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“Ayda, what are you doing?”
Things that Fig expects to do upon arriving back home: putting away groceries to their respective sections of the kitchen, emailing back and forth with her manager about when and how her next album is going to be produced, and maybe watching an episode or two of the riveting docu-series she and Ayda have been hooked on before going to sleep with her wife.
Instead, when Fig opens the door with a hazardous amount of grocery bags hanging from each arm, the house is surprisingly devoid of the usual sounds of Ayda’s music playing upstairs or the scent of leftovers being reheated. Instead of the usual kiss on the cheek or faint called-out hello, the house is still and silent. The house is quiet, except for the muted noises of clattering wood from the backyard. This is odd enough in itself, considering neither Ayda nor Fig are the gardening sort of people, and the most that grows back there are the mint and wild strawberries they had thrown out there to fend for themselves.
So, things that Fig does not expect to find when she opens the sliding door to the backyard: her wife Ayda putting the finishing touches on what could only be described as a moderately, meaning person, sized twig and thatch nest. There it is, sitting in the middle of their yard, and there she is, Ayda, bending low to insert long cinnamon sticks intermittently around the structure.
It’s all Fig can do but stare from the doorway as Ayda chitters and hums to herself, obviously oblivious to Fig’s presence. Her long, ashy-grey locs are held out of her face by a silken headband and her formless dress flows delicately off her frame in the slight breeze.
“Ayda, what are you doing?”
To any outsider, Ayda could be considered a person who is hard to read. To Fig, when Ayda whips around, she can see the exact moment Ayda’s expression goes from a look of shock to her patented trying-not-to-burst-into-tears face. Her fingers fist the loose fabric of her dress and she bites her lower lip, and Fig’s bewilderment pivots quickly into panic.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Fig murmurs and hastily strides across the grass, “Don’t worry, this isn’t the strangest thing I’ve caught you doing, not by a long shot. No need to get embarrassed, I think it looks really cool!” Ayda takes some very measured breaths as Fig rubs her upper arms. “If your midlife crisis looks like a foray into the world of life-size sculpture then I can totally get behind that!”
Ayda does not laugh at Fig’s attempt at humor, which is leagues more disconcerting than the huge fucking nest behind them. Ayda schools her expression into one of cool composure before taking both of Fig’s hands in hers. Her calloused thumb strokes the ring on Fig’s finger, looking her dead in the eye. There’s a solemnity about her facial expression that Fig has only seen when Ayda talks about magical law or arcane vows.
“Fig, this isn’t sculpture, nor any form of high art. I’m dying.”
Fig’s heart stops.
“Correction, I have been dying for some time. Second correction, I should have died last year, but due to my unyielding love for you I managed to push it off till this year when it became absolutely unavoidable–”
The back of Fig’s throat chokes on a strange gurgling sound.
“–Evident by the rapid greying of my hair and extreme shedding of my feathers–”
“You said you were molting,” Fig whispers, now taking in said molted feathers layering the inside of the nest. Her hands shake.
“Molts never last an entire year, love.”
“I– you–”
“I admit it was cruel, but I felt it was better to take the calculated risk to spare you the greater torture of knowing. I did feel it necessary to wait till you got back home to begin, though.”
“To begin?”
“Yes. To die.”
Now, Fig is no stranger to the power of horrible surprises. Her claim to fame might have been her music stardom, but she’s always been an adventurer through-and-through. She’s been paralyzed by giant scorpion venom, knocked unconscious by flying sheet metal, and swallowed up by the earth before she had time to breath. For gods sakes, there had been a whole elective at Aguefort Academy dedicated to handling the nitty gritty of ambush attacks.
The curriculum did not cover this. No experience prepared her for desperately taking in any surrounding information, eyes skittering between watching Ayda’s mouth move and the nest for any sign of this being a sick distraction in an ambush plot.
It has to be deception. It has to be deception, but Ayda is too real to be a glamour and there’s no movement out of the corner of her eye of any enemies ducking behind the corner of their house. What does occur to her, is the nest.
With a crystalizing horror Fig realizes the stick structure for what it is. It’s not a nest. It’s a pyre.
“Ayda–”
“I know this is shocking–”
“Wha– shocking–”
“–And I hope one day you forgive me fo–”
“Shocking! You can’t be–”
“–springing this on you so suddenl–”
“–are you even saying! This can–”
“But it was bound to happen eventu–”
“Ayda, you can’t!”
“Fig, I have to!” Ayda screams. Her talons are squeezing Fig’s forearms tight enough to draw blood, but with the hot, icy panic flooding through her veins all Fig can take in is the loud sounds of their shaky breathing and the distant knowledge that she is crying. A single tear escapes from Ayda’s left eye, which she quickly brushes away with the back of her knuckle. She reaches up to cup Fig’s face with her hands, and this time it’s Fig’s turn to hold Ayda’s forearms with an iron grip. “I would stay if I could, gods, you know I would, I love and adore you with all my being. But this is something that must happen, a moment always comes when my time is up and I need to move on to the next cycle. Already I’ve pushed my luck to it’s limit, but now it’s time.”
“I can find a healer. Have you gone to any of the temples yet, or, or consulted with any of the healers? I know I always rage against the Helioic people but the local chapter really has been producing some amazing clerics if you would just talk to them. We can even pay that aasimar down the street a visit, you know they owe me a favor for that time we watched their dogs–” Fig rambles.
“This isn’t about healing, Fig. This is about inevitability and the laws of my heritage.” Ayda’s voice catches in the middle of her sentence, drinking in Fig’s face in a way that only widens the growing pit of desperation in Fig’s chest.
“You can’t,” Fig whimpers, beginning to choke on hiccuping sobs, “You can’t. I can’t. Ayda, I’m not ready.”
Ayda brings Fig close to rest their foreheads together. “You’ve always reacted better in the moment than in anticipation. I admire you so much for that, and love you for so much more,” she whispers, before kissing Fig.
