☈ s u n r i s e i .
Title: Sunrise; Chapter One
Pairing: Irene // Teresa
Summary: Sometimes the sun comes back.
Rating: R
It was still dark out when Irene rose, not even the faintest blush of light beginning to appear on the horizon. That was good. She had time.
She woke early every morning, but on this day each year, Irene was up even before the first fingers of the dawn had begun to reach across the sky. She did not take the time to prepare her usual tea on these days, instead dressing as quickly as her single arm would allow, taking great care to make sure everything was properly fitted. She had purposefully purchased the most difficult outfit she could find, a garment composed almost entirely of straps and small buckles. She did them all up each day, timing herself as she did. She would not allow herself to grow weak simply because she lacked a limb.
Buckles and straps done, she sat on her bed to pull her boots on, a tedious task, but another that she demanded of herself daily. Irene had never been one to take the easy way out of anything. She slid her boots on carefully and stood, walking slowly to the plain wooden box at the foot of her bed. She knelt in front of it, head bowed, and drew the key from a pouch at her belt. It was several moments before she could will her hand to stop shaking enough to unlock it.
Though she had washed and cleaned her old warrior's uniform as best she could, Irene had not worn it since the day Teresa had died. She kept it in the box, unable to bear the sight of it for long. On this morning each year, she removed it, ran her fingers along the length of it, held it to her chest. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. The memories came flooding back.
- - -
The clashing of their swords rang in Irene's ears as they sparred on the training grounds, their movements fluid and natural as if they had been doing this for years, as if they were dancers.
Irene furrowed her brow and pressed forward. They were not dancers, they were warriors. There was no place in their world for such romantic simile. They were monsters made to fight other monsters, there was no romance in that. Only blood and death and pain.
She released the yoki in her arm, preparing to use the technique that had started some of the other trainees calling her Flash Sword Irene. If she admitted it to herself, she felt a sense of pride in her achievement. She'd heard the whispers when she walked by, the talk of how all her extra work, her long nights spent training while the others slept, had paid off. A single digit for sure, they said to each other. Maybe even Number One.
The yoki surged in her arm, and Irene kept a tight reign on her self-control as she advanced, blade blurry with her monstrous speed. The other girl let her come, looking on with a smile just shy of outright mockery. Irene's sword flashed down, quickly, a hundred cuts in the space of a second.
The match was over.
Irene found herself flat on her back, the other girl's sword at her throat. She blinked slowly, stupidly, and wondered how she had gotten there. How had this girl, who had been training for less than a year, defeated her? How was it that she knew precisely when to move, when to strike, when to block - so effortlessly? And how did she do it without releasing any of her energy? Irene had not seen anything like it in her life.
The girl stood and stuck her sword in the ground. Irene looked up at her, eyes narrowed. The girl's smile was still firmly in place, as if she taunted the world. It was almost infuriating.
Don't look so angry, she said, leaning down to offer a hand. I'm Teresa. I beat everyone.
Against all her better judgment, in spite of all her warrior's pride, Irene reached up and took Teresa's hand.
Teresa's smile widened. I think we're going to make lovely friends.
- - -
After several long minutes, Irene folded the cloth, almost reverently, and put it back. She rose and headed toward the door, picking up her sword and slinging it across her back, and pulled her cloak down from a peg by the door, the dark cloth rough against her skin. Irene had no need for luxury. Indeed, she lived with as little as she could, intentionally denying herself any comfort. Her one pleasure was the tea, and on this day she denied herself that as well. She deserved nothing good to subdue the ache that came with the breaking dawn of Teresa's death each year. Nothing rich and earthy to breathe in, nothing sweet to hold on her tongue. Denial was her atonement, inaction had been her sin. The remnants of it clung to her like smoke, impossible to wash away.
She threw the cloak around her shoulders, pulling the hood low around her face. She was reasonably certain that none of the warriors from her generation were left, but her silver eyes would be hard to miss, even to one who'd never heard of Flash Sword Irene, and she wished to take no chances. Her destination was too important for any interruptions along the way, her need to travel unnoticed was paramount. She would stick to the back roads, traveling through forests and avoiding towns. No one could see her, and she must make every effort to make this so. All her days were spent alone, but this day was spent more than alone, and less. The staccato stabs of her heartbeat on these morbid anniversaries left her near defenseless. But they brought her closer to Teresa as well, calming only when she knelt, gently, on her knees by Teresa's sword, kissing the blade and pressing her hand into the dirt as if she could force her love through the earth to make Teresa rise again.
