While Umbra’s body was still in the midst of repairing itself, her bones audibly shifting beneath skin, fractures knitting together with pulses of divine warmth, muscles reweaving as though guided by invisible hands—she found herself abruptly tackled by something far softer than any battlefield opponent she had ever known.
Farah descended upon her with all the restraint of a collapsing star.
Before Umbra could properly brace herself, arms had wrapped around her shoulders and a cascade of fervent kisses rained down across her face. The angel made small, breathless sounds between each stolen peck, as though she feared that if she paused too long, the moment might dissolve into illusion.
“I missed you so, so, so, so much!” Farah exclaimed, her voice breaking somewhere between laughter and tears. She pulled back only long enough to cradle Umbra’s face in her hands, thumbs brushing over her jaw as if to confirm solidity, and then leaned in again to pepper even more kisses across her lips and forehead. “I missed you! You have no idea. My heart broke in twain when you disappeared, and I did not know if I would ever see you again.”
Umbra, who had withstood sieges and divine wrath with stoic composure, found herself momentarily overwhelmed. It was difficult to respond with dignity while one’s ribs were audibly setting themselves back into place and one’s wife was attempting to cover every inch of exposed skin with affection.
“How long has it been?” she managed at last, her voice slightly strained but steadying as the final cracks in her bones sealed up.
Farah drew back just enough to look at her properly, though her hands remained firmly anchored at Umbra’s shoulders as if she feared she might vanish again at any second.
Farah had a reputation, after all.
In the early days, she had been known as a demure and gentle priestess of the Triumvirate, a serene young woman whose smile could soothe quarrels and whose patience seemed without boundary. She had walked temple halls with grace, offering comfort and guidance with an almost otherworldly calm. Anger did not seem to live in her, and if it did, she kept it carefully locked away where none could glimpse it.
Later, when she had ascended beyond mortality and become the living hand of the Triumvirate upon the world, that image had not changed much. She remained composed, radiant, and merciful, the only difference was that when she faced the great enemy that the fury she displayed had been something terrible and awe-inspiring.
That being said, there were aspects of Farah that no courtier, no soldier, and certainly no worshipper ever saw. Only a handful of maids had ever glimpsed what she became in private, and even they pretended afterward that they had seen nothing at all.
When alone together, Umbra let the rigid mask of hardened warrior and meticulous noble fall from her features. The sharp edges softened, the commanding presence eased, and Farah, radiant angel of the Triumvirate, transformed into something almost absurdly affectionate. Sugary sweet did not begin to describe it. Her love, when unrestrained by dignity or expectation, knew absolutely no moderation.
“Four years, three months, and two days,” Farah replied immediately, without hesitation, as though she had counted each sunrise and sunset individually and carved them into memory.
Umbra blinked at her.
“That long?”
Farah’s brows knit together faintly. “You lost track?”
“No,” Umbra said, shaking her head slowly as she flexed her fingers and tested her mended ribs. “Only two and a half days have passed here.”
Farah stared at her, clearly trying to reconcile the statement with the anguish she had endured. “That cannot be.”
“It can,” Umbra insisted gently. “Time flows differently here. I do believe some of it was lost between worlds, too. The timeline doesn’t lineup perfectly”
Farah’s expression shifted from confusion to dawning astonishment. “Truly?”
“Yes.” Umbra exhaled softly, her gaze drifting briefly to the sky as she considered the strange mathematics of worlds. “From my perspective, I saw you three days ago. Only two weeks had passed in the ten years I spent on Ganymede.”
Farah’s hands tightened on her sleeves, not painfully, but with renewed intensity, as though the universe itself had just admitted to playing a cruel joke.
“Then you have barely been gone at all,” she whispered, half to herself and half in disbelief.
Umbra allowed a small, weary smile to form.
“Not for me,” she said.
For Farah, however, it had been four years, three months, and two days.
After Farah had finally satisfied whatever internal tally she kept regarding the precise number of kisses required to compensate for four years of absence, she at last relented in her assault and ceased pressing Umbra flat into the mud. With visible reluctance, she withdrew her hands and rose in one smooth, unearthly motion, as though gravity itself held only a polite agreement with her rather than true authority.
Umbra, for her part, took a slower approach to regaining her dignity. She planted one gauntleted hand into the churned earth and pushed herself upright, boots squelching faintly as she stood. The battlefield had not improved in the moments she had spent being enthusiastically reunited with her wife; if anything, the mud had become more determined to claim her as its own.
Farah remained as she had been in life. Tall for an elf with all the expected grace that came with it, but that still left her far, far shorter than Umbra. The difference had always been noticeable. Now, with Umbra rising to her full imposing height, it was especially so. Farah had to tilt her chin upward to properly glare at her.
There was, however, one very unfair advantage in Farah’s favor.
Despite having quite literally tackled a fully armored woman into wet soil, not a single speck of mud clung to her. Her white and gold garments hung pristine and luminous, as though they had never known contact with the mortal world. A faint angelic radiance shimmered around her form and anything that dared approach her with ill intent, or in this case, dirt, simply failed to adhere.
Umbra, by contrast, looked as though she had attempted to wrestle the earth itself and lost.
“You are filthy,” Farah admonished, folding her arms with an expression that suggested this was a moral failing rather than a circumstantial one.