They stay like that for a minute, not an archdevil or a phoenix, but simply two people holding each other and silently pressing wet cheeks and lips together. They stay like that, Fig’s heart hammering, before Ayda gently pulls back with a watery smile.
Fig is in shock. She knows what shock feels like, she’s lived through too much combat not to recognize this floating, dreamlike sensation as she looks between Ayda’s ashy hair, wilting wings, and creased face as if seeing them for the first time. She takes in the grass cleared away to the dirt in a ring around the twigs, and the circle of stones that then form a barrier between the nest and the dirt. It’s the exact setup her mom uses when building up a campfire. Ayda is smart like that, always planning two steps ahead. Ayda steps one leg over the other into the nest, Fig’s hand locked with hers.
“I think it would be better for you if you just watched,” Ayda gently whispers. Wordlessly, Fig steps into the nest to join her, wrapping her arms around Ayda to clutch at her back. “Of course,” Ayda breathes more than chuckles. The nest is obviously meant for only one person, curled up, so they have to stand to fit.
“I love you,” Fig gasps.
“I love you. I’ve loved you more than anyone else in my lives,” Ayda replies. The tears running down her cheeks don’t even flame anymore. They run cool and clear down her cheeks.
With one final, lasting kiss, Ayda tucks her face into Fig’s shoulder, and combusts into flame.
Ayda has set them on fire many, many times. When they were teenagers, Fig surprised Ayda by dragging her on stage to serenade her and Ayda almost set off every fire alarm in the building. Ayda has set them on fire during horrible jumpscare movies. Ayda has set them on fire in bed. Once, Ayda set them on fire at the grocery store when they began to restock her all-time favorite cereal after its fateful return from being discontinued.
This time, however, when the flames overtake them, Ayda almost immediately dissolves to ash in Fig’s arms. Her eyes are shut tight but she can feel the moment Ayda’s body gives and crumbles, leaving only empty air to hold on to as the nest catches like flash paper around them. The burning heat roars across Fig’s skin. She wails.
Fig wants a bonfire. She wants a towering, roaring inferno she can rage and scream in because there is nothing that can amount to the sudden splitting of her heart. There is no pit in the nine hells that can come close to the flood of her sudden, soaring grief as she is left alone in a cremation ceremony of her wife’s making.
However, almost as soon as Ayda disappears from Fig’s arms, the flame collapses inward and snuffs itself out – gone as quick as it had ignited. The nest itself has been burnt completely to ash, leaving Fig ankle deep in smoldering coals and breathing in cinnamon-scented smoke. Her knees’ harsh impact into the soot sends up a storm of embers flittering up into the crystal blue sky.
She cries. What else can she do, but cry? She stays there, on her knees, letting herself become more and more covered in airborn soot until the last flickering ember in the pile is gone.
Eventually, Fig finds the fortitude to shakily stand back up, wiping her snot trail off on her ruined jacket. She stares down at the black and grey ash pile that was once Ayda Aguefort. She stares down at it, and in a flash of sharp, vitriolic anger kicks through it as hard as she can. Instead of sending up a righteous ash cloud, however, her foot connects with something solid that is sent flying and tumbling across the lawn.
Oh. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh hells.
“No, no, no, no, no, you fucking idiot, you fucking–” Fig stumbles and rushes across the yard to where the thing had settled right into a patch of especially rambunctious mint.
She slides to her knees and delicately lifts up an egg slightly bigger in size than an ostrich egg. She delicately brushes away the soot remnants of the ash pile it was hidden inside, revealing a charcoal black shell with copper-like veins shooting across the surface like kintsugi pottery. Fig gingerly but hurriedly turns it around and looks it over, checking to make sure her spectacularly impulsive act of stupidity didn’t damage it in some horrible way.
Her trembling hands don’t find any dents or cracks as she runs her fingers over it five times over, and she lets out a breathy sigh of relief.
“Oh, Fig. Oh, Fig, you big, stupid idiot.” She runs her dirty hands over her face, smearing tears that have started up again.
“What are you gonna do.”
She brings the egg inside the house, almost dropping it due to its deceiving weight. She brings it to the kitchen, running it under the sink tap and wiping it with a rag until it is free from any remaining soot. She dries it, and sets it in a makeshift blanket nest on the main couch.
Fig grabs a scarf that was left on the table and ties it around her face. She returns to the backyard, and forces herself to go through the morbid process of sifting through the remaining ash pile to make certain she didn’t miss anything else, during which she vomits and retches three distinct times. It’s all for nothing, in the end, since all she finds are leftover twig bits that have been flash-burned into bits of soft charcoal.
She half-expected to find Ayda’s wedding ring. She’s not sure whether it would have been better or worse.
Fig enters back into the house, tearing off her face scarf and throwing it to the ground. She treks soot all across the good carpet, and ruins the couch with the full weight of her dirty body collapsing into it. Her head falls back to hit the back of the couch, and she numbly surveys the constellations of cheap glow-in-the-dark stars that pepper the ceiling. She had put them up there as a prank once, to see how long it took for Ayda to notice, and neither of them had gotten around to taking them down after.
She closes her eyes. She’s so, so tired. She’s numb. It’s not even five o’clock yet. Fig can’t see it, but she can feel the weight of the egg nestled on the opposite side of the couch heavy in her mind, heavy in her soul.
“Ayda,” Fig sobs, “What am I gonna do.”
---
A consequence of being The People’s Oracle is that Adaine’s permanent residence is shrouded in at least five layers of intricate and powerful arcane protection. Of course the Court of Stars fought long and hard to convince Adaine to return and reside in Calethriel Tower, to which Adaine had graciously told them to fuck off and call her when they needed the weekly weather forecast.
That is to say, when Fig crosses the bounds to Adaine’s property, despite the arcane allowances that permit her to enter she can feel her archdevil sigil flare up over her forehead as the barriers pass cool and cleansing over her skin – similar to the feeling following the application of hand sanitizer. It always makes goosebumps erupt over her skin like someone just blew on the back of her neck. Adaine’s wards always tend to do that to her in a way her own house’s wards don’t, Adaine’s being of high elven magic and Fig’s varying into much more hellish sources. It never lasts long, however, and by the time Fig makes her way up the long pathway to the main door her skin is already settling back down.
