Across the Worlds

Notes: This has always been what the summary says. A small love story. Mostly my own, and so it has probably been far too personal and strange for most people. Snatches of this chapter in particular are taken from fairy recent events, even if they have been switched around some to suit narrative, characterization, and other such things. Some people, however, seem to have enjoyed it, and found something in it despite (or perhaps because of) this, and so Across the World's final chapter is in part dedicated to Drop Your Oboe, along with a sincere apology that it was not complete by late June as promised.

This is, of course, dedicated to my own Aly—Alison of the Faeries—without whom there would be no story, because there would be nothing to tell. Thirty months together, six in the same 'world', or, in our case, hemisphere. You give me hope, along with so much else, and you have waited far too long for this to end up where it has.

I love you.

---

"What sort of answer is 'going out'? You know better than that, my girl."

"I have to go. I'll come back later."

Jorality was not very good at locations, and so Alianne had never actually been told that if the her ship was to come in that it would dock at Port Caynn, but the young woman felt that it would. Impossible things were already happening; it wasn't so much of a stretch to add to them. Aly didn't bother trying to bait her mother; there was no time. Nerves ate at her, clutched at a spot just above her liver and lodged in her gullet so she had to hyperventilate through a throat full of some pulsing, heaving mass. She felt white. At least, she thought, more hysterically the closer she came to the port town, that's going to set off my hair.

---

"What if she doesn't…like me?"

Jory's knees, decided the body attached to Jory's knees, long before anyone had sighted land, hurt more than the rest of her, and the rest of her hurt quite a bit. Why it was her knees that ached so after months at sea, she wasn't entirely sure. Perhaps they were so sick of feeling terror mixed with utter boredom that they decided to play up simply as a means of filling in time.

Terror mixed with boredom. That was the journey. Jory never wanted to smell travel food again, much less eat or cook with it. And she had just gotten used to believing there was no hope of land, ever, and that she was the worst kind of idiot, following a voice that had never been real, ever, and that everything had been for nothing, when The Magpie encountered civilization. A strange, flat, over bleached place made up of too much plaster and stone, and weather that changed from squalling to hideously, garishly bright within half an hour.

"Caynn…" she'd whispered aloud, staring at the port sign as the ship was dragged closer, half expecting one of the seemingly endless crowd milling on the wharves to raise their still-tiny heads and recognize her. "Aly…"

---

I'm going to be late, I'm going to be late, curse it--I'm going to be so bloody late and if she's real and there she is going to kill me. I am so LATE.

It took far too many backstreets, Aly decided, to get from Port Caynn proper to the actual, crucial port. Aunt Thayet! I'll get her to persuade Uncle Jon to rebuilt…I'm going to be late. Oh, what if she doesn't like me?"

She could barely see in front of her. People's faces were as indistinguishable as the blank front-pieces of the buildings. This one was tall, short, male-shaped, female, a child blur…there was no water anywhere. How could she know if she were too late if she couldn't even drown herself in the port like a proper broken-hearted heroine?

The crowd was growing thicker, mumbling and muttering and generally being an utter nuisance. Blocking her way so Aly couldn't see anything beyond her nose, and all she could hear was her own blood in her ears and, "Oooh, that's a right strange ship. N'er seen nothing—how can it be all wood?"

Aly swallowed. 'Right strange ship'—the words drowned out half her nerves and she actively pushed her way through, ignoring curses and bruised ribs and toes. At first everything was still this man's shoulder and that woman's overlarge hat that got in her way, but soon she could see chinks of sluggish, muddied blue-grey through the humans, and the ends of jetties, and one tired, wan looking woman with mismatched earrings, a coat with the buttons done up all wrong, and what was quite possibly the maddest tangle of ringlets ever seen in her world and countless others. The woman was just staggering off the boat, limping and unbalanced, looking around, obviously for something.

Someone. Aly's breath caught. She had to close her eyes to will herself to yell.

"Jory! Jory! Over here!"

---

She wasn't crying, and that felt strange. All Jory could do as she heard the voice—that voice, so dear and familiar—was smile until it hurt her face, and she actually gasped when she looked up and saw her. Her. Aly. Her Aly. Not a picture made up from imagined touches and sounds, but a proper vision. With colours. She laughed, more nervous and than more confident than before, all at once; hands at her breast until they were opening up around her and there was just the impact of both holding and being held and there was nothing else in the whole world except this, and she knew the real world would come back but there wasn't any reason to fear it, because she had Aly Cooper in her arms now, and that would always be real.

Hr>

Somehow it was right that the first words Aly heard in Jory's voice were these:

"Your hair really is blue! I never did believe you."

---

Hours had gone by. They had a room. Of course, it was Jory who technically had the room, Aly was just there with her, in it, sitting on the narrow white bed and watching as Jory bent her head over a book she had found in clutter Aunt Daine had left behind, months ago now, and saved for her. Jory had told her once that she liked strange animals. She certainly seemed absorbed in the detailed sketches of Carthak's wildlife, though Aly had no idea why a giraffe should make her blush, or look away from her awkwardly.

"I…" she was sitting so close their shoulders and hips were touching. As she leaned forward to take her hand, Aly brushed against Jory's breast accidentally. She bit her lip; Jory made a small noise, looking straight at her again with wide eyes.

"I want to kiss you," she finished in a whisper, and Jory nodded, smiling again—a nervous, almost hysterical smile, but a real one. She was leaning forward.

And Aly kissed her.

---

Though even Nia would never believe it, Jory had never been kissed before. Not in any way that counted. Sitting with Aly in that perfect too-small space, she had no idea what to expect and it terrified her. What if she got it wrong? What if she had bad breath, or fainted? Or…oh, help, what if she wasn't any good at it? Jory couldn't bear to not be any good at it; not after so many years of slowly coming to realize all the things she longed to do, with absolute proficiency, with skill, to this woman, so she almost prayed not to have to try, even though want and tiredness and confusion had been steadily leeching everything but silence and tension out of the room. Even as her lips against Aly's, the only thing she could do was mentally gibber. What if I'm not…

Oh.

The world turned sharp and breathless and wet and strange and wonderful and unsettling and theirs.