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It was over.
And it was all for nothing.
Chroma swam around Lune, so much she could taste it on the back of her tongue. Sharp and sweet, like burnt sugar. Renoir had wielded more than she could ever comprehend, eclipsing the power of the Axons as if they were children playing at a game he’d mastered ages ago. And Aline . . .
The remnants of their battle lingered in the air. So much chroma, infinite possibilities, and yet . . . no amount of power could change the end.
She was drowning in it, watching with her feet planted as Maelle faded into nothing in Verso’s arms. Their duel had been so quick there’d been no time to respond, and even if Lune could have, they were beyond the borders of the portal—beyond the Canvas to which she’d been painted. A glimpse into another world would have at one point consumed her, but not even that could distract her from the realization growing in her mind like a sick, twisted tree.
“We . . . we need to do something,” she uttered, her voice barely a whisper. “We can stop him, we just have to draw him back out. Monoco . . .”
The gestral wasn’t looking at her. It was always hard to tell with him, but she’d gotten used to his lack of eyes and facial ticks. She knew when he was avoiding her gaze.
He stared into the portal after Verso, his shoulders slack. “There’s no stopping him now.”
A spike of panic sharp enough to draw blood shocked her into moving. She grabbed for his arm. “If anyone can get through to him—”
Monoco slipped out of her grasp, stepping towards the portal. Esquie landed beside him—where had he come from?—-as light as a feather. As he ducked into the portal, Monoco turned back to her.
“Fight’s over.” She could hear the resigned smile in his voice. “It was a good one, though. Glad . . . glad it was with you.”
Before she could say anything, he stepped back into the portal, out of the Canvas, with Esquie. They met Verso and she tore her gaze away. She wouldn’t watch—she couldn’t. She needed to figure this out before it was too late.
But she wasn’t alone. No Maelle, no Monoco, but she had Sciel. She always had Sciel.
Her name was on her lips when she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. Lune turned, grateful for her battle ready friend but Sciel’s scythe lay forgotten on the ground. Her smile was serene, her hazel eyes reflecting a peace Lune had only ever glimpsed at her side but never felt herself.
“No.” Lune’s throat choked her words. “No, no, no. We can do this, Sciel.”
Sciel took Lune’s face in her hands, her fingers calloused from farm work and warm as if she’d held the sun in them. She brushed a tear from Lune’s cheek and shook her head.
“It’s okay,” she said.
She started to pull away and Lune grabbed her wrists before she could take her hands from her face.
“No! No, tomorrow still comes, remember?” She squeezed her friend’s wrists, as if she could push the will to live and fight through her skin and into her bones. There was no strength left in her voice when she hoarsely whispered, “Remember?”
Sciel pulled her close and pressed her lips to Lune’s forehead. Tender and sweet and aching; a goodbye. “Tomorrow still comes, even if we aren’t here to see it.”
Lune heaved a breath, shoving down the wave of fiery sobs that threatened to break loose. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t lose you too . . .”
For a moment, she thought that might’ve been enough. Sciel took a deep breath and seemed to settle in her grasp. But before Lune could relax, she peeled herself away. Finger tip by fingertip, Lune lost her grasp on Sciel and watched her walk backwards into the portal.
“I’ll see you on the other side,” Sciel said, her trademark smirk unmarred by tears, and turned to the world outside the Canvas.
Lune started to follow despite herself, her feet catching her right before the edge of swirling chroma. Monoco and Esquie were gone, leaving Verso alone with Sciel in the strange void of swirling colors beyond the Canvas. She was already gommaging, red petals peeling away from her form and fluttering in the air. He startled when he saw her, then visibly relaxed. A twinge of jealously sparked amidst the sorrow and panic in Lune. Sciel and Verso connected so easily, and from their experiences with death of all things.. Of course he would be relieved she wouldn’t fight him. Of course she wouldn’t force him to change his mind.
