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[The physical reality of their presence overwhelms her with what it lacks just as much as what it brings. So attuned she had been to their scents as they approached that opening the door blinds her nose to anything else, and her head swims as she watches Sharon clutch her chest in physical pain with a cold, horrible emptiness where an impression of that pain should be. Her heart aches both with what she can feel and what she can't, tears welling along her eyelashes at the sound of Sharon's wheezing voice coming from her bruised throat.

Then her gaze follows to Arthur, as reserved and hard to read as ever, save for the signs that he ran right alongside Sharon in a rush to get here. A little rumpled, faster breath, a note of perspiration in the scent that indicates exertion. The flattened slope of her ears relaxes, becoming more droopy than tense, nearly as sad as her gleaming eyes. She should be relieved that they're here, but it feels so wrong, so lonely, so cold with only her own emotions to hang onto in the strangely empty air of this new daylight.

Are you? Is she? It hadn't even occurred to her to wonder, laying far beyond what needed immediate examination, but she suddenly finds herself terrified that she might be. That dream had felt so real; the joy within so vivid, the misery so heavy. And she has never known a pain like what Sleep did to her. Was that even a dream? Or did Sleep wake her then and there to ensure that every cut was felt to its fullest, and Kalmiya now drifts along the tide of that pain into a new nightmare?

The gap of the entryway widens slowly as she releases the door and it drifts on its ancient hinges without her to hold it still. Her reach is tentative and her fingers shake as she extends her arm out towards Sharon (not Arthur, because—she doesn't want to scare him again, and if he really ran all the way here then she's already scared him enough.) She doesn't go for the hand, her memory of being punished for taking One's still too fresh; instead she pinches the hem at the front of Sharon's coat, thumbing the fabric with enough pressure to part her fur and feel the texture of the garment on her skin.

It feels real, but still so far away. So cold. Kalmiya's lip trembles as she answers, her voice small, a little torn from her scream upon waking and fearful of the idea that another cruel punishment awaits her around the bend of this interaction.] I'd better not be.

[ Sharon drags her gaze from Arthur to Kalmiya, the question hanging between them with a tangible weight. She holds her breath until Kal finally moves to open the door. Seeing her like this is jarring—the fold of her ears, the halting way she moves, the gleam of grief in her watery gaze. Even the way her fingers cling to the hem of Sharon's coat instead of reaching for her, as if even touch might break her. Sunshine dimmed beneath Sleep's storm clouds, as though that sorry excuse for a god still loomed over her shoulders.

Sharon steps forward, nothing hesitant in the motion, and pulls her into an embrace. Her touch is steady and careful—strong enough to anchor, but easy enough to escape. Beneath her surface, rage stirs and burns, black and molten, threatening to crack through her restraint.

Even gods can be torn from their heavens. ]

[ Even in the dim light of the hallway, Kalmiya's eyes gloss over with the telltale threat of tears. With her ears slanted down, the droop of her shoulders, and the abject misery on her face, he can't help but be reminded of the solitude of that room—the one so simply decorated and somehow absent of anything except for desolation. The memory is sharp, gutting, especially as she loosens her terrified hold on the door and reaches for the hem on Sharon's jacket. Her motion is so timid, so lacking the exuberance he's come to know that he almost can't stand to watch.

I'd better not be will have to do, for now. Neither her nor Sharon are experienced in dreamshare to know that answer isn't particularly solid.

Still, he blows out a quiet sigh, letting Sharon step through to encircle Kalmiya in a fervent hug. Over their tether, he can feel the blazing heat of her temper, his own coalescing into icy surety.

If this was the game Sleep wanted to play, he was going to flip every fucking rule on its head. ]

No, I don't think you are. [ He finally says, suppressing the sharp steel of fury. Setting a hand on Sharon's shoulder, he reaches out with his free hand, loosely cupping the nape of Kalmiya's neck. ] You're alright, we've got you.

[When Sharon sweeps into the room to fold her up in her arms, suddenly Kalmiya doesn't care at all whether this is a dream, because the sheer relief is so profound that there's no room for anything else. Though Sharon has left her plenty of opportunity to escape, no such notion enters Kalmiya's mind; the moment she feels the other girl's arms around her, all of the tension in her body is redirected into her arms, the fearful energy reshaping into desperation for company, for reassurance, for closeness. The circle of her arms in turn is like a vice as she clings around Sharon's middle and leans her weight into her slightly taller frame, a shuddering breath escaping her as warmth washes over her entire being. Even this small gesture brings with it immeasurable relief, so hungry is the void that Sleep left within Kalmiya.