With age Adaine has only gotten more uncanny with her divination powers, and just as Fig is about to knock the door is swinging open. Or maybe she just heard her car pull up. Fifty-fifty.
“Fig.”
Fig doesn’t have a time to respond before Adaine is sweeping her up into a close, grip-tight hug. Over the many years Adaine had slowly but inevitably closed the height gap that Fig had so eagerly lorded over her in high school. Once she was pretty sour over how Adaine shot past her a good several inches, but now Fig relishes the feeling of being enveloped in warm cotton and wool. Adaine’s hair is brushed and her eyes are clear, but she’s wearing the big three: loose sweatpants, tank top, and that oversized shawl that never stays on her shoulders. She always defaults to some iteration of this look when she hasn’t left the house in several days.
“I’m so sorry,” Adaine says into Fig’s ear before extracting herself from the hug. She turns around to let Fig follow her into the house.
Despite Adaine’s self-proclaimed hatred for her elven heritage, her interior decor tastes have invariably been influenced by it: high ceilings, minimalist furniture, creamy and soothing color palettes. There are hallmarks of Adaine that still shine through it all via the tea stains on the glass coffee table and the framed pictures of only the most embarrassing group photos. Fig spots Ayda in one, and quickly looks away.
“How are you holding up?” Adaine sits on the creme-white couch and tucks her feet up.
“Oh, you know,” Fig replies breezily enough, swinging her heavy bag around to rest in her lap, “just hanging on.”
Adaine hums sympathetically. They’ve both been here before, more than once, but it doesn’t make it any easier. The unrealized potential of talking through the grief hangs heavy in the air, neither of them looking directly at it. So they sit in silence, looking at their laps. Some ambient rain noises filter through Adaine’s fancy surround sound; she must have forgotten to turn it off before Fig arrived.
Fig can hear the wet plaps as Boggy waddles into the room. It takes him three tries to hop his rotund body onto the couch and settle next to Adaine. Whether she summoned him or he came of his own volition, she can’t tell.
“So!” Adaine straightens up. “Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Tea? Coffee?”
“I could go for some tea,” Fig says as her stomach turns.
Boggy makes a little gurgle of complaint as Adaine stands up and briskly walks off to the kitchen. When she’s out of eyesight Fig takes a deep breath and scratches her nails through her short-cropped hair.
Gods, what is she even doing here?
She rubs her hands over her face a couple times, probably smearing her hastily thrown on makeup. Fig takes this opportunity as she hears clanking from the kitchen to reach into her bag and pull out the egg. The thing radiates a low heat like a lap dog which makes her thighs sweat and stick together, so she takes the throw blanket off the back of the couch and tucks it between the egg and her lap. Fig stares blankly at it, intermittently running her hand over it in vague stroking motions. She almost expects charcoal dust to come off on her fingers, but the shell is the same hard texture of any other egg she’s touched.
She’s lost to her absence of thought and doesn’t immediately notice when the noises in the kitchen have stopped. Fig looks up and finds Adaine standing in the doorway to the kitchen, holding two steaming mugs and looking at the egg in her lap with an expression that is too mixed to read.
“So, um.” Adaine swallows. “That’s her, then?”
“Yup.” Fig means to pop the “p” in a flippantly rock-starish way, but her cracked voice ruins the effect immediately.
“Ah.” Adaine sets the mugs on the glass table and sits back down in her original seat. She reaches out her arms. “May I?”
For a split second a sensation of panic floods Fig’s chest before she shoves it away.
“Careful, it’s pretty heavy.”
Adaine gingerly takes it from Fig’s hands and sets it down in her own lap, leaving Fig with the phantom warmth of it. Adaine runs her hands over it and stares in the same way Fig had done a minute prior. There’s no sign of it, but Fig wonders if Adaine’s oracular abilities have told her how Fig kicked it.
Seeing someone else, seeing Adaine hold it suddenly kicks Fig hard in the ribs – a real, physical confirmation of what she already knows. Adaine is holding all that’s left of Ayda. That egg is all there is. The study back in the house, the notes, the clothes, the framed pictures on the walls, those are just dust. Those are nothing .
“I made her tea that morning.”
Adaine looks up, and Fig doesn’t bother to try to stop the tears that come streaming out of her eyes.
“She woke up before me that morning, already off and inspired to get things done in her study, so I made her breakfast because she always forgets. I made her a chai tea with that fancy machine Kristen got us that one time. I put brown sugar in it. I toasted a bagel with cream cheese and put honey over it, just the way she likes it.”
A tear escapes Adaine’s left eye. Fig keeps going.
“I had to wave my hands in front of her face to snap her out of her work. She just focuses so hard, you know? We had breakfast together before I had to head out. She kissed me goodbye, it was so normal. I met up with a few people to hash some things out and talk shop before doing a quick grocery run. She texted me to get more cereal. I don’t even know why she did it in hindsight because when I got home–”
“Fig…” Adaine’s lips are held together in a sharp line. Fig’s sobs start coming in full force.
“She was gone so fast, I. I didn’t even get the chance to process everything before she was on fire and gone and I just. I don’t know what to do, Adaine, I just–”
“I know, Fig.”
Boggy waddles over and plops down next to Fig, likely offering himself to be held but Fig’s hands are busy gripping her hair and gripping her shirt hard enough to stretch the fabric. They sit together, weeping, Boggy next to Fig and the egg in Adaine’s lap. The tea cools on the table. They breathe together. The speakers drizzle with rain.
“I just,” Fig sniffles and rubs harshly at her eyes, looking a mess, “I just don’t understand why she didn’t tell me. I’m her fucking wife she should have told me.”
Adaine is silent.
“I mean, she should have told me what was going on, right?”
Adaine remains quiet. When Fig looks over, Adaine is biting the inside of her lip and pointedly looking at the table leg.
