The Last Words of a Flying Arrow

  Through the tree-framed doors of a cottage barely a whisper above the Underdark, two strange women shared an evening together in what was, at the moment, a tense silence. One, the taller out of the two, deftly chopped root vegetables on the counter next to bubbling pots heated on flickers of green and purple flames. Every so often, the purpurascent grey-skinned woman sighed through her teeth and slid her steam-moistened bangs back over the crown of her head.
  The other woman was behind her at the rough and knotted dining table, surrounded by crushed pieces of paper. There were two finished letters beside her — the progenitors of her enormous paper hoard — but she was still stuck on the final piece. They had to be perfect. At least as perfect as she was — for those were her last words to her son and to her… brother. It was October 30th, and tonight Agent 01 was going to make the biggest mistake of her life: saving both Mirari Arossa and his reckless tiefling beloved. In the past, she knew this was an event she could have gotten away with. But Trisphar was volatile these days, and paranoid, and she knew with some cosmic certainty that she would have to pay a price for hubris.
  "I cannot understand why you do not just flee with them after this," Firtree finally broke the silence. "They took in 00 and 02 already–"
  Agent 01 scoffed and sighed at once, throwing another clump of tree pulp into the fireplace. “It is as they say. Fool him first, shame on 00. Fool him second, shame on him, and no dragon will allow himself to be made into a fool.” She looked over her shoulder, turning, her white and black hair tumbling around her uncovered face. It was near emotionless, but with a tiredness under her eyes that betrayed the level of pressure she felt. Firtree was not facing her. Fine; she’d talk to her back. “It is well known in the Order that I love the Underhold. If I left, they would look for me, or into my whereabouts, and it would lead them to you. To Zeta. The Siren’s Song crewmates are holed up down here as well — I cannot let them poke around.”
  Firtree, matching the energy of her life-partner, grumbled back, “Then run further! Take Zeta out of the Commonwealth. There is no evidence of your life here without you both here.” Her face was a full pout. “I escaped the Underdark and no one ever came to find me. It is easier to disappear than people pretend.”
  01 did consider running. The leash that had always been around her neck was fast becoming a noose, but she still could not imagine removing her yoke without it taking her head. Trisphar Holmaris, great blue dragon and Prime Rector of the Commonwealth of Norfair — he could scry her, he could track her across continents, he could send endless hordes of mercenaries. He knew her entire life, every place she could run, except this quaint little cottage. She did not want him to have it.
  She looked down at the letter she was drafting. Would the changelings of the Northlands see our faces and know us as kin? Thinking about her secret hope made her sneer at her own childishness. There was nowhere for her but here, and preserving it was worth her life. The Blue Order had to believe there was nothing to pursue, or no value in it. She could not fake her death. To escape, she had to die.
  “I can’t risk that.” She quieted. “Risk… you.”
  Firtree, still cutting and preparing their dinner, choked out a short breath, a sob turned into a disbelieving gesture. “You cannot manipulate me with that. I want to risk you just as little as you do to me.” The drow woman clutched both her fists tight, setting the chopping knife aside for a moment as she reeled herself back in. “Do not say it is for Zeta, either. This is your pride again.”
  Agent 01 growled quietly, a sound-habit she and 03 shared when the other was alive. No, this was not her pride. Perhaps it often was, but she truly thought, this time, this was something deeper. Her pride had been thoroughly thrashed this week; Mirari had manipulated her into helping him, and Leander had scolded her for sending Zeta on a solo mission. Normally she was stronger, smarter, than that. She stayed quiet for a moment.
  “We both thought he was ready for this.”
  Firtree returned to her cooking. “Did I not just say not to blame him?”
  01 turned back to the pages to write, circling her quill around, meandering around the idea of cutting ties; the nature of freedom. Wondering how to scoop the ideas out of her chest and put them on the pages in a way 00 — Leander — would understand them, once she no longer had the ability to clarify them. Yet here she was, unable to have Firtree understand her meaning true. She needed to change tactics.
  “Why are you still harping on this? You burned through weapons-masters in your time. I’ve lasted you plenty of time.”
  The quill was ripped suddenly out of her hand as she was late to register the sound of Firtree rushing her. The drow woman’s left hand grabbed her hair at the top of her head, tilting it back, while she brandished the quill-tip towards 01’s eye. As if she was about to lobotomize the changeling, force her to stay. Her eyes were wet, but her expression was as dangerous and sharp as her rows of fangs. There was no doubt the wrong words would make her do it. 01’s heart fluttered.
  “You are different from them. You know that,” said Firtree. Her quill-hand was still despite the emotion. The lobotomy would be successful. They stared at each other for a moment. 01 let Firtree’s resolve start to wane, then gently pushed her hand to the side with a finger. She continued the gesture, moving her fingers up the other woman’s arm, over her scrolling tattoos.
  01 softened her tone and said, “I don’t want our last conversation to be a fight.”
  Firtree looked even sadder, somehow, clearly in agreement.
  01 continued, “Why don’t you let me help you make dinner?”
  The pair got up from the table, back to the stove-top. They pretended to be domestic for a moment; Firtree dropped her vegetables into the broth while 01 swept up the discarded stems and skins. 01 gestured then, at the cutting board and knife, asking, “Are you finished with that?” and took it to the sink when Firtree confirmed she was. She cleaned both well, as close to sterile as a home kitchen was capable.

