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Taym had waived the offer of payment, which was met with mild surprise but, obviously, no complaint. He'd handed over the plain steel ring that normally occupied his finger--he thought for the first time, as he saw the Tech's hand swallow it up, that perhaps it was a woman's ring, and was strangely unmoved by shame at the thought--and waited.

He'd formed an idea of Fiona, on the basis of her usual tone, of her no-nonsense attitude, of her vaguely maternal way of handling him at his worst, that was the idea of a prudish and pinch-faced woman, the sort that might scowl over a pince-nez, the sort with a rickety body and hair yanked back in a too-tight bun. She'd never seen fit to show him any image of herself that wasn't that of a deer the color of pale morning sky, brow lit by a sun suspended between gleaming antlers, and he'd never asked.

He should have known better: the deer in those fleeting glimpses was a creature of grace and beauty, elegant and ethereal, and the creature delivered to him now was the same. Her hair, hanging heavy over her graceful shoulders, tumbling past the full curves of her hips, seemed as though it ought to be tossed in defiance of gravity instead; her hooves were light but seemed as if they'd be better suited to a weightless drifting. Her eye sockets, just as they were in every vision, were void and empty, lending her face an expression of strange wisdom, faintly sad, ageless. In the limited shape of the golem the space between her antlers was blank, devoid of the light that should have bloomed there, and this felt rather like seeing a fleet-footed dog missing a leg, or a beautiful woman robbed of half her face. He would not have greeted her anyway, but if he'd planned on it the words would have died in his mouth.

Despite the fact that her body was definitely shaped in the same mold as many women he'd lusted after, there was an utter absence of attraction: she was too alien, too intimidating, too close to him, too dear, and her body was the body of a weapon, of an omen: sexless and featureless, a work of art rather than an object of infatuation.

Despite this he barely hesitated before he shrugged out of his coat and handed it over wordlessly. Her abundant curves defied a uniform cut for his scrawny shoulders and narrow body, and so after a moment he passed her the scarf as well, and she managed to fashion the two of them together into a sort of makeshift robe.

He said nothing. She said nothing. There was no need for either of them to talk. There very rarely was.

They left in companionable and calm silence, walking out into a balmy day of scudding clouds in a bright blue sky, and they walked down the path to one of the safer stretches of beach. Here, on a rocky outcrop, they sat down, still in silence, both of them looking not towards the ocean but the way they'd come, towards Deus, towards home, expressionless and peaceful. After a moment and in perfect unison and without any sound at all, she reached for Taym and he leaned towards her.

It took him perhaps ten or fifteen minutes to fully empty himself of tears, sobbing soundlessly into her chilly shoulder, her corpse-cold hands gently stroking his hair. He had not done this in years, not since right after Tuesday was born, when April left, when he'd relapsed and no one knew, when he'd crawled into his mother's room after a week of faking it and wept on her the way he had as a little boy. The most he'd allowed himself had been the distant, silent crying with America, and that was nothing near this stormy, undignified, unmanful breakdown.

Another ten minutes was sufficient for him to collect himself, to scrub off his eyes and splash his face from the bottle of water in his bag, for the redness to subside, and this, too, passed in silence. Eventually Fiona stood, and stretching her legs like a cat with wet paws, she went to stand in the breeze running off the ocean, watching the breakers come in, and she did not say that she was standing there to revel in the touch of wind on her face, tossing her pale hair, but he knew this to be the case.

When he was certain that by the time she'd arrived he'd be clear of any signs of what had just happened, he pulled out his phone.



After a moment, in direct defiance of all the warnings he'd been given, he turned his back to Fiona and lit a cigarette. Watching her motionless indulgence in senses belonging to no one but herself felt taboo and wrong. He gave her her peace, for a moment, as she'd given him his without judgment.

With a quick glance over her shoulder towards Taym, who was giving them their space with a book in one hand and a cigarette in the other, she returned the embrace readily, with none of her wielder's hangups or hesitations.

At the whisper she put America at arm's length to look at her, smiling, and somehow the eyeless unblind gaze above it only made that smile still more benevolent, still more appreciative.