“Right?”
Adaine shifts in her seat and pulls the egg closer, almost shielding her body with it. Boggy is plastered to her side.
“In an effort,” she pauses, “In an effort not to say the wrong thing, do you remember how you reacted to Gorgug being sick?”
Fig’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean–”
“It’s an honest question.” Fig can see the politics bolster into Adaine’s frame, and she remembers that she’s not just talking to Adaine from high school, but Adaine the Oracle. “How much do you even remember?”
“Don’t fucking bring Gorgug into this–” Fig seeths.
“When we learned Gorgug was sick, no, that he was terminal you took off. You took off and did who knows what to yourself beyond going completely off the deep end. You didn’t tell anyone, you didn’t text, you disappeared and it took two scrying spells and three locate persons to find that bumfuck nowhere ditch you had passed out in.”
“Fuck you,” Fig whispers.
“You were so far gone on who knows whatever cocktail of a bender. You were almost dying when we found you, Fig, you had to be hospitalized right alongside of Gorgug, which didn’t help him by the way, so you have to understand Ayda’s reasoning behind her decision–”
“Fuck you!” Fig shouts, shooting up from the couch.
“Fig–” Adaine starts.
“Fuck you, Adaine, don’t you fucking go there.” Fig paces back and forth and bares her teeth, nails cutting into her palms inside the crucible of her fists. “Don’t you fucking judge me, oh Oracle of the People in your high fucking throne and high fucking perspective, Ms. Sees-All and Knows-All, fuck you.” There’s a popping and crackling inside of her ears alongside the rush of blood.
“Don’t you think–”
“Don’t tell me what I think, Adaine, you don’t know what I think. You know what I think? I think this is what you always do. You love being the one who knows better, or is the ‘rational’ one of the group, right? You love acting like you know so much better than the rest of us and the second you slip up you go and hide behind your fucking disorder.”
“You–”
“Shut up.” The crackling is growing louder and Fig’s skin feels boiling hot. The edges of her vision start to go red and Adaine’s eyes go wide, but she is just getting started. “Yes, me. Yes, of course Fig is the messy one. I’m the one always flying off the handle and ruining things. I’m the one who makes everything more complicated and messy, it’s all fucking me.” She tastes bitter smoke in her mouth. “Well you know what, Adaine, we’re all pretty fucking messy, so don’t just single out me when it’s my turn to cope.”
“Enough!”
Adaine shoots out a hand and with a wave of magical energy extinguishes the roaring flame Fig didn’t even realize she had called to herself. She blinks a couple times, temporarily shocked out of her rage, while Adaine tucks the egg against the arm of the sofa to stand up, practically pinning Fig in place with her steely eyes.
“I’m not attacking you for coping, Fig, fucking hells, I’m calling you out for coping like this!” She waves at the scorched side of her living room behind Fig. “You fucking self destruct! Look at yourself. You’re already destroying shit, I can bet every platinum I have you haven’t had anything to eat the past two days besides booze and cold pizza, and you are even hurting yourself, gods!”
Fig rushes to unclench her fists and feels the well of blood starting to leak out of the cuts her nails made.
“You think you’re the only one in pain here? She was my best friend, Fig, but at least I’m able to cope without destroying myself. I don’t always cope well, of course I don’t! You’re right, we’re all messy. I hole up. I don’t eat. I shut down to save myself from feeling. I might go too slow when it comes to processing my grief, but at least I don’t self-destruct the way you do, Fig, this is exactly why Ayda was so worried to say anything!”
They catch their breath, staring at each other from across the room as the acrid scent of smoke hangs heavy in the air. Two pieces come together in Fig’s mind, and Adaine pales.
Fig’s eyes narrow. “Come again?”
Adaine opens her mouth, and closes it.
At Adaine’s expression, Fig’s face splits into an ugly sneer as she humorlessly chuckles. “She fucking told you, didn’t she?”
“I– I just,” Adaine stammers.
“How long,” Fig hisses, “How long have you known. No, wait, don’t tell me. It doesn’t really fucking matter, now does it? What matters is that Ayda gave you the courtesy she didn’t even deem to give me, her wife.”
“Don’t be mad,” Adaine pleads.
“It’s just so rich, I mean, that’s why you are so put together now. Gods, when I called you, it wasn’t even news, was it?”
“I didn’t know she was going that day, she only told me a couple months ago,” Adaine rushes.
“You really have been learning from the Court of Stars, huh,” Fig snarls, “They must be teaching you some world-class lessons on how to lie to your friends’ faces.”
“How did you know about that…”
“Please, Ayda tells me everything.”
They pause.
“Told… she told me everything.” Fig inhales deep through her nose, before rounding back to her anger to prevent another wave of tears. “Or evidently, almost everything.”
Adaine puts her hands up. “Don’t be mad at me for trying to extend a hand out to the Court. You can be mad at me for not telling you, but don’t be mad at me or Ayda for following her wishes.”
“How can I not!” Fig cackles, “How can I not be so fucking pissed off and torn apart by this whole fucked up situation. You’re the one who was supposed to stick it out and watch all of us die, not me! Just because I didn’t read the fine print doesn’t mean I signed up for this.”
Adaine’s begun crying again, and for a sick moment Fig takes vicious pleasure in it, before she realizes Adaine’s breathing has gone irregular and quick. Adaine’s eyes go wide and squeeze shut, before sitting down heavy on the couch, putting her head between her knees. Boggy wiggles his way underneath her chest.
Fuck. Fuck!
Fig has helped Adaine through several panic attacks throughout high school into college, and instinctively goes over to rub at her back, but at the last second pulls away.
She’s never been the cause of one before.
Halting, she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood. A quiet, vitriolic voice in the back of her head whispers that Adaine deserves it. Fig hates herself for it. Fuck! The guilt and helplessness mounts back up into something more manageable: rage.
Fig storms to the door and throws it open, swiftly shutting it behind her just short of slamming it. It’s probably better if she weren’t in there with her right now anyways. Fig paces back and forth on the stoop for a couple seconds before spotting a perfectly placed flowerpot a few feet away.
