[ He’s lucky that the girl from the slums, who spent a quarter of her life in a steel shoebox of a room, has no experience with syvlari biology, so that he might be spared the endless amounts of teasing. Maybe she’ll realize it some day, and retroactively cash them all in, but for now, he’s spared. Walking with him, Aerith beams and tilts her head, listening to him speak.

The smile fades, loosening as he asks about her wounds. Then, she looks ahead, hands over her chest, near the scar. It’s fading, becoming less pronounced but still present all the same. Her shoulder aches only slightly, but is incomparable to the agony she felt before. She remembers it all too clearly, but refuses to buckle under it. She does not hesitate in her answer. ]

I don’t know Eustace as well as you do. But between stabbing me and shocking me, it’s not a great track record.

[ At least she’s teasing. With a thoughtful hum, she continues, ] It’s not as bad as it could be. Ori did an amazing job, and I’ve been taking care of it since then. But… to tell you the truth? [ Here, her voice droops, falling in tone with the same sort of lilting grace that dying petals might possess. ] If you hadn’t winded him earlier, who knows… I thought… that was it.

[ Maybe, for a second, it had been. ]

I guess you did fight with us, if you think about it.