Umbra glanced down at herself, taking in the streaks of mud across her armor, the damp hems of her cloak, and the general state of ruin her once dignified appearance had fallen into. She then lifted her gaze back to Farah, one brow arching ever so slightly.
“Whose fault is that?” she asked, her tone carrying the faintest trace of amusement.
Farah’s eyes widened in immediate indignation. “You were dirty before I knocked you down.”
“I was significantly less dirty before you knocked me down,” Umbra replied with calm precision, brushing half-heartedly at her shoulder only to smear the mud further. “I would even venture to say that I was approaching a tolerable level of grime.”
“Tch. Insufferable.”
Umbra placed a hand over her heart in exaggerated offense. “Insufferable, am I? I suppose it was your intention, then, to smite me when you fell from the heavens so dramatically? Was I mistaken in assuming that celestial descent was meant for the enemy rather than for your long-suffering wife?”
Farah’s lips twitched despite herself, though she tried valiantly to maintain her stern expression.
“If I had meant to smite you,” she replied loftily, lifting her chin, “you would not be standing.”
Umbra leaned down slightly, closing some of the considerable height between them, her shadow falling over Farah in a way that might have intimidated lesser beings.
“And yet,” Umbra murmured, her voice warm with restrained laughter, “here I remain. Muddy, oppressed, and even assaulted by affection. I hardly know how I survived.”
Farah huffed and reached out to flick a clump of drying mud from Umbra’s cheek with unnecessary precision.
“You are fortunate I love you,” she said.
“Deeply fortunate,” Umbra agreed solemnly.
“So, where is the Witch?” Farah asked at last, the playful brightness draining from her expression as easily as sunlight slipping behind a cloud.
Umbra let out a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep within her chest. “I am not entirely sure,” she admitted. “I am fairly certain she was near here recently. The corruption is fresh. The air still tastes of her.” She paused, gaze drifting toward the churned battlefield. “But I was… preoccupied with the broodmother.”
Farah’s head snapped back toward her. “There was a broodmother?” Her brows drew together sharply. “How many?”
“Hopefully just the one, for now,” Umbra replied, though the faint tension in her jaw suggested she did not fully trust that hope. “It was fully grown which implies there was enough time to become somewhat entrenched. We need to find the Witch before she creates more.”
Farah’s frown deepened. “How long has she been here?”
“Longer than three days,” Umbra said slowly. “The infestation had already taken root. I do not think more than a week, though that is merely an educated guess.”
“I see.” Farah fell quiet for a brief moment, considering the implications with the kind of calm calculation that had once guided temple decisions and now guided wars. Then, quite suddenly, her smile returned, brilliant and confident. “Well, I do not think that will be a problem for long. You have me here now.”
Umbra’s lips curved upward fondly despite the grim circumstances. “Yes, yes. I am nothing without you.”
“Correct,” Farah replied immediately.
Umbra let out a soft, resigned huff of laughter.
“Now,” Farah continued, stepping back a pace. She stretched her arms outward, wings unfurling behind her in a slow, magnificent arc that caught the dim light and scattered it into soft gold across the mud. “I suppose I shall do my best to locate that wicked wretch. Do you happen to have any quicksilver on hand? Is that easily acquired here?”
Umbra tilted her head. “You are going to make a pointer?”
Farah nodded eagerly.
“The local government has been helpful, as much as they are capable of being,” Umbra said. “I have also placed a tracking enchantment upon my spear, the one with the bones. Within a fixed area, I can sense concentrated corruption through Halcyon.”
Farah’s eyes widened with genuine surprise. “I did not know you knew that spell.”
Umbra’s answering grin was broad enough to split her face in two, sharp and delighted and entirely too pleased with herself. Farah, for her part, found the expression unbearably adorable, even if most others would have described it as vaguely threatening. Those people, she firmly believed, were wrong.
“You were not always available to supervise me,” Umbra said lightly. “And I enjoy studying magic. It occupies the mind.”
Farah’s expression softened at that, pride flickering briefly across her features.
“Very well,” Umbra continued. “We can return to the city, conduct proper introductions, and gather whatever materials you require for the enchanted item. What else did you need?”
“Iron, quicksilver, and a small amount of electrum,” Farah replied promptly.
Umbra nodded. “Those should be simple enough to acquire.”
She hesitated then, eyeing Farah thoughtfully.
“You do realize your appearance is going to cause rather significant waves. You have no idea what angels represent in certain parts of this world.”
Farah’s wings shifted slightly behind her. “You mentioned it once before,” she said. “I observed some of it upon my arrival. The way people looked at me. The awe.”
Umbra snorted softly. “Some called me a demon, which is very funny, considering my wife is an angel.”
Farah tilted her head. “What is a demon?”
“A fallen angel,” Umbra explained. “One filled with malice. Cast down. Twisted.”
Farah’s expression grew indignant on Umbra’s behalf. “But you were never an angel.”
“I am aware.”
“And you are pure of heart,” Farah insisted fervently. “The greatest hero to ever live.”
Umbra gave her a long, measured stare. “You might be slightly biased.”
“Shush,” Farah replied at once. “I am correct, and that is the end of the matter.”
Umbra inclined her head with exaggerated solemnity.
“Yes, dear.”