warning: slight dismemberment

  In her line of work, she’d severed probably hundreds of fingers. She knew just the angle and force to apply as she engaged with the practice again, putting her left hand onto the board and swiftly arcing her right hand down with the knife like a guillotine. Her pinky came off clean and as she tried to stifle her scream, it came out as a shrill squeak, then high-pitched short bursts of laughs as the pain activated every cell of her body. Firtree yelped as well, turning to see what was happening, and shouted drow curses in Undercommon that she hadn’t uttered in decades.

  Moments later, she was seated at the table again, holding the finger in her right-hand while Firtree salved and bandaged her brand new stump. 01 had a slight grin on her face — one that would not be out of place on a goblin that had ingested too many psychedelic mushrooms.
  “What the fuck was that?” asked her partner, finishing tying the strips of cloth around 01's hand.
  01 lifted the black severed finger towards Firtree. “There are methods of resurrection which require as little body left as a hair. This should more than suffice for that. A contingency plan, my dear fairy.” Firtree’s eyes widened in understanding. “Keep this with you until Leander returns here to give you the news. You may return this to him, or request the means to use your own methods. He has a book of necromancy, and… well, his new friends are crazy. They are powerful and grow more so every day. The runaway girl who becomes a dragon and a storm. The discarded sea-trash that steals from dragon hordes. The small-town reject that challenges tyrants, the slave that builds their body in the image of gods… Mirari will return Ducat from the Hells. Leander won’t let me be gone long.” 01 smirked. “A year or so in some planar realm of torment could do me some good.”
  Firtree took 01’s gift gingerly, and wrapped it for safekeeping. She was calmer now.
  “You could have said you had a plan.”
  “Don't I always?” responded the changeling.
  Considering this, Firtree nodded, only partially reluctant to admit it. Part of her had been placated, though she wished 01 would listen to her desires when she made decisions. But a creature that did so would not be her Agent 01. Firtree stroked her thumb over the remaining fingers of 01’s left hand. How much time would she wait before she would hold it again?
  “How long does that need to simmer?” 01 asked, angling her head to the stove.
  “Forty minutes,” said Firtree.
  “Barely any time at all! Nonetheless, I can work in that timeframe.” She stood up, dragging Firtree up with her. They both grew more pleasant as 01 pulled her past the walls of pinned insects and hanging herbs and Zeta’s drawings of animal forms, entwining as they climbed the stairs to their room for one last night.