It’s sent flying far enough to crash against the cobblestone wall that encloses the Abernant property. Fig screams in frantic frustration, running across the lawn leaving scorched earth where she steps to kick up more dirt and punch beams of eldritch energy into the air.
It’s a tantrum is what it is, but there’s so much fury and anger in Fig it’s all she has a mind to do. She’s not going to go get drunk or fucked up. She promised Ayda years ago she would stay clean and never drink while angry, and while she may be furious with her at the moment, she won’t dishonor that vow.
Instead, she paces over the wall and starts hitting, punching, kicking, anything short of opening the pits of hell under her feet and causing undue embarrassment between Adaine and her neighbors. She pummels her knuckles bloody against the stone before the boiling of her blood gives way to exhaustion. She stands there, panting with her forehead resting wearily against the wall, shutting her eyes and willing everything to slow down and stop for just one moment. She just wants to catch her breath. She just wants everything to stop .
Fig takes in the burnt patches of grass and shattered flower pot. At least she did more damage to herself than the expensive wall.
“Shit,” she whispers, taking a moment to cast Cure Wounds on the torn up skin over her knuckles. She collects most of the shards of pottery and carefully dumps them into the garbage bin left out by the gate. What she wants to do is leave and go get wasted in some anonymous club where it’s too dark to see anyone’s faces. What she does is walk back up the same path to Adaine’s doorstep and knock.
A couple seconds pass before the door opens. Adaine’s eyes are red-rimmed but she gives a faint smile.
“Hey,” Fig says.
“Hi,” Adaine replies.
“I broke your flower pot.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I also ruined your lawn.”
“Yup.”
“You’re right.”
“I know I am,” Adaine smiles.
“Oh fuck off.” Fig rolls her eyes.
Adaine laughs a little, and let’s Fig inside.
---
“So what are you going to do with it?”
It’s evening and Fig and Adaine are sprawled out on the couch of the living room with the windows open to let out most of the leftover sulfur smell. There’s half-eaten takeout on the coffee table and a documentary about the migratory patterns of faerie dragons at low volume on the TV. Both of them are awake but dozing – exhausted after an afternoon of screaming at each other.
“What do you mean?” Fig responds, her head resting on the arm of the couch.
“You know, it.” Adaine gestures towards the egg nestled in a mountain of blankets between them. “I don’t want to put words in your mouth but I always assumed…”
Fig barks out a laugh, “No, yeah, Ayda and I never really wanted kids. We talked it over a couple times but eventually agreed it was probably better if we not. Ayda apparently got pretty existentially freaked by the fact her old child ended up raising her, and I never felt comfortable trusting myself with a kid.” She shrugs. “Too much pressure you know?”
“Right, because the fate of the continent is practically a cake walk.”
“Hey, having the fate of billions of people in your hands versus the fate of one tiny, itty bitty person are two completely different monsters, alright?” Fig takes a swig of her cream soda, wishing it was beer.
“Not going to fight you on that. So, coming back to my previous question: what are you going to do with it?” Adaine peaks open an eye to critically regard Fig. “Please tell me you aren’t giving it to Aguefort.”
“Gods no, Adaine, who do you take me for? Absolutely not.”
“Oh thank heavens.” Adaine closes her eye again.
Fig pauses, trying to think of the best way to go about this.
“Well?” Adaine says.
“Well… I do have someone in mind.”
“Mhmm?”
“Someone who is well off, has incredible patience, and would share a lot of interests with this kid.”
“Mm...hmm?”
“Someone who can give this kid top notch education, worldly experiences, and at least knows how not to raise a child.”
Adaine sits up. “Fig, you can’t be serious.”
Fig drains her soda, really wishing it was beer. “Dead.”
“Fig,” Adaine laughs disbelievingly, “I can’t raise a kid, are you insane?”
“Adaine, come on, you know you are the ideal candidate, if not the perfect one.”
“No, no, no. I’ve already got too much on my plate between negotiating new deals with the Court of Stars, performing my Oracle duties, and dodging who knows how many targets on my back. Not to mention the absolutely abysmal parenting example I grew up with.”
“Exactly. You already have a crash course in How-Not-To-Parent and you can always hire a nanny to help you out when you are on your trips or whatever. And about those targets? Come on, I’m an Archdevil of the Nine Hells, you think there aren’t a minimum twenty people out there who want me dead at any given time?” Fig stands up to retrieve another soda from the fridge. “How are those negotiations going by the way?”
“Good. I’ve got some sympathizers who are being a tremendous help since it’s going to be slow progress injecting new morals into such an old society but that is not. The. Point. I am not going to adopt a child just so I can be absent around her most of the time.”
Fig throws her hands back up as she sits back down. “Then just stay here then! Do you actually think you are going to get anywhere with those elvish fucks?”
“Yes,” Adaine says with a steel voice, “Just because it’s going to take forever doesn’t mean that progress isn’t worth it.” She huffs out a laugh and raises her glass. “After all, both of us have way more time than either of us know what to do with.”
“Cheers,” Fig deadpans.
Neither of them drink.
“Then tell me, Adaine, who else is out there? It’s not as if Garthy is around for an Ayda Round Three.”
Adaine pushes her brows together in thought. “Ayda has to have some other living relative, right?”
“Nope.” Fig pops open the bottle cap with her teeth. “Any other Aguefort whose prefix isn’t ‘professor’ is long dust by now.”
They both cringe at Fig’s phrasing.
“Hate to say it, but most of our old friends are dead and there’s no one new that I would feel totally okay leaving Ayda to.”
“There’s Fabian?” Adaine offers.
“No. Fabian has already done the whole kid thing and I’m not going to ruin his retirement with a new baby to take care of.” Fig’s eyebrows raise. “Shit, I haven’t even told him yet.”
“You haven’t told Fabian yet?”
