“Our house,” Vasilia breathes, and the sails flutter. “Was built from the remnants of a starship that had crash-landed ages and ages ago. Took out half a mountain when it landed, and embedded itself deep in the other half. Generations of my family conscripted workers to clear out debris, reinforce the structure, work the plates of metal until they became a firm foundation. In my time? It was fortress and mansion all in one. Our ballroom boasted an unparalleled view of the countryside, with viewports four times my height, and a working artillery battery to boot. We made our own firework shells in the foundries for special occasions.”

The hairbrush runs long, soothing strokes through an ocean of hair, expertly teasing out knots with hardly a tug at Mosaic’s head. She works to the rhythm of a song in her heart; she’s much too busy with her story to hum the tune. 

“Your home was at [i]least[/i] as grand as mine. Finer, if you’d have asked me. ‘See, these are people,’ I remember thinking, ‘who knew a thing or two about class.’ The outside…the outside was…”

“Well, there’s no use asking me about the outside, is there? Truth be told, I hardly ever saw it. I had a tunnel, specially built, so that we could go back and forth whenever we liked. Oh, what a lifesaver that was when we couldn’t bear the crowds for another second. And when the storms blotted out the sun, and the wind besieged our estates with shrapnel. I’d come over, and we’d hide away in the innermost rooms, in fortresses of blankets and pillows, where no clang of metal could reach us. And we’d dream of days quiet enough that no one would have to hide again.”

“Or, we’d fight!”

A delighted laugh bubbles up out of her.

“Come, come, darling, of [i]course[/i] I don’t mean seriously. But even so, what storm could compete with us when we got into it? Gods, don’t tell anyone, you’ll spoil my carefully crafted mystique-” Secret Technique: Audible Wink! “But really, it’s not like I was born a master of the glaive. Sparring with you, it was either become a genius or learn to love the taste of dirt, and my palate was [i]much[/i] too refined for the latter.”

Now claws join brush. To feel out her work. To tease out those last, stubborn tangles. To drape her hair lovingly across her shoulders. 

“I think…that tripped you up, in the Olympics. There must have been a rule against using claws or jaws or the like. Only weapons you can carry, nothing that came attached to you. There must have been. How else did I ever keep ahead of you in the medal count?”

A whisper, too soft for sails, and just loud enough for one.

“Or were you happy to lose, if it was me?”

The waves lap at the sides of their boat, filling the silence between them. Her hands move to shoulders, and rub gently. An apology, in motion. “I know. I know you don’t remember, dear. You don’t have to say a word.” She squeezes, in time to her aching heart. “Just bear with the odd, silly dream of mine, and I’ll tell stories enough for the both of us. Where we were, what we did, and how we made it out, you and I.”

“And how [i]you[/i] made out with - oops! Silly me, I meant made it out with a shining, beautiful treasure.” Secret Technique: Laugh of Ultimate Superiority! Oh ho ho ho! “So. Shall it be braids? A ponytail? Would you like her to be struck dumb, or to add a few stanzas to her song? Your hair is a gift, darling, and I have [i]ideas…[/i]”