Lune watched him reach for Sciel, watched her reach out too. Their fingers brushed, petals dusting up between them, before Sciel pulled away. She’d barely settled onto her heels before she was more petals than woman. An invisible wind swept her up, left no trace of the woman she was; smiling, joking, optimistic and warm, burdened but never broken by grief. All gone, as if she’d never existed to begin with.
Lune wanted to scream. The chroma around her shuddered and shook, practically begging her to be used. But she was no Painter. She couldn’t bring Sciel back, or Monoco and Esquie. All she could do was watch the petals fall, the last remnants of her last friend.
The last petal drifted between Lune and Verso, and their eyes met.
She was bleeding, aching, burning inside and he just stared at her with those blue eyes. Eyes that once brought her comfort, a sliver of peace and quiet in the storm she’d been forced to walk through her whole life. His cheeks were wet, tears cutting through the grime of battle. Battles she’d fought at his side, that they’d protected each other in. It had been almost effortless to fall into a rhythm with Verso, as if his soul was playing a tune hers had been trying to match her whole life.
Now there was only aching silence between them.
I’m sorry, he’d told her before jumping through the portal. She could see that was still true in the naked grief on his face. But that expression . . . she’d seen it before.
“It wants to die,” Verso snapped at her. “It asked us to kill it. Why are you fighting so hard for a Nevron, anyway?”
He took another step towards the defeated white Nevron and Lune blocked his path. “Give it a chance.”
“It doesn’t want one,” he said.
“Because it's never known another life!” She countered. “These white Nevrons are different, so we need to treat them differently. If all it has known is battle and death, and it doesn’t want that life, then we need to give it a chance to make a new one.”
Verso’s gaze flickered over her shoulder to the Nevron. Normally Lune would never turn her back on the creature, but this one just heaved heavy breathes behind her. Off to the side, Maelle watched on with a thoughtful look on her face but didn't interfere.
Finally Verso looked back at Lune. There was something unreadable in his expression, something unfathomably painful she couldn’t comprehend. He stepped back, his weapons dissipating as he did.
“You can’t force something to live if it doesn’t want to,” he said. “You’ll see.”
He was looking at her now with that same expression. Only now instead of her acting as the barrier between him and a Nevron’s death, the swirl of chroma was all that separated them. It could’ve been an ocean for all she knew. He didn't take a step towards her, didn’t reach his hand out for her; he just . . . waited.
Anger overtook sorrow. Wrath, rage, a hellfire of emotions that threatened to burst out of her. All their fighting to get Renoir out of the Canvas and save it—save themselves—was for nothing. All those soft moments spent together where he smiled at her and music leapt from their fingers as effortlessly as a bird takes flight, and she thought she knew him. She thought they’d gotten past all the lies and betrayals and finally got down to the meat of who they were.
Maybe he knew her, but he never let her see the real him. If this was what he always planned to do . . . if he went through with it even after sharing those moments together, then what was the point? She wouldn’t go to him. She didn’t owe him anything.
Her expression must have changed. She watched him blink; not surprised, simply resigned.
And Lune sat.
She wouldn’t cross to the other side. She had nothing to say to him, and she would not go quietly. Maybe he was ready to die, but she wasn’t and he made that choice for her. No, not just for her, but for all of Lumiere. He didn’t deserve a damn thing from her.
Verso turned away from her, back to the boy painting on the ground. She watched his lips move, a soft smile curving them up as he held his hand out to the boy. Lune closed her eyes as the boy took it.
Chroma pressed heavy against her skin, begging to be used. If she was a Painter . . .
But she wasn’t. She was just Lune, and she was alone at the end of the world.
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She reached for the chroma anyway, feeling it react to her call effortlessly. In it she felt everyone she’d lost. Gustave, her parents, some older losses and others far too fresh. They were there, as they always were. She could almost feel Gustave settle beside her, humming thoughtfully to himself as he always did. Sciel’s head was on her shoulder, a comforting anchor. A murmur of voices that sounded like Monoco and Noco behind her, the soft rumble of Esquie’s footsteps on the ground, the faint smell of Sophie’s perfume in her nose. It was almost like nothing had changed and nothing was ending.