Fig rubs her face. “I don’t even remember the last time we talked. What am I going to open with? Hi, long time no chat. Bye the way, Ayda just died and I’m utterly wrecked so don’t message me again about it.”
“... When was the last time you spoke to Fabian?”
“You know…” Fig waves her hand in the air and doesn’t elaborate.
“Fig.”
Fig doesn’t respond.
“Fig you really should talk to him.”
“I know, I know, I’ve just been so busy working on my new album, it’s just been taking up all of my spare time–”
“Bullshit, Fig. You’ve been so called ‘working’ on that album for the past fifty years, that answer is a bunch of nothing. More like you haven’t wanted to see how old he’s gotten.”
Fig tenses and bares her teeth. “Don’t pull your wizard-Oracle shit on me, Adaine.”
Adaine raises an eyebrow. “I don’t need Detect Thoughts or clairvoyance to figure it out, Fig. I’m just being an insightful friend.”
“Well, fuck your insight.”
Adaine reaches over and scarfs down a rangoon, washing it down with the rest of her cucumber water. She looks Fig dead in the eye.
“Promise me you won’t tell Fabian this.”
“O...kay?”
“Promise, Fig.”
“Yeah, alright, I swear.”
Adaine closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m kind of relieved that Riz died in that explosion.”
“Adaine, what the hell–”
“Let me finish.” Adaine holds a hand up, before resting it on Boggy’s sleeping back. “When I heard the news I was devastated the same as the rest of the Bad Kids. I was shattered. I was heartbroken. He was the first friend either of us lost and I was convinced I was never going to recover. But then when the years went by, I came to appreciate the suddenness of it. There were no lingering goodbyes, or having to watch them slowly go the way we did with Gorgug or Kristen.”
Adaine smiles at Fig’s slack-jawed face.
“Hanging around high elves more often means I hear the same old ‘It gets easier’ line almost every day. And you know what? I think each and every one of them are dirty, filthy liars. It hasn’t gotten easier, not one inch. Just because I’m not dramatically throwing myself off a cliff in a chiffon dress doesn’t mean that I’m not hurting.” She grabs another rangoon. “It just means that I’m hurting differently.”
“Hells, Adaine.”
“Seeing Fabian isn’t easy. But loving him from afar doesn’t hurt any less, trust me.” Adaine gives Fig a pointed look.
She snatches the rangoon from Adaine’s grip and crunches into it aggressively. She swallows and shoots Adaine a long-suffering look. “Fine. I’ll talk to Fabian on Friday.”
Adaine reaches over to the table. “Good. Now, that still leaves the issue of the egg,” she says around a mouthful of dumpling.
“I don’t know what to do, Adaine. I really don’t.”
They eat their way through the rest of the lukewarm takeout in lieu of talking, each of them privately brainstorming in their own heads. Each time there’s an idea there are a multitude of counterarguments, and every single line of thought comes circling back to the two of them. The egg is little help.
“You know,” Adaine begins, “There is one possibility.”
“Yeah?” Fig says, fighting off a headache.
“We could, and now this is purely hypothetical, raise her together.”
Fig stares at her.
“Now, I know it sounds silly or half-baked, but just hear me out.”
“No, no,” Fig sits up and crosses her legs on the couch, “I’m listening.”
“So like, no marriage or anything.”
“No.”
“No. Right. But between our two schedules, one of us has to have the time to be around and take care of her. Alone we’re fucked, but if we combine our two different forms of dysfunction there has to be some kind of decent parent in there, right?”
“Right, I’m following.”
“We can always call Fabian in for backup.”
“Yes, okay.”
“And if she ends up totally messed up we can always blame each other.”
Fig lets out a low whistle. “You really have everything figured out.”
Adaine laughs. “Neither of us have anything figured out.”
“True… Hey, Adaine?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to adopt my wife with me?”
Adaine shoves her foot in Fig’s face. The table is knocked over.
---
Fig watches from the back row of the lecture hall as Fabian Seacaster, honored guest speaker, gives a talk to an auditorium of adventurers-in-training about his lifelong perspective of his career path. The powerpoint behind him is mostly made up of singular white words on black backgrounds like “Power” and “Love” to which he will dramatically point to before moving onto the rest of his lecture. He’s wearing a nice t-shirt underneath his navy blue blazer, but ultimately is still just a t-shirt.
Overall, the presentation is very Fabian.
She takes him in as much as she can from that distance. She watches his posture as he strides back and forth behind the podium, his frame dripping with elegance and power despite his old age. He walks with a limp, but even that he makes a statement instead of a fault with how his gait flows.
From this distance she can’t get a detailed look at his face, but she can still spot the grooves of his face and the deep laughter lines that crease the corners of his eyes.
He looks happy. He looks healthy.
She barely pays attention to his words at all, barely even noticing that he is wrapping up until all the students around her stand in applause. He takes a deep bow and quickly plugs his person memoir which will be available for purchase outside the doors to the auditorium, naturally.
As students begin to move around, Fig quickly disguises her face into some random person she saw earlier that day. For the most part her music is a little bit before many of these kids’ time, but it pays to be wary of any classic hipsters who might recognize her. Immediately there is a line of students that bustle together to get in a word with Fabian one-on-one, and so Fig waits till all the rest of the students with better things to do clear out before standing up out of her seat. She’s tempted to stay seated until the gaggle of students disperse from around Fabian before swooping in to say hi, before a horrible moment of inspiration strikes.
She ducks out of the auditorium doors for a second, cutting in line to snag a copy of Fabian’s very thick memoir, before easily shifting her disguise to the stares and murmurs of a couple students who notice.
She re-enters the auditorium as an old, bent over woman. She takes each of the many steps one at a time, gripping the railing as if her oh so feeble bones depend on it. Each step she takes closer to the front, she grunts and moans just the littlest bit louder, slowly gaining the perplexed attention of the small group at the front. Several of the students in the group have stopped talking, and watch her out of the corner of their eyes as she hobbles forward.
“Excuse me, Mr. Seacaster,” Fig croaks as she elbows through to Fabian, “I absolutely adored your talk, so inspirational to these young folk.”
