It all felt like a fever dream. Zel’s absolute lack of care for the existential implications of her being a homunculus, Zef’s outwardly amused stand-off observation of the conversation, the incessant rushing of his own thoughts.

He found himself dissociating from reality for what felt like the briefest of moments, only to get yanked back into the moment by a question.

“...I almost forgot, didn’t I promise to teach you Fog-breathing?” Zel asked, having apparently put the journal back down at some point.

Makhus chuckled, took a deep breath, and replied, allowing silvery wisps of the Fog’s gaseous pseudo-matter to escape with each word. “You did. I uh… We had a little home invasion incident and I happened to figure it out then,” he half-lied. He wasn’t particularly eager to admit that he’d figured Fog-breathing during a vigilantism episode, even if he knew that neither her nor Zefaris would find it objectionable.

“Oh, nice. I’m sure I can help you get better, then,” the slayer said with an unusually warm smile. It vanished beneath her ever-so-smug visage as quickly as it appeared. “For now though, I’ll get out of your way - looks like you’ve got more than enough on your plate as is.”

She just… Walked out. No more questions, nothing. And even as her footsteps echoed up the stairs, Zefaris remained behind. In response to his questioning look she walked up and said, “Hold out your hand.”

So, he did. And she handed him a helical, milky-white crystal. The moment it touched his skin, Makhus felt the familiar warmth of aether pooling into his palm, flowing up his arm, and pooling into his tattoo as it turned pure white.

“Where’d-” he began, looking down at the gem.

Zef interrupted, “The dungeon.” 

“...And you’re just giving it to me?” he looked up, but she was already on her way to the door. 

“It’ll be the most useful to you,” she said before she left, closing the door behind herself. A half-second later the door creaked open and she poked her head through, adding, “Besides, we have more than we know what to do with.”

Before he could question any further, she’d gone and her footfalls thumped away. 

Solid Aether wasn’t nearly as rare as its liquid form, but gemstones this pure and this large were… Certainly not “walk up and give it to a friend” common.

Makhus put the gem down and returned to his work.

Neither Zelsys nor Zefaris felt the need to do anything for the rest of this day, and so they chose to wile away the rest of the afternoon in the backyard. Zef commandeered a couple bottles of Liquid Vigor from the pantry, bringing them to the upstairs kitchen to combine one bottle’s contents with the juice of three large citrons and half a liter of water.

While she worked on this, Zel warmed up some of what was in the oven. It was just a vague arrangement of things on the pan - potato slices, onion slices, cubes of bacon, a chicken drumstick bristling with herbs, a whole filleted and baked fish. She got some of everything excepting the drumstick, then just took to warming it all up on a pan. It didn’t matter - it had all cooked together anyway and she was hungry.

A short while later, they made their way outside.

In the store’s backyard there was a small nook, nestled between the greenhouse and the wall of two other buildings. There was half of a large barrel repurposed for use as a table, surrounded by three wooden chairs.

As they had done once before, Zel and Zef sat here now. The one-armed homunculus slowly ate her food, interspersing each bite with a sip of Zef’s medicinal citronade.

The drink smelled and tasted of citron, mint, and, due to the natural properties of Viriditas, it also smelled and tasted a little like Zefaris. A weak note of salt and who-knew-what other flavors that coalesced into an exact olfactory reminder of the blonde that sat across from her. 

Zef lazily loaded shot after shot into her autoloader. Its counter numbered sixty-three by the time Zel was finished with her meal. Three quarters of an hour later it still numbered sixty-three, and they laid in the grass embracing one another.

The sun had traversed far enough that it couldn’t be seen from the backyard’s walled-in perspective, save for the pinkish-red streaks that it painted across the bottom of the clouds above. Birds sung, leaves rustled, and the distant sound of the city’s flowing lifeblood carried across to this sanctuary. A tortoiseshell cat sat on a nearby rooftop, chittering its murderous desire at a crow.

Always, without fail, Zelsys felt that itch in the back of her head, that drive that made her want to do something, to go out and find some challenge to overcome. 

Always, with the exception of moments like these. Right now, the only incessant urge she had was the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

Perhaps the Divine Emperor was right. 

Perhaps she did have more reasons to oppose him other than pure retributivism.

Nearly six in the evening. 

Sig had fallen asleep reading his pulp. 

The doorbell chimed and pulled him from repose’s waters.

A familiar figure passed through the door. The veteran.

“You-” Sig began. 

The man interrupted with a voice as coarse as gravel, “Lookin’ a helluva lot better than last time. Take it y’did as I advised.”

“Y-yes, your ritual did help resolve my condition,” admitted the historian, still trying to clear away the residual mental cobwebs of his catnap. “I take it you’re here for more Liquid Vigor? We’ve just recently distilled a fresh batch-”

“Aye, four bottles will be good,” the veteran said, ponderously approaching the counter as Sigmund retrieved two pairs of seal-bottles from the shelf behind him. His prosthetic leg thunked against the floor with each step. “Not the main reason I’m here, though.”

“What is the reason, then? You wouldn’t happen to have more wise words regarding my condition, would you?” prodded Sig, feeling no need to state the price. The veteran had already reached into his pants pocket, and was counting out Grekurian gelt coin by coin onto the counter.