At first, it's just a tremble in the breath and the arms as they respectively squeeze. But then she feels the warmth of Arthur's hand at the back of her neck; even chilled faintly by the autumn air, every whorl of his fingerprints feels burnt into her skin, as if her body has forgotten the intimacy of mortal touch after centuries in stasis. The splendor of it is thrown into staggering, agonizing relief by the size of the space it's trying to fill, a painful reminder of how strong their tether had been when it was cut, how deeply that connection had spread its roots into her being—I've got you, he kept saying, and says again now in solidarity with Sharon, even though they've both been ripped from her so violently. A sickening wave of grief slams into her as the extent of the loss is made even clearer.

Maybe Sleep was right. Maybe she will never be free of her blight, and she really will want for nothing less than this.

That's when the tremble becomes a quake, a horrible lurch that starts in her chest and jerks her shoulders with every catch of her breath. It's likely to be most obvious to Sharon, who can feel the distinct hitch in airflow to Kalmiya's lungs as she presses close and buries her face against Sharon's shoulder.

She's crying. For all the bright intensity of Kalmiya's presence otherwise, it is a disturbingly silent display, indicated only by her uneven breathing and the occasional muffled sniffle. Ears and tails are all tucked tightly against her body as she seems to fold herself ever smaller to fit more completely into the embrace she's been offered—aching to fit herself into a space where she can be surrounded by safety and love.]

[ Arthur's touch lands like an anchor, steady and grounding, and it carries a heavy burn through the tether, the kind of cold fury that would, under any other circumstance, further set her off. After forty-two years of surviving on rage, it doesn't take much to spark it. But the instant Kalmiya folds into her, made small in her pain, that rage gets pushed aside. Sharon's arms tighten around her, pulling her close, as if she could shield the fragile heart caged inside her chest.

When the older woman settles against her, tails fanned like a living barrier at her back, the trembling starts, soft at first, then building, until it rattles through them both. The tremor finds its echo in Sharon's own heart, stirring the quiet promise of violence that hums beneath her skin. There's not much she can stand less than watching someone she cares for suffer—she'd do unspeakable things to spare them.

And yet, under all that tension, something begins to knit itself back together. It's as if the threads once cruelly severed between them had never truly broken, only hung loose, waiting for this closeness, this magnetic pull, to draw them back into place. Relief comes like a physical exhale, a heaviness lifting from her shoulders she hadn't even realized she carried—a buried fear that their bond might never heal. ]

You're not alone. [ She murmurs, her voice barely more than a breath, forehead resting against Kalmiya's tangle of pale gold hair. ] If there's one thing she can't take from you, it's that.

[ Maybe one day, Sleep will try. Maybe one day they'll press too hard, too soon. But until then... They're here. ]

[ Apply enough pressure and anyone would crack. That'd been one of the biggest lessons he'd walked away with, during the dreamshare project. And he'd seen it, day in and day out. Had sometimes been the one tightening the vice. Other days, he'd been on the receiving end, trying to hold it together by sheer force of will through whatever means they decided to put him through.

Kalmiya, he'd gathered, is made of a similar tempered steel. Her whimsy masked a kind of self-conviction that surprises people. Sleep had taken it and snapped it over her knee, left her to pick up the broken pieces. He's felt the empty ache of it; the utter silence where he'd heard the quiet rustle of her thoughts, before. As she collapses inwards, to cling to Sharon and allow herself to be held up by borrowed strength, he hears the inner howl of wind, the driving pound of rain. It's muted, as if he's underwater, but the deluge fills in the gaping abyss Sleep left behind. Relief pours over him and he gives Kalmiya a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

There are a lot of things he could say, yet none of them suit as well as the truth Sharon's voiced: she's not alone. ]

[At the opposite end of each freshly rewoven bond, beneath the immediate warmth of reassurance, is anger. Searing hot from Sharon and frigid from Arthur—both familiar, so familiar by now, but overwhelming in tandem with one another, tugging at opposite ends of Kalmiya's own rage. At its very foundation, the uncontrollable anxiety of a flame flaring too big and hot for its frail container, the desperate frustration of a child who has never been able to understand what they did wrong. At the peak, the crystallization of vapors into a fury both righteous and distant, divine in its judgment, absolute in its conviction.

But the core of it has gone dark, the holy spark at the heart of her being snuffed by the oppressive nature of this city. The edges of the emptiness left behind, vacant its Celestial scourge, smolder. It intersects with the wound that Sleep has left within her, two voids meeting to yawn ever wider as one; so much to be angry about, and yet the burning edges never catch.

Her anger has never been without consequence. She has shaped her entire understanding and expression of it around that simple fact. She doesn't know what to do with it in its current form, gutted of the power she's had to control her entire life; managing her innate capability for destruction had always been the north of her compass. For better or worse, she has always been led by her Celestial blood.

It's just one more missing tether. One more piece that Sleep has taken. Acting without it has been freeing, in its own way, and yet—

You're not alone.

Still, there are consequences. Still, she has managed to wound herself and others by daring to feel.

It slips in a whisper from her mouth before she can stop it, another extension of the uncontrolled trembling of her body.] I'm sorry.