“Thank you very… much. I’m glad to hear it. Is there anything I can do for you?” Fabian grins confusedly, if kindly, looking to the side at his agent who shrugs.
“Yes,” Fig coughs, trying not to laugh, “If you could sign my copy of your book that would be much appreciated.”
“Not a problem,” Fabian intones, his agent readily handing him a pen, “And who should I make it out to?”
Fig grins. “Mrs. Hilda Hilda.”
Fabian’s pen freezes over the cover page, eyes snapping up to stare at Fig’s deviously serene face. She winks at him, and he chokes.
“Fuck me, Fig.” He snaps the cover closed.
---
The first thing they have to do is figure out the timeline for this thing, since neither of them know one thing about how to take care of or hatch a half-phoenix egg. There’s not exactly any parenting books on the subject, this being a very special case – the closest they can get is skimming pregnancy and ornithology texts and trying to take a shot in the dark based on that.
The obvious answer is to contact someone with first hand experience.
Adaine and Fig play twenty-five rounds of rock paper scissors for who is going to contact Aguefort.
“Well,” his crackly voice cheerily intones over the phone, “It never really has a set time frame, you see. She pretty much always stays in there for however long she likes before deciding to pop. Although, if you start to get impatient you can always toss the egg into someplace warm like a furnace or a fireplace. That always seems to motivate her to come rushing out!”
Adaine and Fig look at each other.
“I don’t see any reason–”
“Should really just let her take her time–
“I don’t mind waiting.”
With the arrival date settled on who-knows-when, then came living arrangements. They bantered back and forth as to which house is better equipped to be baby proofed, which then led into a curious brainstorm how to account for a flying infant. The conversation went off on a tangent and never really resumed after that. Instead, Adaine touched up the transportation circles that connected the two of their houses and postponed that debate for another day. Another day meant the next day, when Adaine had enough.
“You can just stay here, you know.”
Fig glanced up from her phone.
“I’m not asking you to like, move in, move in or anything,” Adaine backtracks, “You can still totally have your house for privacy and whatever. It can just be like that summer we rented that apartment together. Just to make things easier for a while until we have everything figured out.”
“I think that would be nice,” Fig says, casual, trying not to sound too eager. She doesn’t want to let on how much living alone again has taken its toll.
It’s not easy.
Adaine comes home early from a trip out to Fallinel to find Fig sitting on the tile floor of the kitchen, three empty bottles of expensive elven wine tipped over beside her. Adaine hoists her up and drags her dead weight up the stairs to bed, waiting till the next morning to viciously chew her out as she holds Fig’s hair back.
Sometimes, Adaine gets lost inside her head. Sometimes, Adaine will stare out of windows for days, and when Fig calls her name she will turn with unshed tears in her eyes. Fig learns that these spells have to pass on their own, but does her best to supply warm drinks and a soothing presence until they do.
Fig bursts up in bed one night, crying and screaming. By the time Adaine rushes down the hallway and throws open the door, Fig is gripping her knees as she rocks back and forth. Adaine holds her through it as Fig sobs, “I was sixteen. I was sixteen. I didn’t know it would be like this.”
When Aelwynn is re-admitted into rehab, Fig is there to accompany Adaine as they drop her off. She doesn’t listen in on the conversations, but she sometimes holds Adaine’s hand when the doctors and therapists call to let her know about progress.
It’s not easy, but it gets better.
Eventually they start sleeping together. Not sleeping together, but during the nights when Fig’s head is buzzing with energy and the other side of the bed is too empty, she will creep down the hallway and silently open the door to Adaine’s room. When she lifts up the covers and slips into bed, Adaine will grumble about how Fig is a furnace. When Fig plasters herself onto Adaine’s back, she doesn’t move away.
They don’t talk about forever. Not really. They joke, and chuckle, and prod around it but serious talk is put aside for making waffles in the morning or binge-watching a new show. They don’t talk about lifespans, or abandonment, or loneliness. Instead, whenever they pass each other one of them will always make it a point to initiate some point of contact: a hand on an elbow, a nudged leg, or maybe even a kiss on the cheek. Some way of saying I’m here. I’m here.
---
Eventually Fig re-enters Ayda’s study. Adaine finally convinces her too, in the off chance there are artifacts in there that require upkeep or spell components that have gone bad.
It hurts, seeing it again. Even with the stale air and accumulated dust there is a sense of Ayda everywhere. There is Ayda in the handwriting on the notes and Ayda in the tall, sun-lit windows. One of her jackets still hangs off the back of the desk chair.
Fig can’t help but linger, but also keeps herself moving in an effort not to get stuck. Adaine was right, there are several bottles and packages that have a rank smell about them and one or two arcane items that probably should not be left lying around. As Fig clears all these things out and moves towards her desk, she spots something curious. Ayda’s desk is mostly clear, except for a red envelope with the corner stuck under a glass paperweight. When Fig goes to investigate it, she drops it as if it stung her.
Addressed on the outside: For Fig, when I’m gone.
Fig spins around and strides to the other side of the room. She closes her eyes, facing the wall, opens them, and turns back around and approaches the desk again. The envelope just sits there, innocuous and still.
In. Out. Fig take careful, full breaths in through her nose, squinting out the window at the sharp rays of sunlight. Oh, Ayda. Oooh, Ayda. She sure knew how to get the last word in.
As Fig leans against the desk and takes turns staring outside and at the envelope, she feels her crystal buzz several times in her back pocket. She let’s it go unanswered, because right now she is kind of preoccupied with trying to breathe. Apparently that was the wrong move, however, because after a minute passes of buzzing Fig is suddenly thrown from her thoughts as Adaine’s voice erupts in her head.
FIG, FOR GODS SAKES GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE! THE EGG IS FUCKING HATCHING!
Fig stuffs the envelope into her pocket and tears out of the room, slamming into the opposite wall with enough force to make the house shake. She's not sure what message Adaine receives in response, likely some unintelligible combination of sounds, as she is focused on not tripping and taking a tumble down the stairs in her frenzy to get to the teleportation circle. She spits hellish curses at the childproof handle as it takes her three separate attempts to get the door open.