It didn't work, of course, but she always tried.
Stepping through the door into the dark, Irene made her way to the garden. It was mostly a vegetable garden, with a few patches of flowers here and there. Teresa had started it, hoping to use the plants she grew in her new life with Irene, away from the warriors and the yoma and the Organization. It had been dead when Irene had finally returned to this place, after Teresa was gone, and she had spent many months bringing it back to life, the restoration of Teresa's tea flowers helping to dull the sharpest edges of her grief. It was these flowers she went to, picking the biggest and boldest, strong hand arranging them into a modest bouquet, bunching them together, tying them with woven blades of grass. It was delicate work, and Irene's fingers trembled as she tied. She was not an emotional woman, had never been, but had been even less so in the time since Priscilla had awakened. She'd had to close off the very deepest parts of herself, for fear that the sorrow there would one day overwhelm her. She shut her eyes tight, and clenched her hand into a fist, breathing deeply. She could do this without falling to pieces, as she did each year. But each year it was a near thing.
- - -
Irene, Teresa called from the garden, a note of pleasure in her warm, low voice. Our flowers are blooming.
Irene went to her, stood beside the other woman, whose face glowed with pleasure. Irene basked in it, the radiance that Teresa exuded, as if she were a flower herself and Teresa her sun. They're beautiful.
Teresa turned to her and smiled, mischievous gleam in her silver eyes. You aren't looking at them, she said.
And she wasn't. Irene nodded, but did not look away from Teresa's face. I suppose I find you more so. It was a quiet admission, Irene had always been reluctant to voice her feelings, but somehow this woman always managed to draw them from her anyway.
Charmer, Teresa said, raising a hand to brush against Irene's face, and Irene tilted her head as that delicate hand moved to grasp the nape of her neck and pull her close, pull her in.
Irene went willingly. She always did.
- - -
The memory had come upon her unbidden, but it served to calm her somewhat, and she was able to finish twining the tea flowers together, without her hand shaking so badly that she dropped them all and had to start again. That kind of time wasting would not do. Not today.
When she was through, Irene took a moment to look at it, pale blossoms gathered together and held in place with a band of deep green. It was not the most beautiful bouquet in the world, surely, but Teresa would have appreciated the simplicity, she knew. For all her haughty beauty and arrogance, Teresa had always found the most pleasure in the unadorned, ordinary things. Perhaps, Irene thought, that was what Teresa had found so appealing about her.
With a deep breath, Irene got to her feet. She looked to the sky, the stars beginning to fade in anticipation of the rising sun, and hung the flowers from her belt, careful to make sure the fragile petals would not be crushed during her journey. Satisfied that the bouquet would remain sufficiently protected as she traveled, Irene walked to the base of the mountain that separated her valley from the rest of the world. With the moon as her guiding light, she began to climb.
- - -
Teresa appeared suddenly in the doorway, wicked grin firmly in place. Irene, she said. Come with me.
Irene allowed herself to be led out and into the dark.
They walked together through the forest, neither saying much, content in the peaceful silence between them, though it had been months since their last meeting at the cabin. Irene had not taken the time to explore the valley as Teresa had, did not have the desire to know their surroundings beyond what she must know in order to properly defend herself. But Teresa liked to roam.
It was after an hour spent walking along a path through the woods at the floor of the valley that Teresa stopped. Close your eyes, she said, and Irene did so, slight frown creasing between her eyebrows. The frown deepened as Teresa's footsteps got farther and farther away, until Irene could no longer hear them.
Irene was beginning to wonder whether or not to go after her when she felt the other woman's yoki flare, pulsing slowly, beckoning. Irene followed.
And then Teresa was before her, armor piled around her feet, moonlight refracting off the surface of the lake behind her, casting her dips and curves into pools of shadow, the edges of her glowing softly silver. Irene's breath caught in her throat. Teresa stepped forward, slid her hands up Irene's chest, fingers working quickly over the buckles that held her armor in place. Irene stood quietly and let herself be undressed, watched the graceful movements of Teresa's shoulders, her arms, her hands, as she removed the uniform Irene wore. Teresa was, she thought, truly the most perfect being the universe had ever thought to create.
