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Saint woke abruptly to a wave of instinctual wrongness. Even before opening their eyes, they could sense that something wasn't as it should be, but experience kept them lying still as they listened past their pounding heart. They heard only the sleep-deep breathing of two people, Giddy's huffing exhalations, the rustle of a body shifting beneath a blanket, and the faint mewing of Alfie's kittens in the distance.
Nearly certain that there was no threat, they sat up and peered into the familiar shadows of their night-dark room. They saw the shapes of Grindelza and Sonder, fast asleep and so close that they must be touching. There was Giddy, and Ramble was still in the corner. So where was Yoree?
Judging from the lack of light through the gaps in the shutters, it must have been predawn. They slid out of bed and took nearly silent steps towards the other end of the room, to confirm that Yoree's bag was still by the door. It was, all of her worldly possessions bundled up and waiting to go home with her. So where was she? Saint turned a confused circle, and came to a stop facing the closet.
They had left the closet door open for Alfie, but now it was closed, and there was a dim glow along the bottom gap. Relief washed through them and eased the tension in their shoulders. When they opened the door, they saw the interior illuminated by a single candle in a holder. At the back of the closet was a dresser, the bottom drawer of which was open, lined with a blanket, and housing kittens. Yoree was sitting cross-legged on the floor and looking over them, her moon-gold hair loosed from its braids and tumbling over her shoulders. Alfie was sitting atop the dresser, overseeing the interaction with wide green eyes and apparent approval.
Saint stepped inside and closed the door behind them. "Good morning," they said, voice hushed. It was warm in the closet, and the scent of Yoree's hair, the oil that they used to treat their leathers, and traces of their own perfume combined with warm beeswax to make a prematurely nostalgic redolence.
"Good morning. Did I wake you? I heard these little ones making a ruckus and wanted to get a look before I go."
"You didn't wake me. I just woke on my own."
Yoree nodded, then looked to Alfie. "May I?"
Alfie blinked slowly in response, and Yoree scooped up the tabby-striped runt of the litter and brought it to her chest. Saint joined her on the floor, pushing aside some clothes to make space for their head and shoulders. Alfie jumped down off of the dresser and settled next to Saint, her tail swishing against their knee. "So, you're getting an early start, then?"
"I was thinking I'd set out shortly after dawn," Yoree confirmed. "But first, kittens."
Saint ran their hand along Alfie's back, which made her purr loudly. Saint and Alfie watched Yoree gently examine and pet each catling in turn, and Saint wondered how cats made that sound, and why Yoree must leave Songtooth, and how best to say what they wanted to say. The person who always has a glib turn of phrase, Grolub had called them. And who is ever at a loss for a sincere word, they added.
Eventually, Yoree had all of Alfie's kittens in her lap, with the exception of the runt, which she held in her hands. Saint half-smiled to see how the runt suckled at her fingertip, and when Yoree giggled, they realised that they might never hear that sound again. A new crack ran through the remnant pieces of their heart.
"Saint?" She was looking full in their face for the first time since they had joined her, and they felt spotlighted by her searching look. "Are you alright?"
"Just fine," they lied. "How are you feeling? Are you ready?"
"It's… complicated. I've come to like Songtooth, and I'll miss the people here. But I've been homesick, too. Both things can be true," she said with a referential little smile.
"Yes. It is often the case that more than one thing is true," Saint agreed, quoting her words and forcing themself to return her smile.
The curve of Yoree's lips softened, and her expression became thoughtful. The kitten in her hands nuzzled its face against her neck. When she spoke again, it was with the deliberate care with which she made all of her observations that shot them through. "It's hard for you when people leave, isn't it? That's why you try to be the one to leave first."
Saint couldn't quite hide their flinch. "I should know better by now than to be surprised by your keen insight," they said, trying for lightness.
"That's not an answer." Yoree's tone was kind, but firm.
They petted Alfie's head with two fingers and pondered goodbyes while the moment stretched. "Everyone leaves eventually, one way or another," they finally said. On a sigh they added, "Nothing lasts. Not really."
"Still not a real answer."
They shot her a warning look, but Yoree knew them well enough to disregard it. She just kept looking at them with patient expectation, her eyes liquid dark and reflecting candlelight.
"Yes," they admitted, touching the ache at the centre of their chest. "Partings are difficult for me. When I care for a person, I can't help but brace for the goodbye. The more that I like someone, the sooner I'm thinking of the end. I don't know how to stop doing that."
Yoree was quiet for a while. In her lap, two of the litter-mates had rolled together and were squeaking indignantly while batting at each other. They calmed when she stroked her palm along their fuzzy backs.
"I was thinking of our goodbye the moment I met you." Saint regretted the tender words as soon as they had left their mouth, but Yoree just flashed a secretive smile their way.
"I wasn't sure about you, at first. You hide it well."
