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Hvergelmir smiled, squeezing Ida's hands between her own. "I hoped you would," she admitted. She took a moment for herself -- breathing in the strange, familiar air, bathing in the radiance of the stars -- then turned them both toward the island. "This is where I go when I need to get away from the world for a while. No one will judge you here -- there's no one but us. No war, no questions . . . nothing at all."

She stepped away for a moment, separating from Ida just long enough to cross the boundary where the pier met the island, the force field falling away at her touch.

Hvergelmir turned back, facing Ida, and held out a hand, smiling brilliantly. "Come, weary traveler," she intoned warmly. "Be welcome, and rest from your long journey."

Hvergelmir took Ida's hand in her own, then pulled it closer so she could link their arms together. She folded her other hand over Ida's forearm, keeping her securely close. "Ah," she countered softly. "We travel our whole lives. I can't remember the last time I felt like I didn't owe anything to anyone. There's more to rest from than just our own choices."

She felt different, always, when she came here. There was no one watching, no one to question her: only this quiet place that trusted itself to her judgment. She felt like she understood the world better, here; like it all made more sense.

Maybe that was why she'd brought Ida here. Maybe that was what she wanted to convey.

She answered Ida's question about exploring her Wonder with a soft, nonjudgmental laugh. "Oh, there's not much to explore, I'm afraid," she said unselfconsciously. What you see is all there is: the Well, the temple, the stable, the garden, the pier." And that other place, too, the secret chamber deep beneath the island, where a piece of the Code stayed safely protected. "The memories come and go -- but I'm here most every week to do my weaving."

Hvergelmir led them away from the pier, past the raised steps that led to the dais and the Well, onward toward the temple. "I have a connection to this place," she began. "Just like you have a connection to yours. So tell me -- do you protect your world, or does your world protect you?"

Hvergelmir smiled indulgently at Ida. She was such a sweet and gentle person, always trying to be there for people, to be everything they needed . . . It was little wonder, Hvergelmir thought, that the older she got, the more she felt the weight of that. The more responsibility she felt she could take on, the more she took on. What was left was almost no time in the day for her to actually live a life, rather than just rise to each new occasion. The Ida of the present didn't have any of Princess Ida's constant responsibilities, but rather than make use of her freedom to live her life, she seemed paralyzed by the guilt of it -- unable to permit herself to enjoy a schedule that had some space in it for Orah.

Even as a senshi, she tried to be so much. To never disappoint anyone.

Laney had never lived a life with that much strain, but she could sort of understand the idea.

Hvergelmir led Ida up toward the temple itself, one foot at a time on the huge, marble path. "Don't try to be a normal person," she said very seriously. "Just try to be you. We don't live normal lives anymore, so it isn't realistic to think fitting into that mold's still the best thing for us. Whatever we are . . . " She thought of herself and Jenna, with their unconventional little lives in their cramped flat with wrapping papered walls and colored string lights. "It's a new kind of normal. A normal just for us, one that fits the lives we have and the things we need. Don't you think?"

The temple opened before them, admitting them first into an open prayer theater before Hvergelmir moved onward through a doorway with a ratty, tattered old cloth hanging from the lintel. They were in a small hallway, all cut from marble in intricate, beautiful arches.

"Your world protects you," she agreed. "And you protect it. That connection is a promise between you, to help each other. That promise was always there -- but now it's stronger than it was before. You can depend on each other more. You're true partners." Hvergelmir leaned in, to a place where the patterns of light scattered magenta across her skin in a pretty whorl, and pressed her lips very gently against it. Breath still close against Ida's soft skin, she confided, "I think that's a beautiful thing."

Hvergelmir wet her lower lip with her tongue. It was the most natural thing in the world, being here with Ida like this. She was beautiful, too -- not just in the vibrant swirls of pink light on her skin, but in the warm, sunny tone of it, the rose blush that stole up over her face to settle on her cheeks whenever she got shy. Ida was often shy.

It made Hvergelmir want to show her how wrong she was, every time she thought something small of herself. Every time Ida doubted herself, every time she saw herself as unworthy, unloved, unlovable -- it left Hvergelmir wanting to take her by the shoulders, press her back against the wall, show her how very, very wrong she was. How much she was cherished. How well she could be. Hvergelmir longed for things she wasn't entirely sure she knew how to do . . . but there was the urge, under all of it, very simply to give back. To show her that whatever Ida was, she was loved and accepted by someone who would be whatever she needed.

I want to be whatever you crave. Whatever pleases you best. Your happiness is so important to me.

"Always," she breathed, leaning in to daub her fingertips airily against the underside of Ida's chin. "Any time you like."

Hvergelmir warmed into Ida's arms, her heart rising to a happy glow. It was hard not to care about some like Ida; the woman she'd known in the future and the one standing before her were one and the same, changed only by time and smallest circumstance. All her goodness and all her grace were in her selfless works, her boundless generosity of spirit. Here was a woman tireless and giving, noble and brave, who somehow remained convinced of so many things she was unworthy of.