I know, Teresa said, reading the thoughts written across Irene's face. Now come with me. She took Irene's hand again, led her into the water, pulled her in until the water reached their breasts. And then she leaned forward, and bent her head down, and Irene could think no more.
- - -
Memories of her time with Teresa came quickly, a new one beginning as the last one ended, a rush of images and feelings close to bursting forth from behind the dam she had built within herself. She welcomed the distraction they provided from the shame that rose in her throat like fire, that tasted like ashes on her tongue. Where the guilt threatened to overwhelm her until she collapsed, the memories served to keep her feet pounding toward her destination.
She moved quickly through the woods, over hills and through valleys, careful to avoid any signs of civilization. Her speed and stamina had not suffered at all in her years of self-imposed isolation, and energy suppression made her nearly impossible to detect. If there were any warriors in the area, they would likely not feel her at all. Irene pulled her hood lower over her face, hiding her silver eyes in shadow, and continued to run along the mountain path. She made it to the top as the sun rose.
Irene pulled the flowers from her belt as she reached the summit. Her pace slowed, feet suddenly heavy and tired, the dull ache that was constant in her chest sprouting a sharp edge as she walked. She curled her fist around the stems she held, trying to keep her hand from shaking.
Every year, this was the hardest thing she'd ever done.
She stopped at Noel and Sophia's graves first, paying her respects to her fallen comrades. It gave her time to compose herself, to stand there next to their swords, still deep in the earth. She hadn't felt any attachment to them beyond that which she felt for every warrior of the Organization, but they had been there when Teresa died, had tried to defeat the monster that Priscilla had become. She owed them her gratitude at least.
Irene inclined her head to their swords, and then she turned, taking measured, nearly reluctant steps toward the heap of earth that marked the place she'd buried her happiness. The heap of earth, and no sword. Irene stopped. Her eyes widened. She had buried Teresa, had smoothed the soil above her body like she had smoothed the sheets of their bed. She had placed the sword as a marker, had left a kiss upon the blade as an epitaph Here lies my love, it had said. Here lies my heart. And now the sword was gone, the earth disturbed.
In the red light of dawn, Irene dropped the flowers and fell to her knees beside Teresa's empty grave.
Pairing: Irene // Teresa
Summary: Sometimes the sun comes back.
Rating: R
It was still dark out when Irene rose, not even the faintest blush of light beginning to appear on the horizon. That was good. She had time.
She woke early every morning, but on this day each year, Irene was up even before the first fingers of the dawn had begun to reach across the sky. She did not take the time to prepare her usual tea on these days, instead dressing as quickly as her single arm would allow, taking great care to make sure everything was properly fitted. She had purposefully purchased the most difficult outfit she could find, a garment composed almost entirely of straps and small buckles. She did them all up each day, timing herself as she did. She would not allow herself to grow weak simply because she lacked a limb.
Buckles and straps done, she sat on her bed to pull her boots on, a tedious task, but another that she demanded of herself daily. Irene had never been one to take the easy way out of anything. She slid her boots on carefully and stood, walking slowly to the plain wooden box at the foot of her bed. She knelt in front of it, head bowed, and drew the key from a pouch at her belt. It was several moments before she could will her hand to stop shaking enough to unlock it.
Though she had washed and cleaned her old warrior's uniform as best she could, Irene had not worn it since the day Teresa had died. She kept it in the box, unable to bear the sight of it for long. On this morning each year, she removed it, ran her fingers along the length of it, held it to her chest. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. The memories came flooding back.
- - -
The clashing of their swords rang in Irene's ears as they sparred on the training grounds, their movements fluid and natural as if they had been doing this for years, as if they were dancers.
Irene furrowed her brow and pressed forward. They were not dancers, they were warriors. There was no place in their world for such romantic simile. They were monsters made to fight other monsters, there was no romance in that. Only blood and death and pain.
She released the yoki in her arm, preparing to use the technique that had started some of the other trainees calling her Flash Sword Irene. If she admitted it to herself, she felt a sense of pride in her achievement. She'd heard the whispers when she walked by, the talk of how all her extra work, her long nights spent training while the others slept, had paid off. A single digit for sure, they said to each other. Maybe even Number One.