"Hide what, exactly?"
"Your good heart."
Once again, Yoree had rendered them speechless. The two of them sat in silence for a while, listening to Alfie's relentless purr and watching the kittens wiggle in ineffectual attempts at navigation. Their eyes haven't even opened yet, thought Saint. They were so fragile, not even really cats yet, and anything could happen to them. In that moment, each one felt like a minor miracle and a dreadful potentiality.
"It's not goodbye forever," Yoree said, breaking the silence with her hushed assurance. "It's just farewell for now."
How awful it was, that this kindness was what brought on the tears that they had thus far kept at bay. They crossed their arms over their chest and dropped their head as the dull ache deepened to fracture pain.
"Oh, Saint." Yoree carefully placed the kittens back in their drawer, one by one, and then shuffled up beside them and wrapped her arms around them as best she could.
"We could go with you," Saint said, twisting at the waist to reciprocate the hug and blinking against the salt-sting. "Or just me, if that's better. I would go with you, and camp out in the frost, and get covered in bug bites and mud and burrs, and I'd do it all gladly."
Yoree laughed quietly, the sound muffled against their chest and sounding teary herself. Saint raised a hand to cup the back of her head. "I know," she said. "But this is something that I have to do myself. Do you know what I mean?"
"I think I do," said Saint, forcing themself to loose their hold on her.
In the short time that they had known her, Saint had offered Yoree trust insofar as they were capable of it, and truth as near as they could tell it, and every affection that they could justify. They had been her first friend, and she had been the first to see past their mask. No one could put a price on that.
Before they followed her out of the closet, they found their favourite shirt—the one that they had worn to celebrate their birthday, when Yoree had gifted them flowers grown of her magic and danced despite her shyness—and pulled one of its lovely buttons free with a decisive snap of thread.
The two of them worked in unspoken coordination to prepare Yoree for her departure, moving with care so as not to wake the others. Alfie watched Saint help Yoree braid her hair and don her leather armour, and the cat took her chance to slip past their legs when they opened the door and stepped outside.
The cool autumn air was scented with wood smoke, and the city around them was already waking to the promise of Harvest. In the skies to the east, The Morninglord was painting the underside of the clouds pale gold and pink, but in the shadowed corner where Saint lived, the street was still twilit. In front of Saint's door, Yoree stood tall with a taproot of resolve running through her. The top of her quarterstaff was budding impossible leaves and berries, and she wore the green beryl bracelet that Saint had given her.
Saint knelt before her, showed her the button, and pressed it into her free hand. "This is a tradition from the village of Briarbosk. Gifting a traveller a button will bring you back together again."
She slipped it into her pocket with a nod of thanks. "And in Nutberry, we say that we will meet again, as surely as the seasons turn."
Saint offered her their best smile. Yoree's smile in return was sweeter than Saint deserved, and lovely enough to hurt. "Take care, Yoree Littlebarrel. May Sehanine bless your journey."
Yoree turned away and hiked her backpack up her shoulders. Mid-step, she stopped and turned back around. With Saint kneeling, their faces were almost level, and she moved in close. Saint felt a frisson of anticipation. "Littlebarrel?"
"You should kiss me goodbye."
Saint had once thought to themself that Yoree's heart would steal itself if they let it—but as they swallowed around the lump in their throat, they realised that a corner of their own foolish heart had worked its way into her possession while they weren't looking. "You said that this is just 'farewell for now'."
"Kiss me farewell, then." She had that stubbornly determined look on her face, the one that Saint should know better than to argue with by now.
"Yoree," they implored, even as their resolve swayed. "I can't. I shouldn't. Your first kiss should be with someone that you adore—someone you can't stop thinking about. You deserve that."
Yoree's eyes had never looked larger or darker, and Saint could see their own reflection captured in her pupils. Like Lathander's masterpiece, she, too, was gold and pink. Her hand alighted on their shoulder. "I want it to be you."
They hesitated a half-moment longer. Yoree raised her hand from their shoulder to their jaw, and Saint's resolve fell to that small touch and five whispered words: "Will you kiss me, Saint?"
When they took Yoree's face in their hands, her skin was silken and warm as summer. Precious, thought Saint, who had held masterworks of artistry and treasures fit for kings, and who did not deserve the way that Yoree leaned into their touch and closed her eyes in faithful expectation.
"Yes," Saint confessed, soft as a secret. "I will."
There was a rightful order to things. The sun would set only to rise, set, and rise again. Small things would grow into their proper shapes, and time would spool out like thread that you couldn't wind back. Partings ever danced after meetings, and diverging paths might join again—who could say? But in this moment, Saint owed Yoree more than they could ever repay; the least that they could do was make a gift of this last thing that she had asked, even as heartbreak threatened to end them.
Beneath a brand new sky, Yoree's first friend kissed her goodbye.