They pass each other like ships in the night.
A thin veil between them, enough to obscure their presence. Where Rook sees bland, colorless stones, Neve feels cold, pressing despair.
They stand in her office on opposite sides of reality.
There’s a tug; a pull. A silent plea deep within Neve’s gut that tells her to move. To lift heavy arms and grasp the hope that is just out of sight. But she ignores the feeling; pushes it away as fantastic, whimsical. Rook is gone, and no amount of yearning will change that.
Rook senses a subtle kindness in the malaise of her prison; a gentle sensation that feels a lot like curiosity. She half expects to feel the flutter of a wisp passing by, its tendrils carelessly draped across her shoulder. But when she turns to listen - to hone in on the source of the whispered light - she only finds silence.
Yet, these feelings tug on them all the same.
Their feet are heavy, tired with grief. Despair settled deep in their bones.
But the small whisper guides them and, beyond all logic, they follow.
Rook scrapes her skin against the rough stone of sculptures chiseled by regret. Neve stumbles across the uneven ground of Arlathan, feet catching on the floating stones leading to the ritual site.
They both see the tear in reality at the same time, eyes fluttering in disbelief.
And then they run.
Rook’s feet grow heavier with each step, as though the prison is trying to hold her down.
Neve pushes through the rush of magic, whipping around the site like a typhoon.
Hands reach out, grasping one another. One pushes, the other pulls.
They tumble.
A body - real and warm - collides with Neve’s and they crash painfully into the stone altar. She feels the air leave her lungs.
There’s a pause as they catch their breath and then:
“Rook,” Neve sobs. “Trouble.”
A mop of blonde hair lifts and piercing green eyes - exhaustion evident in the rings beneath - stare back.
“Vhenan.”