Lethe comes to her at the edge of the desert graveyard. She tiptoes through the sand lightly, scarcely leaving a footmark or indentation in her wake. She weaves her way through the thousands of butterflies that swirl around the dead, ducking her head to avoid the barrage, peeling them back as if they are a living curtain. Then Lethe sees her, tall and proud and pale, swated in lavender chiffon with an amethyst crown, fabric wings hanging from her back.

Papillon, Cocoon that was, turns and there is not a spark of recognition. She has never seen Lethe before in her memory. But she does not call out that Lethe will be punished for this trespass. If Lethe were more romantic, she would think that Papillon can sense their enslaved kinship, that she recognizes the enforced fealty they share to the Soldier Galactic. But Lethe is not romantic; she sees Papillon's eyes flick to her wrist and recognize the bracelets, the bejeweled handcuffs that mark them as property.

It doesn't matter what they talk about; Lethe isn't here to talk. They might talk about the weather. They might recall the owner of the corpse of a certain grave. They might discuss swimming in the rivers of memory. They might even dance around the subject of their homes, which are distant if they are even whole. It really doesn't matter.

Eventually, Lethe reaches forward, her short fingers brushing against the smoothness of Papillon's cheek, her nails grazing the sharp jut of the bone. Papillon's eyelashes flutter like one of her monarch minions, and the sigh that escapes her lips is sweet like blackberry wine. And then they lay aside their tools and their responsibilities and the duties they would shake off if they could. They lay them aside and they lay down.

They do not share a kiss; it seems wrong somehow, as if it would sully this act. But Lethe's lips cannot help but seek out the softness behind Papillon's ear, the line of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. Tongue darting, teeth nipping, she caresses the milky flesh with her mouth while skillfull fingers pull away the fuku that is little more than a negligee. She captures one pert nipple in her mouth and Papillon pushes the straps of her dress off her shoulders, exposing her to the heat and the silence and the butterflies that dance in the air.

Papillon does not moan. She sighs and sometimes it sounds like she's singing. And she hisses often, a cat caught in a corner or a pleasured snake. She writhes beneath Lethe, her hips pushing at the hips above. Lethe's blood cries out for satisfaction, the throbbing between her legs growing all the more intense when she straightens and Papillon grabs her tiny breasts, scratching and squeezing. And then Lethe moans enough for the both of them.

Lethe turns until her legs are astride Papillon's face, and she gasps when the tongue beneath her strokes the length of her labia until it just barely brushes against her clit. Then she lowers her own face and she takes the wet in the butterfly soldier's most secret place into her mouth. It smells of earth and decay and it tastes almost too sharp to be enjoyed. Almost.

At first, they merely coax with long, languid strokes; it is a gentle lovemaking for a time. But then they're more frenzied, more desperate. The licking turns to sucking turns to biting and their nails dig into one another's thighs deep enough to bleed. Hips bucking, blood boiling, and the screams of fallen angels caught in their throats, they come like a crashing wave. There is water in Lethe's eyes, but she does not cry.

It passes like all things pass, and Lethe rolls off to the side. While Papillon lays there, dazed and panting, Lethe returns the straps of her dress to her shoulders, their rightful place. She wipes the dust from her skin and smoothes the hair at the crown of her head to lay flat.

Papillon opens her mouth to say something. It doesn't matter what.

Quick as a fox, Lethe pours the water from her river into the other girl's open mouth. Surprised, Papillon swallows and chokes. There is an accusation in her eyes for a moment, but only for a moment, and then the cloud of forgetfulness clouds them and she begins to sink into oblivion.

And so Lethe walks away for what must be the tenth time, leaving her lover full of water and forgetting. Her mind will lose sight of their coupling, but her body will remember, and so she will be willing when Lethe desires her once more. And then Papillon will forget again.

Lethe glances back at the graveyard for only a moment, watching from a distance as Papillon dresses herself mechanically, confused and perhaps frightened, though she will never show it. Lethe watches as the butterflies, her monarch minions, converge around her, shielding her from view. Lethe is not happy, but she smiles.

She wonders how many more secrets they keep.