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The door swings open without a knock. Heavy, unsteady steps creak out upon the wooden floor. She smirks. That could only be one person.
“Welcome Utopia, I see you’re in a wonderful mood tonight,” she calls out, voice dripping with sarcasm, eyes not leaving the book she’s pouring over for even a second.
Her customer remains silent, making her way to a stool near the entrance, practically falling down onto it. She commences stretching and flexing out her wings, evidently weary from a long flight.
Quite some time passes, filled only with the sound of flipping pages and heavy breathing. At last, Trix closes the tome with a puff of dust and turns around to address her visitor.
“Threw yourself into more trouble like the fool you are, didn’t you,” She says, more like a taunt rather than a question as she sinks down into her oversized armchair someways across from the stool. Her guest simply gives her a tired look with hooded eyes before continuing to stare up at the ceiling. The Witch gives a flippant huff before examining her condition.
Pieces of the dress she wore had been torn off or burnt, leaving it scarred and frayed at the edges. Dull blonde hair was soiled in dirt and ash, which made it undoubtedly messy and wild. Her face and arms were in a similar state, littered in cuts and scrapes.
Despite this, she’d seen her in similar circumstances like this before, sometimes with even worse injuries. There was that one time—
“Where are your bandages?”
“In the cupboard above your head,” she replied, voice tinged with a little annoyance for the disturbance in her train of thought.
“...There’s nothing except for your healing potions.”
The mocking grin plastered on her features seemed even more smug. “You might as well take the shortcut.”
Utopia dug into her with an icy cold glare, but resigned, heaving an almost unnoticeable sigh. “What’s the price this time?” She muttered.
“Six bronze coins, eighteen gold ones.”
With masterful precision, she caught every coin tossed in the shower of projectiles aimed at her face. Utopia downed the potions like shots of vodka as Trix navigated through the piles of books and bottles scattered across the floor to get to her chequebook.
A quill scratched at faded paper. The final glass bottle slammed on the table as Utopia wiped her lips with her arm.
“......You charged less this time, you know.”
“Oh I’m fully aware,” she said with a mirthless chuckle, nestling herself into the pile of cushions in the corner. “I’ll make sure you pay double next time.”
An unconvinced scoff escaped from her client’s lips.
With nothing left to say, the both of them kept silent. Eventually the awkwardness turned into an uncomfortable tension, lingering in the air like smog. Utopia’s wings shook themselves out, sending a few loose feathers to the floor. Her wounds were healed, there was nothing left to do, she should leave now—
“Utopia,” Came a quiet, yet firm call, sounding so much louder in the taut silence.
Her movements came to a halt. “What is it?”
Trix furrowed her brows, pointedly looking away from her. “...Do you find immortality enjoyable?”
She stiffened. Usually Trix would hide any of her true thoughts under layer upon layer of deceit and misdirections, guarded away like precious treasures from the outside world. For her to be this forward was... almost unsettling. Absolutely out of left field.
Her response was almost immediate though. “Of course it isn’t. You should know, you’ve lived a couple thousand years yourself.”
She smiled, but it was small, pitiful; completely alien to Utopia. “You know,” she continued in a quiet, clipped tone, “It’s been about, what, three thousand years since I woke up in the middle of, well, nowhere that night?" (out of the corner of her eye, she sees Utopia wince). "In fact this might be some sort of anniversary.” A little chuckle. “God, it’s been torture. Any sort of relationship just withers away in the blink of an eye. Death is just another annoyance for people like us.”
She turns to Utopia, sees the utter confusion in her eyes, and allows a little smugness to creep back into the smile. “Ah. Why am I, of all people, spilling my soul out to you? That’s what you’re thinking, right?” Her gaze swivels back to the tomes scattered upon her desk. “...There was a massacre at the Merchant’s Square. One of my informants, three of my regulars, just up and gone. Gods, it’s not supposed to sting this much but... It’s becoming increasing apparent that this box I’ve trapped myself is only getting smaller.” A sort of desperation appears in her tone. “You’re... you’re the only one I know that’ll stay.”
Utopia gulped.
Then the tension disappears, and that nonchalant air of Trix’s returns. She stretches, lounging over the cushions like a cat. “Well, what are you standing there for, you look as dazed as a fool. Scram, our deals are done.”
The years following that are... interesting, to say the least. War has started picking up around the world so Utopia’s in more need of potions, which has led her to catching Trix in more of her oddly calm states. As time passes, the conceited, bothersome persona of hers only really appears as a force of habit, a comforting mask; more of that temperate, relaxed side comes out and while it’s jarring, it’s not that discomforting either.
A few years later they were standing on a viewing platform that jutted out from the ledge of the floating island. Trix had decided to go on one of her rare resource runs, and Utopia needed an elixir of invisibility that Trix refused to sell to her until she finished her trip, so she ended up tagging along. They were now waiting for the strong winds to die down a little so the flight back to Trix’s hut wouldn’t be so turbulent. The witch herself was leaning over the railing, the wind tossing her hair around like ribbons. Utopia had sat down a little ways behind her and was fidgeting with the ribbon around her waist when Trix’s voice cut through the howling of the wind. “Hey.”
She looked up. Trix still had her back to her. She hummed questioningly in response.
“You were responsible for my immortality, right?”
For Utopia, the world seemed to lose its solidity in the wake of that question. Her throat clammed up, her hands clenched, her heartbeat rang in her ears. She could smell the ash, the smoke and the blood—good lord the blood—and that smile and that laughter and those screams those soul-wrenching screams and oh god what had happened what had she done—
“Utopia.”
Her vision snapped back into focus, returning to the sight of Trix peering at her over her shoulder, one violet eye solidly fixed onto her. “Well?”
Utopia tore her eyes away from her gaze, shrinking in on herself.
That steely gaze of the witch’s faltered. She turned back to the clouds, coughing out something between a laugh and a sob. “Well.”
The wind wailed.
“You know, just when I thought I had found someone I could truly trust they turn out to be the one who had inserted the dagger into my back in the first place.” Each word was laced with bitterness and venom.
If Utopia could shrink into herself any further, she would’ve disappeared.
This time a humorless laugh. Then she continued, voice purposely even, “but... somehow, I’m fine with that.”
Utopia peeked out an eye from her huddle.
“I had... thousands of years—thousands, Utopia— to think about what I was going to do to that bastard when I finally found them. But... that bastard turned out to be a half-angel who couldn’t even hold herself together.
“And this is going to sound ridiculous but... I pity you.
“I know what you’re gonna say, you don’t need it, but honestly you probably berate yourself over this pretty badly. You kinda need it.
“What-“ and she sighs, grabs at her hair, “What I’m trying to say that I don’t forgive you, but I can’t hate you. It’s... I spent so much time with you and don’t want to waste what I poured into this relationship. I don’t want it to just disappear like all the others. It seemed worth it then and... it still seems worth it to keep it now. You seem guilty, and I suppose... I suppose that’s enough for me.”
The silence hums until the wind dies down to a whisper.
“Come on.” She turns to Utopia, tries not to mention that her eyes are red and her hands are quaking, “It’s time to head home.”