get back to tell everyone things but–but–,” she gasps another heaving breath, shaking with the adrenalin of leftover panic. It isn’t long before she’s dissolved into hysterics in earnest, not able to make a sound beyond the suffocating tears.

There’s nothing to do but wait, and waiting is a skill Xambria has crafted over the last several weeks; she holds her wife and rocks and murmurs quiet reassurances for as long as it takes for her to settle. And she does, eventually, if one could call collapsing into her arms of exhaustion ‘settling’.

“Something happened to Dreues,” Hoya finally manages, her voice weak. “At the same time the planes were shifting. I–if something happened to magic, and something happened to Dreues–”

“You worried something might have happened to me,” Xambria breathes, her tone one of reluctant understanding. “I’m fine, Hoya. Tired, but not hurt.”

Hoya shifts wearily so she can survey the other herself. Her hands still shake with fine tremors, from exhaustion or anxiety or both, and she reaches for the burned hair along the side of Xambria's face, brows furrowed. "Not true," she murmurs tiredly. "Y'moving slow, talking slow. And you got b-burned."

This is an accurate description of the archaeologist's current status. Beyond the uncooperative limbs it feels as though her mind is caught in a fog, sluggish and distant. It's how she'd been caught in the flames to begin with: ordinarily much more attentive of her surroundings, Xambria hadn't realized the building was in flames until a neighbor was pounding on their door. In truth, she's lucky it was just a bit of hair and clothing that was burned.

This isn't as important as the gnome currently curled up in her lap though, physically and emotionally spent and freshly returned from being presumed dead. Xambria brushes her fingers through Hoya's curls, musing at how her hair has grown just past her shoulders. Was it that long when they'd left? She can't remember.

"*I'm* fine," she insists, firmly. This time when Hoya tries to shift and sit back she holds her down, not with any real force but enough to keep her still. "*You* need rest."

"I figured out how to cast magic…it's much harder, but I can. I wanted to be sure you were okay, I had to check on you first…but I have to go see Marcel and Dreues."

"No, Hoya. You need to rest," she sweeps a loose curl from her face and combs her fingers through her hair, feeling the gnome melt into the touch. Her wife may be stubborn but Xambria has learned ways to circumvent that stubborn streak and this is one of the most reliable. Even as Hoya begins mumbling further protests, she's sinking into her side, eyes heavy. "Not for long, I know. At least enough to get your head straight."

Her eyes have slid closed, furrowed brow finally easing, as Xambria wraps her cloak more snugly around them. "Not for long," she slurs sleepily, already halfway gone. "Y'promise."

"I promise. You'll be able to think much better once you've gotten some sleep," she soothes, sliding until they lean against an old iron streetlamp still unlit. It's dark, but the glow of distant fire casts enough light that Xambria can watch as Hoya finally drops off.

"Just stay with me for a little while."

**Day 2, Year 1 ATE**

She wakes up slowly to a gently-glowing sky and little scrabbly fingers digging in her hair. Maple has found her second-favorite spot and is currently nestled atop her head, picking at curls to burrow herself further and purring gently against her skull. Around her, Hoya feels the warmth of her own cloak and another tucked tight to her sides. Beneath her right ear is the steady thrumming of the water-operated battery that keeps her wife alive. She allows herself to bask in the comfort, earned like nothing else she has *ever* earned, for another sixty seconds.

"Gotta go see Dreues n'Marcel," she murmurs,  just loud enough to be heard over the general chatter in the street. Maple lets out a protesting bark at the wakefulness of her living bed before continuing to chatter quietly as Hoya sits up and rubs her eyes.

Xi shifts, subtly slipping an arm over Hoya's shoulders; beneath her palm and the layers of fabric she still feels the fine tremors of exhaustion and nerves. The grip tightens, minutely so. "You barely slept an hour."

Across them, fires continue to burn. The smell of smoke has finally thinned somewhat, no longer chokingly thick, but it lingers in the air. A constant reminder of the state of Flint and her people.

"And I feel worse after sleeping. Should've just gone before."

"Yes, because collapsing in exhaustion after having a panic attack in the street isn't really what I would call *resting*," Xambria snaps, tone much harsher than she intended. "We should get you inside. Somewhere warm. Where you can actually sleep."

Sighing, Hoya scratches Maple's head before carefully scooping her from her hair. "Inside our apartment, you mean?" Cradled in both palms, she offers the small sugar glider to her wife; she can't quite bite back the frustration in her tone. "The one that burned down?"

Maple hops to Xambria's shoulder, and the archaeologist stiffens. "You know that isn't what I meant."

"What you meant, sure," she snaps, and now irritation is clear as day. "There's not time to rest anymore. They shifted the planes, and whatever they did isn't working right, isn't–it's *wrong*. Half of Flint is on fire, Dreues is unconscious, and Marcel is the King and I'm supposed to be the royal medium and I just had a nap on the street corner! I can't–there isn't–I'm in a city, I don't even *need* to sle–"

"Right, you just keep pushing yourself until you're so tired you can't even *think* and we'll see how that works for you. You definitely won't risk getting yourself hurt like that!"

From Xambria's shoulder, Maple barks in protest as the two women argue.

"There are fey titan sightings all over the country, Danoran ships occupying the bay in Flint, and *that*--" Hoya gestures frantically at the guise of whirling, starry gears in the sky, "is a sign that our planet is headed for the Gyre! There's no time to rest anymore! I shouldn't–I should have–I have to stop thinking so *small*!"

A pair of hands grab her shoulders, tight, and shake her just slightly; only then does Hoya realize how fast she's breathing, feel the quick gasps of air and the stinging tears in her eyes. Xambria tugs her close, pressing a hand behind her head, hiding her face in her chest.

"I know. I–of *course* I know," she murmurs quietly, her grip around the gnome bordering on uncomfortably tight. The archaeologist hesitates, just a few seconds. "We don't have to argue. I'll…come with you, if that's all right."

It's an unusual deference from the redhead, a measure of reserved behavior Hoya is unfamiliar with. Xambria has always been the more confident of them both; outspoken, brave, even reckless could all be used to describe her behavior and this uncertainty is unlike her.

But she's always been empathetic to a fault, and as she calms understanding clocks into place. *Don't leave me alone* would have been easier, clearer, than an argument in the street, but none could really fault them for a brief marital spat considering the circumstances. She breathes in, deep, followed by a carefully measured exhale. The tears don't vanish, but she trusts her voice enough at least.

"I'd like that," Hoya answers, speaking into the fabric of her wife's shirt.

"Good." Xambria brushes her fingers through messy curls, loosens her grip just slightly, shifts to give more of a hug than protectively grabbing at her. Maple chatters, scrambles over Xambria's arm, and settles once again in her green nest of hair.Just...sit with me a little while, before we go."

She remembers abruptly that until just a few hours ago, they had thought she was dead. That they all were dead, missing for months and unreachable by any attempt at communication. It's silly, to be so surprised. Hoya nods, pressing herself more comfortably into Xambria's side.

"We can do that. Just a few more minutes."