Chapter Text
The arid desert sun beat down, harsh like the sting of antiseptic in a fresh wound. A parish disbanded in a cacophony of gasps, muttering and shouts— a priest's voice boomed out over the drifts of sand. Erupting from the crowd, barely secured atop a startled horse, a runaway nun and an outlaw cowboy were holding one another for dear life.
Harrowhark Nonagesimus and Gideon Nav were expressly childhood enemies. Circumstance had forced them apart, and as time went on, they only grew to hate one another more. Gideon was (un)fortunate enough to be orphaned at the doorstep of Drearburh parish with nothing but a scuffed leather stetson and a stranger's wish that she be called 'Gideon'. Like the other orphans, she was put to work for her daily bread, toiling constantly outdoors. Unlike the other orphans, she'd earned the direct ire of the heiress ; and thus, the hatred of the entire church.
It went like this: the two girls were nearly friends when they were young. Despite their many differences, they were the only children in the same age group—and the only girls. It was Gideon who Harrow confided in, not the Reverend Mother or Father, when it became too suffocating to ignore. Even when Harrow was permitted girlhood in ways Gideon was not, between the two of them, her identity was never in question. In those early days, that simple solidarity may as well have kept them alive.
While Harrow sat in daily sermons like a perfect little nunlet, nothing but the church's golden girl, Gideon mapped out every crevice she could find in the small parish. There truly wasn't much to plunder. The land the church owned was enough for their small village and some forest beyond, but it was nearly barren. Many of the crops Gideon tended to hardly bore fruit. The only things of interest besides the rickety stables were the catacombs scattered around. All were practically tourist destinations for Gideon—many days, if she was entirely alone, she would pretend that an unmarked grave held the bones of her mother.
The most remarkable attraction was the beautiful, well-kept tomb of Saint Alecto. While Drearburh was nearly colorless, completely void of any decoration besides bone, the stained glass inlaid on the tomb's elegant gothic windowpanes burst with metallic golds. She was almost treated as her own goddess, despite how sacrilegious that may have seemed to other sects of Catholicism. Her beauty and power were absolute. Despite her general distaste for anything involving capital-G God, Gideon quite liked Alecto. She was a warrior. Nearly every day she could spare, she took a quiet walk to pay her respects.
On one fateful, cloudy afternoon, Alecto's tightly-sealed tomb door laid open. Not half-open, as if a draft had somehow dislodged the stone door; open open, with the entrance in full view. Gideon crept around the corner, tiptoeing like the corpse had rediscovered a mind of its own. Instead of a miracle, a dead body come back to life, Gideon saw—Well. She saw Harrow.
She had seen her poised over the mummified, holy remains of Saint Alecto, engaged in kissing practice with a corpse. A sanctified corpse. She was the only thing more valuable to the Reverend Mother and Father than Harrowhark herself.
The idea of Harrowhark becoming disgraced was far too satisfying to pass up. She'd all but sprinted to the church, boasting to anyone who would listen that the supposed Reverend Daughter had defiled their most precious resource. And of course, it had been too good to be true. As a small party had gathered around Alecto's neatly arranged and locked tomb, Harrow snuck around the back, seemingly unaware of the proceedings.
From then on, Harrowhark made sure to keep Gideon's life a living Hell. Even though Gideon was much stronger, that didn't stop her from kicking her when she was down or hurling incendiary insults. The worst part was that Gideon was, for all intents and purposes, her servant. She was expected to kiss the very ground that graced her feet as all other townsfolk did. Any word out of her mouth was meant to be a prayer.
To Gideon's eyes, Harrow relished in the praise. What she couldn't know was that it was nothing but a gilded cage. The loyalty and devotion Harrow received came at a price. Priamhark and Pelleamena kept Harrow's transition buried deep under wraps, convinced that it would bring the family nothing but shame. If she were to be a girl, she was to act, dress, and inherit the part. Every aspect of her appearance and transition was carefully constructed; not a single hair out of place.
Much of Harrowhark's hatred came from a deeply rooted jealousy at Gideon's freedom.