How can you hate yourself? she wanted to ask. How can you not see the impossible wonderfulness of you? Who in God's name ever taught you to think there was something wrong with you?

The truth was, Hvergelmir didn't know much about kissing. Her experience had been brief and limited, if very pleasant, and that had been months ago -- she had only the memory of soft heat radiating down to her core, lips on hers, the comingling of desire and adoration.

It was Nephthys who had done this many times before, Nephthys who had been wild and free with her affections, but held her heart shuttered and safe. Maybe Hvergelmir had understood different things, in her other life. In this one thing, though, they were agreed: human beings were made for loving. Love was best given, and did not grow by its hoarding. What she felt, she followed.

Hvergelmir parted her lips under Ida's coaxing, leaning into the kiss. One hand traveled down from Ida's chin, and the other up from her side, till she had both of them curled up tight-fisted in the purple cloth of Ida's collar to keep her there, to show her how much this was wanted.

Show me who you are, Ida. Stop holding yourself back. See how beautiful you are in my eyes. See how safe you are in my keeping. Let me see all of you.

If you can't trust yourself, start by trusting me.

The words you have so many people who love you settled oddly in her stomach, kicking up acid there, but Hvergelmir chuckled softly against Ida's mouth, still catching her breath. "Offer...? I don't remember," she breathed, "posting a job listing."

It was a funny thing, attraction. The truth was, it was hard to define what stirred it in the breast. Some part of it, some huge part of it, had nothing to do with what the other person was offering, what Hvergelmir could get from them, and everything to do with what she could give. She saw people that needed love, in one way or another -- and maybe it was selfish or self-involved, but everything in her ached with the desire to be the person who gave it to them. She wanted to please, to soothe, to help, to comfort. To give love because she had it to give, because she wanted to give it.

The other part of it -- what she sought, what she craved in return -- was very simple, and sometimes difficult. Accept me for who I am. Don't ask me to be someone else. Make me feel loved. Maybe that was selfish too. Maybe all love was selfish, in a way.

"You have so many amazing qualities," Hvergelmir told her, thumbs rubbing absent circles against Ida's clavicles. "You just can't see them yet." She tilted her head back in to press another kiss to the corner of Ida's mouth. "Have faith in me."

I'm going to show you. I'm going to make you believe.

It took Hvergelmir a minute to figure out that did you want to keep going? didn't refer to what she thought it referred to. Her head was spinning a little, either from excitement or from a shortage of oxygen, and it took some effort to connect the dots into the right sentiment, which was not a recommendation to start pulling Ida's scarf away from her pretty neck and was in fact a reminder to finish the tour of the island. Embarrassed and red-faced, Hvergelmir tucked Ida's scarf back in place with a self-conscious little patting motion.

"O-of course," she said, recovering her smile. "Here, come and see my weaving room."


Hvergelmir led them up a tall spiral staircase to the second floor, a new hallway opening up before them at the landing. A double door stood off to the left, rose-gold filigree inlaid with panes of milky moonstone; Hvergelmir stepped away from Ida's side momentarily to push both doors wide.

Beyond lay what Hvergelmir had described as a weaving room. It was, perhaps, arguably a weaving balcony or a weaving porch, but something not quite a room and not quite not -- it had a crystalline floor and a few walls and and a door, and there was furniture to make it comfortable and functional, but where the rest of the temple was walled in and roofed, this room faced away from the remainder of the island and looked out onto nothing outward or above except shimmering starlight and open space. In that much emptiness, the towering loom and spinning wheel and chairs looked rather smaller than they were.

"These worlds we're given are small and quiet," she said, looking out across the way to the broad expanse of stars. "And they've been waiting a long time for someone to come and help them brighten the universe again. And I'm the only one who can do that for this place. And you're the only one who can do that for your world. Why should that be wrong? Why should you have to hold yourself back?" She looked back at Ida, her eyes fixed. "Don't listen to anyone who tells you to make yourself smaller. Don't listen to anyone who tells you not to shine too bright." Hvergelmir smiled. "Your bond with your world, whatever it is -- your connection and your dedication to it -- that loyalty is a great strength. Let it shine until the darkness cracks open in fear. Conviction has its own power to change the world."

Hvergelmir used her one hand to raise both of Ida's to her face, so she could kiss Ida's knuckles affectionately. "Trying is all you have to do," she promised. "Changing the way you think is a tough thing to do -- it doesn't come naturally at all. You practice a little every day."

She pressed the top of Ida's hand to her mouth again; but this time, she just held it there, savoring the contact. "The rest of it is my pleasure. I'm glad you called me," she murmured, looking up through her eyelashes and over Ida's hand. "I like that you wanted me to comfort you."

Her smile glittered, and she lowered Ida's hands back down, but didn't let go of the comfortable clasp of her fingers.

"Here now, come," she said. "I'll show you how to use the loom. I think you'll like it."