The yoki surged in her arm, and Irene kept a tight reign on her self-control as she advanced, blade blurry with her monstrous speed. The other girl let her come, looking on with a smile just shy of outright mockery. Irene's sword flashed down, quickly, a hundred cuts in the space of a second.
The match was over.
Irene found herself flat on her back, the other girl's sword at her throat. She blinked slowly, stupidly, and wondered how she had gotten there. How had this girl, who had been training for less than a year, defeated her? How was it that she knew precisely when to move, when to strike, when to block - so effortlessly? And how did she do it without releasing any of her energy? Irene had not seen anything like it in her life.
The girl stood and stuck her sword in the ground. Irene looked up at her, eyes narrowed. The girl's smile was still firmly in place, as if she taunted the world. It was almost infuriating.
Don't look so angry, she said, leaning down to offer a hand. I'm Teresa. I beat everyone.
Against all her better judgment, in spite of all her warrior's pride, Irene reached up and took Teresa's hand.
Teresa's smile widened. I think we're going to make lovely friends.
- - -
After several long minutes, Irene folded the cloth, almost reverently, and put it back. She rose and headed toward the door, picking up her sword and slinging it across her back, and pulled her cloak down from a peg by the door, the dark cloth rough against her skin. Irene had no need for luxury. Indeed, she lived with as little as she could, intentionally denying herself any comfort. Her one pleasure was the tea, and on this day she denied herself that as well. She deserved nothing good to subdue the ache that came with the breaking dawn of Teresa's death each year. Nothing rich and earthy to breathe in, nothing sweet to hold on her tongue. Denial was her atonement, inaction had been her sin. The remnants of it clung to her like smoke, impossible to wash away.
She threw the cloak around her shoulders, pulling the hood low around her face. She was reasonably certain that none of the warriors from her generation were left, but her silver eyes would be hard to miss, even to one who'd never heard of Flash Sword Irene, and she wished to take no chances. Her destination was too important for any interruptions along the way, her need to travel unnoticed was paramount. She would stick to the back roads, traveling through forests and avoiding towns. No one could see her, and she must make every effort to make this so. All her days were spent alone, but this day was spent more than alone, and less. The staccato stabs of her heartbeat on these morbid anniversaries left her near defenseless. But they brought her closer to Teresa as well, calming only when she knelt, gently, on her knees by Teresa's sword, kissing the blade and pressing her hand into the dirt as if she could force her love through the earth to make Teresa rise again.
It didn't work, of course, but she always tried.
Stepping through the door into the dark, Irene made her way to the garden. It was mostly a vegetable garden, with a few patches of flowers here and there. Teresa had started it, hoping to use the plants she grew in her new life with Irene, away from the warriors and the yoma and the Organization. It had been dead when Irene had finally returned to this place, after Teresa was gone, and she had spent many months bringing it back to life, the restoration of Teresa's tea flowers helping to dull the sharpest edges of her grief. It was these flowers she went to, picking the biggest and boldest, strong hand arranging them into a modest bouquet, bunching them together, tying them with woven blades of grass. It was delicate work, and Irene's fingers trembled as she tied. She was not an emotional woman, had never been, but had been even less so in the time since Priscilla had awakened. She'd had to close off the very deepest parts of herself, for fear that the sorrow there would one day overwhelm her. She shut her eyes tight, and clenched her hand into a fist, breathing deeply. She could do this without falling to pieces, as she did each year. But each year it was a near thing.
- - -
Irene, Teresa called from the garden, a note of pleasure in her warm, low voice. Our flowers are blooming.
Irene went to her, stood beside the other woman, whose face glowed with pleasure. Irene basked in it, the radiance that Teresa exuded, as if she were a flower herself and Teresa her sun. They're beautiful.
Teresa turned to her and smiled, mischievous gleam in her silver eyes. You aren't looking at them, she said.
And she wasn't. Irene nodded, but did not look away from Teresa's face. I suppose I find you more so. It was a quiet admission, Irene had always been reluctant to voice her feelings, but somehow this woman always managed to draw them from her anyway.
Charmer, Teresa said, raising a hand to brush against Irene's face, and Irene tilted her head as that delicate hand moved to grasp the nape of her neck and pull her close, pull her in.
Irene went willingly. She always did.
- - -
The memory had come upon her unbidden, but it served to calm her somewhat, and she was able to finish twining the tea flowers together, without her hand shaking so badly that she dropped them all and had to start again. That kind of time wasting would not do. Not today.