As she grew, it became more and more apparent that she wasn't cut from the same Drearburh cloth. She was already ostracized enough. Murmurs of a legendary outlaw made their way back to her ears—one with the same flaming red hair and brown, freckled skin. The only time she'd successfully snuck into a town, she got her hands on a poster of this famed 'Wake', with eyes like gunmetal and a frown that cut like glass. Her unkempt red curls almost spilled out of the frame, hardly contained under a crumpled leather brim. From that moment on, all Gideon wanted was to grow into her spitting image.
It was dangerous to dream. Even through the punishments for escaping, the words like the lashings against her back, there was a spark that couldn't be put out. She let her hair grow long, only causing herself to stick out more. Instead of practicing scripture, she spent her time training her endurance. When Brother Crux insisted she was an eyesore even at mealtimes, she dedicated herself to working in the stables around the clock.
At seventeen, after years of tedious preparation, she finally broke away. She'd stolen a flighty old mare, Aiglamene, and stuffed her pockets with all the food she could find. No one batted an eye when she burst out of the rickety gate—to the elders, it was a good riddance.
In a moment that surprised and embarrassed them both, Harrowhark ran after Gideon until her legs gave out from beneath her, crumpling her body back down to the dirt. As she glanced behind, bewildered, she saw a longing expression that seemed nearly alien on her rival's face. Harrow's hand grasped desperately at the dirt trail she kicked up behind her.
It was the only time anyone had ever asked Gideon to stay.
Despite several years and a healthy distance from Drearburh, she couldn't help it. She kept tabs. The small piece of land turned out to be a magnet for town gossip, even for miles to come—pioneers couldn't grasp why the church simply refused to sell its land. Rather than pass the deed onto an investor who would pay ten times its worth, they had kept it in the family, and were going through the process of forcing Harrow's hand to sign for inheritance. The girl who seemed to have no stronger desire than to flee.
She had to come back, or she'd never forgive herself. They were girls together, after all.
The scene in front of them was starting to get grim. Gideon hadn't planned much ahead—her main goal was getting Harrow out, not sitting around for a reunion. Priamhark and Pelleamena stood in the back of the crowd, expressions flat. Emerging from the church doors, Harrowhark's oldest caretaker cocked a shotgun.
"Stand down! Or I'll shoot!" Brother Crux croaked.
"Like hell you will!" Gideon taunted over her shoulder, sneering. He had only gotten more knobbly and miserable over the years, his face resembling an angry, gnarled potato. She almost felt sorry for him.
"Giddyup, girl," she called to Carrot, yanking up on the reins. Her horse whinnied in response, tamping at the ground impatiently. The second she began to gallop, the world moved in slow motion.
Against the holster on her thigh, Gideon felt Harrow palm for her revolver (what the fuck), pull it free, and lean back over the horse. Gideon had to clumsily grab her robes to keep her from flying out of the saddle, the callouses of her fingers snagging against the black silk. Craning her neck, she watched helplessly while Harrow clicked off the safety (seriously, what the fuck), aimed, and shot for Brother Crux's miserable forehead. But she was too late for the draw.
Harrowhark's movement completely skewed Brother Crux's poor aim. Instead of Gideon's shoulder, the bullet darted straight ahead—skimming across Harrow's temple. The revolver clattered to the ground. Her shriek brought Gideon back up to speed, a harsh, shrill sound, not unlike that of a dying animal. Even through all of their fistfights as children, Harrowhark had never screamed. Through the loose curls trailing out of her habit, against the stark white of the headband, a gush of blood trickled down her cheek.
Despite the sweat on her brow, Gideon's blood ran cold.
"Harrow!" She cried, scrabbling behind her. It was a miracle Carrot was able to keep her pace at all, with how she thrashed against the saddle, dividing her gaze from the getaway to the girl.
The knot in her stomach unclenched as Harrow gripped onto her waist in response, still very much alive. She felt her nails dig into the cotton of her work shirt, desperate to keep contact, and the tendons of her arm as Harrow pressed herself against her back. She hissed, "Are you an imbecile? Just go!"
She dug her heels in, urging her horse even faster. Her hand grasping backwards shifted to the reins. For the first time since she was a child, Gideon Nav prayed to a God she no longer believed in.