When she appears on the other side of the circle, she can already hear Adaine’s voice from across the house: “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods!”
Fig sprints into the living room to see Adaine on her knees in front of a huge pile of pillows and expensive silk blankets. Nestled atop it is the egg, marred by a long fracture running up its length. Adaine whips around.
“What do I do?” Her eyes are wide. Boggy burps.
“Fuck.” Fig quickly gets on her knees, examining it. She flinches backwards as the thing quivers and rocks. She can hear faint sounds of scratching coming from the inside. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
“Well I tried but someone wasn’t answering her phone! I was in the other room and all I heard was a crack and it was already like this!” Adaine gestures helplessly.
“Well, well what do we do?”
“I don’t know, Fig. If I knew what to do don’t you think I would already be doing it?” Another crack like the breaking of bone has both of their eyes fixed back on the egg, where another fracture splinters off from the main one. “Do we help her?”
Fig swats her hands away. “No. I read somewhere that you have to let birds just do their own thing.”
“She’s not a bird, Fig!”
“Well she’s still hatching out of a fucking egg, Adaine! Just stick to what we know and just go from there, I guess!”
Sandra Lynn once told Fig it took ten hours of labor before she managed to push Fig out.
It takes Ayda three minutes.
Fig hasn’t even taken her shoes off with how little time the egg gives them between bursts of activity and scratching. Adaine grabs one of the blankets from the edge of the pile and opens it up in her arms. Fig gives her a quizzical look.
“You know, to swaddle her when she comes out.”
“Right. Right, smart.”
The egg rattles.
“Wait, what if she has an umbilical cord. Do we need scissors for that?” Adaine looks horrified. Fig takes out and flicks open a pocket knife from her jacket pocket. Adaine shakes her head. “Of course you have a knife.”
All at once the egg goes still and quiet. Fig and Adaine hold their breaths, utterly still. Boggy croaks.
“Shh!” they hiss in unison.
Only the quietest scritching can be heard coming from inside. Fig can barely hear it over the sound of her heart beating in her ears. One second. Three seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty Seconds. Twenty-six seconds pass before a small, taloned foot punches its way through the shell.
Fig grabs Adaine’s arm.
“It’s happening. It’s happening.”
“Oh my gods, Fig–”
“It’s actually happening–”
The little foot retreats back into the egg, before punching out again, this time accompanied by a second one. With the combined power of both of them kicking out at the same time, it only takes a couple more tries before the fractured lid is pushed up, off, and topples to the side.
Adaine swoops in with the blanket, but almost immediately recoils, inhaling sharp through her teeth and holding a scorched hand with her other one.
“Shit, that thing is boiling.”
“I’ll do it.” Fig takes the blanket from her and leans delicately over. She sets the blanket across her lap and with all the gentleness she possesses, reaches into the molten core of the egg. In perhaps one of the strangest deliveries known to Spire, Fig slowly lifts a small, bird-footed baby out of the egg. She takes special care wrapping her hands around the wet wings plastered onto her back, suddenly convinced if she moves too fast or recklessly she might break them.
Fig’s heart goes weak as she holds her. Upon being lifted up her plump little arms and legs have curled in tight to her body. Her eyes are still shut tight to the world, which is probably for the best since she is absolutely covered in whatever egg-juices she was suspended in. Her body wriggles a little bit as Fig settles her into her lap, and Fig is suddenly overcome with just how helpless this little being is. Ayda has never been someone Fig has ever associated with the words weak or fragile, but as she gazes down at the ember hot baby in her lap, she is overwhelmed with the wave of responsibility set in her hands.
Adaine gasps. Fig simply gapes.
Fig makes quick work wiping her down, irreparably ruining a blanket that probably took elven sheet smiths three hundred years to make, but Adaine doesn’t seem to care anyhow. When she begins wiping around her head and mouth, her plump little lips purse and open, taking in her first lungful of air and releasing it in a powerful wail.
“And so it begins…” Adaine faintly chuckles.
“So it begins…” Fig responds wryly, careful not to accidentally get any of the goop into her open mouth.
Once most of the residual egg fluid has been wiped away, Fig doesn’t even need to ask before Adaine passes her a clean blanket to swaddle her in. If she looked tiny before, now with only her tiny face and fists poking out, she looks like the most fragile, vocal thing in the world. Fig doesn’t know if she can ever look away.
“We probably want to wash her soon,” Adaine says, breaking Fig out of her spell, “It’s likely not the best idea to leave that stuff dried up in her feathers for too long.”
Adaine may be talking to Fig, but her eyes are absolutely glued to the little bundle in her arms. Fig extends it out. “Do you, you know, want to? Don’t worry, she’s cooled enough to touch now.”
Adaine looks like she wants to protest, but after opening and closing her mouth a few times, she carefully takes the bundle from Fig’s arms, shifting to cross her legs on the ground and cooing almost reflexively as she draws it in close to her chest. Fig takes the opportunity to fully sit back and lean all of her weight back on her arms.
“I don’t know any nursery rhymes,” Adaine whispers, as if worried she might disturb the crying infant in her arms.
“Just sing anything you can rock her to.”
Fig can still feel the envelope sitting heavy in her back pocket. Even amongst the chaos of egg hatching, it hasn’t really left her mind.
One day she’ll read it. Not today, and probably not tomorrow, but one day she will. Today, however, she watches as Adaine gently bounces a baby in her arms as she sways back and forth. Her hair is frazzled, her clothing is wrinkled, and she’s only getting half the notes right to an old EP song from one of the original Fig and the Sig Figs albums. Fig’s face is covered in sweat, her back aches, and she’s wondering what it will take to convince Adaine to drink with her tonight.
For the first time in too many days, something warm blooms in Fig’s chest.
“Welcome back,” Fig grins, tears in her eyes, “Ayda Aguefort.”