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Deirta Thelyss has six hours left to live.
She's fairly used to this sort of countdown by now. Not all of her lives have resulted in a planned ending, but enough of them did that she has the rituals of the night before down to a science. It isn't that complicated to get her affairs in order. It isn't that difficult to choose a meal.
Essek will not speak to her—he will not even set foot inside the same room as her, if he can help it, a childish expression of anger he has directed at her ever since he'd found out she'd told Leylas the truth—and her surroundings feel cavernous without his presence. It would have been nice, she thinks, not to spend her final of final sendoffs alone—but perhaps this is part of her penance. She and her son have both hurt one another, in the end.
Still, it's hardly the worst end-of-a-life she's had. The weather is beautiful, her tea is steeped just right, and there isn't too terribly much about this life that she regrets. (Presumably. She doesn't exactly remember details, either about this life or of the ones that came before, which is the entire reason she is to die tonight in the first place. All she has to comfort herself with are optimistic lies. There is little choice but to make peace with that.)
She does wish she had some company, though.
"Umavi Thelyss?" one of her attendants calls from the front room, and Deirta feels a flicker of annoyance pass through her. Can't a woman finish her cup of tea before her heart is pierced through for the last time in peace? "The Bright Queen is here to see you."
Her hand stills in the air, cup raised halfway to her lips. An unidentifiable feeling ties its way around her throat. "Show her in."
A brief pause, and then a shape in the doorway.
The Bright Queen has always cut an intimidating figure, but here, in Deirta's home, she is only Leylas Kryn. They have been friends for more lifetimes than Deirta can count—lovers, sometimes, even—and she does not think the lack of specificity of this memory can be entirely attributed to the Typhros. There are no secrets to keep between them. If Essek will not spend these early final moments with her, at least she will not be left alone.
"Deirta," Leylas greets her, gently removing her formidable headdress and resting it on the vanity where it always lays during her visits. "You look… well."
Deirta looks nothing of the sort. She feels pale and anemic, and is devoid of the vestments she has grown so comfortable in over this past life, so that she seems more like a sickly elder than the matriarch of her Den. "I could say the same."
Neither of them would ever dare admit it aloud, but there is a palpable grief behind Leylas' eyes. Just because it is unseemly to cry at death does not mean no one ever mourns. "May I sit?"
The Bright Queen hardly needs to ask permission from anyone to do anything. Deirta just nods, gesturing to the usual seat Leylas always occupies. "You know you are always welcome here." Then, at Leylas' raised eyebrow: "Please, my friend. Allow me to live in feigned ignorance a few more hours."
Leylas sits. She almost looks like a scolded child, and Deirta wants to laugh, except that she doesn't actually find it funny.
"We are doing the right thing," Deirta says eventually, once the silence has lingered just past the point of comfort.
Leylas' eyebrows furrow. "Of course. That was never to be questioned."
Essek has been questioning it for weeks, of course, ever since the first of Deirta's symptoms had begun to transform from mild headaches and occasional forgetfulness to the much more violent signs of her rapidly approaching fate. There has never been a single doubt in Deirta's mind that this would be how her cycle of lives finally came to a close, even if it had been nice to imagine her son's brilliance would miraculously manage to craft a cure.
But not at the expense of the Dynasty. Never at the expense of their people. Deirta has served the Luxon for nearly a thousand years, and she will not turn her back on her beliefs just to save her mortal flesh.
There is one secret to keep from Leylas, she supposes. If Essek manages to right his wrongs, his soul could carry on for dozens of lifetimes yet. That would be more than worth the price she is about to pay.
There is a phantom ache in her chest where a dagger is about to be. "Would you like some tea?"
She is already reaching for the kettle on the table before her friend has time to respond, which is how Deirta's hand ends up clutched in both of Leylas' own, drawn across the table to be gently pressed against the other woman's lips. Deirta's heart skips one of its final beats.
"…Tea would be lovely," Leylas says, softly, gaze firmly fixed on the empty teacup Deirta had set out, just in case. "Thank you."
It's a little difficult to pour with one hand. Leylas does not relinquish her hold until her tea has probably gone cold anyway, at which point she finally asks what must have been the question weighing on her mind since the execution was officially scheduled.
"Do you wish for me to do it?"
Deirta… considers. The answer, she is fairly certain, is yes—but there are her wishes, and there is what is hopefully best for her son's soul. "I have not yet decided," she settles on. "It would be an honor to have you usher me from this life. But I wish for Essek's hand in the matter, as well."
"…Of course," says Leylas. "You will have time to decide."
Deirta Thelyss has five and a half hours left to live, which is hardly any time at all. Still, she will make the most of what she has.
"Yes," she says, gently pulling the hand Leylas still has entwined with her own in order to cup it against her cheek. "I do."