Warnings: Mild sexuality.
"What would you do without me?" Ilia said enthusiastically as she kissed her way up Zelda's leg. Ilia is never quite so cruel, but the inquiry hangs in the air: Marry well? Mother a few trollish children? (You would make a mockery of love without me! her kisses always seem to say.)
"I'd be a me without a you," Zelda said honestly stretching out over the bed, looking as whole and happy as purest love, because what else is there to do? A world without Ilia is a world without four corners and the shackle she's made herself, and she no longer knows what it looks like looking in. "What would I do without you?" because it is a question and an answer that bears repeating, like all of the petty things racked up inside her heart.
Maybe a marry a man, any sort of whore, the kind who come seeking a hand for great fortune and a place in the womb of a woman, but who wants that? Really wants it, the way drunkards bend to divine ale or monks seek holy script, all those things good men can't bring? Trapped in this coordinative clockwork circles of suitors and councils and rolling courts, Zelda can only think of dusty fingernails and infrequent bathing, all those dirty things that make a common slut, though she would never want her love to feel that way.
"What are the letters that make 'I love you,'" she asks, half because she's drunk on love and half because she can't stand it.
"All the letters that spell your name," Ilia says, and makes a molehill of manly exploits.