"Please take no offense but I had thought," she said--with a momentary startle; it was the first time she had spoken and her voice was smooth and mild and much deeper than Taym's, and spoken too quietly to carry to him, "that perhaps seeing you through his eyes with all their biases of his love for you might have colored my perceptions. But I see that you are every bit as lovely without the lens of his fondness although," she added, with a rippling laugh, "I am fond of you also."

She leaned closer to add, in a whisper also: "Thank you." And she took her hand in her own chilly fingers, and added: "Will you walk with me a ways? I want to walk in the surf."

She tipped her head to the side as she considered the question.

"I do not think that miss is the correct word," she said finally. "I do not remember what it was like before. I have--desires, to run or to fight, but they are not exactly memories. Instincts, perhaps? This is novel, and pleasant, but it is not my purpose. I was resistant at first to the idea of this body, even for a brief time," she added, tossing her head to let the wind catch her hair, strands of it already tangling in her antlers, "but our sense of purpose is no longer so easily threatened. And I thought that perhaps a separate existence, a moment of the senses, would make it easier to empathize with your kind, and with him."

She paused, adding: "When we went into the storm I longed to run also. I fear I may have complicated his response, but luckily cooler heads prevailed. One of the only times he might be called that," she added with another laugh. "I seem to have adopted some of his prolixity, however. In brief, no: it is lovely, but I do not miss it. I am not sure I am able to miss it. But it is strange when he runs, as though I almost remember. I think my kind must love to run."

The comparison of Fiona to Bashmet was apt in many ways, but perhaps America's suspicions that she and the weapon were not dissimilar were also correct: at the admission, Fiona laughed again--she laughed readily, reserved but honest--and craned back to glance at Taym, still under his less-than-watchful eye. It was not a very lengthy hesitation. Her smile was conspiratorial and young and girlish without in the least denting that constant sense of heavy presence.

"I've run with you many times, America," she said, "and so it seems only fair that you ought to have a chance to run with me. I do not remember," she repeated, "but perhaps I might recall. Perhaps purpose can be set aside for the moment."

Whether it was the nature of the golem body or of Fiona herself was impossible to say, but she seemed tireless, easily keeping pace with America. With Taym there was the almost inevitable moment that he gave up, pushed himself into a brief and brutal sprint and called it quits, but Fiona seemed disinclined to do anything but prolong the sport. She smiled again when they turned to follow the dual tracks, footprints and hoofprints, back to where Taym was waiting: a distant dark spot against the rocks, now lying back with his bag as a pillow, cigarette dangling from one propped-up hand.

"There are others," she explained before they returned to earshot, "that I have been longing to speak to. But he knew, I think, that you might want to run with me first." She hesitated.

"It would be a violation of his trust in me both personally and professionally to say too much, and I've no doubt he would be deeply offended if he knew that I was saying it, but I feel compelled: he does mean well," she said, and the apology was implicit. Please forgive him for all the times that meaning well isn't enough, which are many and often. "I know that I am not alone in my frustration that he often chooses to behave in ways that are destructive to himself or others." Another hesitation. "It is perhaps saying too much, but it is not news to you, and he has said it himself: he is very afraid. And it can be trying for those who would see him improve."

Another smile, this one quieter. "It is not something that I do alone," she reassured her. "It takes a village to raise a child, and two to mend a man."

Taym glanced up towards them, and leaned up to stow his book away and sling his bag over his shoulder, and Fiona gave America's fingers a final, friendly squeeze and let them go as he wordlessly met them, jerking his chin toward the distant buildings in a "let's go home" gesture.

He met her the way he would have if they'd been alone: an arm around her waist, thumb under the band of her shorts to touch her hip, falling into step too close in the way that demanded more a slower and more careful pace, and an indulgent kiss to the side of her head, breathing in ocean air and sweat with his eyes closed. Fiona somehow did not seem a third party to this exchange, but a present fragment of it despite the physical space between them.

"Hope you had fun," he said finally, to both of them.