When she was through, Irene took a moment to look at it, pale blossoms gathered together and held in place with a band of deep green. It was not the most beautiful bouquet in the world, surely, but Teresa would have appreciated the simplicity, she knew. For all her haughty beauty and arrogance, Teresa had always found the most pleasure in the unadorned, ordinary things. Perhaps, Irene thought, that was what Teresa had found so appealing about her.
With a deep breath, Irene got to her feet. She looked to the sky, the stars beginning to fade in anticipation of the rising sun, and hung the flowers from her belt, careful to make sure the fragile petals would not be crushed during her journey. Satisfied that the bouquet would remain sufficiently protected as she traveled, Irene walked to the base of the mountain that separated her valley from the rest of the world. With the moon as her guiding light, she began to climb.
- - -
Teresa appeared suddenly in the doorway, wicked grin firmly in place. Irene, she said. Come with me.
Irene allowed herself to be led out and into the dark.
They walked together through the forest, neither saying much, content in the peaceful silence between them, though it had been months since their last meeting at the cabin. Irene had not taken the time to explore the valley as Teresa had, did not have the desire to know their surroundings beyond what she must know in order to properly defend herself. But Teresa liked to roam.
It was after an hour spent walking along a path through the woods at the floor of the valley that Teresa stopped. Close your eyes, she said, and Irene did so, slight frown creasing between her eyebrows. The frown deepened as Teresa's footsteps got farther and farther away, until Irene could no longer hear them.
Irene was beginning to wonder whether or not to go after her when she felt the other woman's yoki flare, pulsing slowly, beckoning. Irene followed.
And then Teresa was before her, armor piled around her feet, moonlight refracting off the surface of the lake behind her, casting her dips and curves into pools of shadow, the edges of her glowing softly silver. Irene's breath caught in her throat. Teresa stepped forward, slid her hands up Irene's chest, fingers working quickly over the buckles that held her armor in place. Irene stood quietly and let herself be undressed, watched the graceful movements of Teresa's shoulders, her arms, her hands, as she removed the uniform Irene wore. Teresa was, she thought, truly the most perfect being the universe had ever thought to create.
I know, Teresa said, reading the thoughts written across Irene's face. Now come with me. She took Irene's hand again, led her into the water, pulled her in until the water reached their breasts. And then she leaned forward, and bent her head down, and Irene could think no more.
- - -
Memories of her time with Teresa came quickly, a new one beginning as the last one ended, a rush of images and feelings close to bursting forth from behind the dam she had built within herself. She welcomed the distraction they provided from the shame that rose in her throat like fire, that tasted like ashes on her tongue. Where the guilt threatened to overwhelm her until she collapsed, the memories served to keep her feet pounding toward her destination.
She moved quickly through the woods, over hills and through valleys, careful to avoid any signs of civilization. Her speed and stamina had not suffered at all in her years of self-imposed isolation, and energy suppression made her nearly impossible to detect. If there were any warriors in the area, they would likely not feel her at all. Irene pulled her hood lower over her face, hiding her silver eyes in shadow, and continued to run along the mountain path. She made it to the top as the sun rose.
Irene pulled the flowers from her belt as she reached the summit. Her pace slowed, feet suddenly heavy and tired, the dull ache that was constant in her chest sprouting a sharp edge as she walked. She curled her fist around the stems she held, trying to keep her hand from shaking.
Every year, this was the hardest thing she'd ever done.
She stopped at Noel and Sophia's graves first, paying her respects to her fallen comrades. It gave her time to compose herself, to stand there next to their swords, still deep in the earth. She hadn't felt any attachment to them beyond that which she felt for every warrior of the Organization, but they had been there when Teresa died, had tried to defeat the monster that Priscilla had become. She owed them her gratitude at least.
Irene inclined her head to their swords, and then she turned, taking measured, nearly reluctant steps toward the heap of earth that marked the place she'd buried her happiness. The heap of earth, and no sword. Irene stopped. Her eyes widened. She had buried Teresa, had smoothed the soil above her body like she had smoothed the sheets of their bed. She had placed the sword as a marker, had left a kiss upon the blade as an epitaph Here lies my love, it had said. Here lies my heart. And now the sword was gone, the earth disturbed.
In the red light of dawn, Irene dropped the flowers and fell to her knees beside Teresa's empty grave.