[I'm sorry, echoes a much younger voice over the thrashing winds of the storm; a prayer for forgiveness ridden with tears and shame, the sensation of a clammy forehead pressed prostrate to a cool stone floor, the lingering all-over burn of skin that's gotten too much sun. I didn't mean to hurt anyone.]

[ An apology slips from Kalmiya's mouth, and Sharon is blindsided by how familiar it feels, like someone pressing on an old bruise, dragging her back into a childhood steeped with shame. It clashes hard against the Kalmiya she knows—the woman who radiates chaotic sunlight and wonder, impossible to overlook or quiet.

And Sleep tried to take that. Tried to grind it down—to grind Kal down.

All Sharon can manage is a faint shake of her head, rejecting the apology before it fully settles, pulling back just enough to look the older woman in her silver eyes. She can't say the words out loud, but the message hums through the tether binding them: you have nothing to be sorry for. Kalmiya didn't harm Sharon. She didn't harm Arthur. That blame rests upon a being convinced she can win by breaking them apart, by inflicting pain, by turning them into islands through fear and loneliness. ]

[ Shame shudders and drips from her lips, joining the pounding downpour of the storm whipping within. It's reflexive, a habit fought like a war, but just as easy to fall back on; a smoker picking up cigarettes again. The cherry red tip of the burning ash catches on Sharon, unearthing the familiar scorch marks.

Somewhere, he feels the flinty anger over the people that left those scars on them both. But, he can't erase the past, none of them can. All they can do is continue to move forward, one foot in front of the other. So he shoves the roil of fury aside–it doesn't have a place in this scene–and despite their lacking connection, he follows the bits and pieces of Kalmiya he knows like a string through a maze. ]

No apologizing; I'd do this all over again, even knowing the outcome. [ What's a little psychic pain between friends? ] You took a mace to a deity and she decided she didn't like it. I think you might've shaken her a bit. Gods or whatever don't enjoy being reminded they can bruise.

[Though Sharon tries to meet her gaze, Kalmiya can only bear to hold eye contact for a fraction of a second before her head bows; flinching away instinctively from being so seen, and still silent outside of the violent hitch of her breathing. The wash of shame seeping from her leaves behind a concentrate of something baser, potent dregs of a fear she may never truly shake. Panic, rage, anguish—none were without consequence. They did not always precede an eruption of her holy light. But they always, always meant being left alone.

She doesn't say it again, but still the Murmur cradles the distant sound of the young Savior of Sanctuary, praying to be free of a weight she couldn't entirely understand: I'm sorry.

Tightly she clutches to Sharon's coat, claw tips snagging the heavy winter fabric. Even tighter is her grasp on their tethers, a castaway seeking a lifeline in a maelstrom. Cords braided from their words—the insistence that she's not alone, and she won't be alone, made manifest in the weak tendrils of warmth that anchor her to each of them.

She holds, and holds, and holds. Ash and ozone mingle at the back of her nose. It takes a long moment to find her voice again, her throat squeezed shut as her body braces for a punishment that isn't coming. It's a thin sound, drawn by the tension she can't let go of as she weeps.] I wasn't...even aiming for her. I just wanted to help him...

[Spiteful as Kalmiya can be, her defiance of Sleep was nothing so petty. Something deep, something righteous brought her up onto that pedestal; she's no big damn hero, but she can't stand to see someone emptied of their very self like that.]

[ A distant flare of fury ripples along Arthur's end of the tether, a dangerous spark that he crushes down almost immediately. Like sand thrown over a beach fire just before dawn. The heat is still there beneath the surface, glowing, capable of roaring back to life with the right provocation, but he keeps it buried. He stays focused, handling the situation like a goddamn professional.

When Kalmiya cannot meet her gaze, Sharon glances to Arthur instead, searching, uncertain. All she wants is to make this better, and there's no way to do that. No magic words to fix it. No gesture that'll undo what's been done. All she can offer is her presence. To stay. To be here. To remind Kalmiya that she is not alone. And that feels so painfully useless.

Kalmiya's grip tightens on the tether, and Sharon gently gathers it, cradling it the same way she had wrapped her arms around Kalmiya moments before. She is careful with it, protective of the newly reforged thread between them. As futile as simply being here feels, it is clearly what Kalmiya needs. She needs them. She needs the connection. She needs to be reminded, over and over, that she is not alone. Sharon reaches up and brushes a tear from Kalmiya's cheek, never urging her to look up, offering instead a whisper along the tether that it's okay.

The tears, the shame. Even the pain. It's okay. ]

Sounds like it might be the same thing in her eyes. [ The realization settles quickly, turning into fresh purpose—an adjustment to a goal on her list. ] You didn't do anything wrong. It just means we'll have to be smarter about how we help him from here on out.

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CW: religious trauma, cult shit

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