When she pulled the chroma, she wasn’t sure what she wanted it to do, but she wasn’t surprised to feel her guitar settled in her lap. Her fingers laid naturally against the strings that hummed with endless possibilities.
Almost against her will, she thought of Verso. Not as he was now, the object of her suffering and rage, but as he’d been before.
In the secluded part of camp, Lune settled between the roots of a tree with her guitar while Verso muttered something to the keys of his piano. She couldn’t help but smile at him, though her cheeks were sore from doing so all night. He’d never looked better than he did now, hair a mess, neck bruised from her mouth, and his clothes hanging off of him like an afterthought.
He cut her a glance, noticing her smile. “What? You know I can play.”
“I do,” she nodded. “You just seem nervous.”
He scoffed. “I’m not nervous.”
“Liar,” she teased.
“Maybe I’m just exhausted after you had your way with me.”
Lune rolled her eyes. “You can fight Axons and Nevrons clearly more powerful than you, but you can’t survive one night with me?”
“Axons and Nevrons have never done that to me.”
She couldn’t help herself, she giggled. A short little burst of mirth that had bubbled out of her, but there was no taking it back. Verso stared at her, a strange expression on his face. Nothing like the dark looks that clouded him most days, this was like seeing the clouds part for a clear day. And the way he stared at her . . .
“What?” she asked softly.
He shook his head. “Nothing, I just . . . like you like this.”
Lune cocked her head to the side and he smiled. Her cheeks ached when she mirrored him.
“Me too,” she murmured.
He stared a moment longer before clearing his throat and turning back to the keys of his piano. “What’s my note again?”
Lune went for the strings of her guitar, second guessed herself and checked her notebook, before falling back to the strings. She plucked the right one, the clear note ringing in the sweet evening air and Verso matched it with his piano.
From there, the melody was effortless. Not the making of it, per se. That required a lot of experimentation and backtracking and throwing notes back and forth until something clicked. But something that would’ve taken her weeks on her own came together in a single night with Verso. As skilled as he was with his blades, it was clear his passion was for music. He lost himself in it and Lune followed suit. She let go with him and existed for that song, her body merely another instrument to bring it to life. And with Verso it was perfect.
Tomorrow comes, she thought. But at least I have tonight.
There would be no more tomorrows for her now. Nothing but an end she wasn’t prepared for.
Lune began to strum the tune one note at a time. It sounded more mournful now than when she’d composed it with Verso. Without his piano, the guitar’s solo was beautiful but lacking. It wanted its other half. But she found she couldn’t play another song. This was her song, and he may have helped her make it but she was the one who started creating it. It was better with him, but it didn’t need him.
Lune didn’t need Verso.
As she played she could feel the shape of her losses press closer to her as if they were gathering around to listen to her play. Noco settled at her feet while Esquie let her rest her back against his belly and Monoco stayed standing behind her, tapping his foot along with the beat. Sciel hummed the melody. Gustave drank it in, thoughtful and quiet with Sophie beside him.
Lune started to feel light, like she had after returning to Lumiere after defeating the Paintress. She felt pieces of herself drift away, smelled the heady scent of roses in the air. Her fingers fumbled over the strings as she tried to keep playing and the melody began to fall apart. Frustration burned up her throat, but she refused to stop. It was her last act while she lived and she’d go out doing what she loved right up until she couldn’t.
Her fingers unraveled and the guitar weighed awkwardly. She couldn’t hold onto it, couldn’t keep the music flowing. She still felt her friends, more real as she faded, but she wasn’t done. She needed to finish one more thing before she died . . .
Before the last note on the guitar died, the soft, clear sounds of a piano took up the melody. It kept it up, even when it was alone. It sounded wrong on its own, beautiful and mournful, but missing its other half. For one note, it had been perfect. But after that one note, Lune was gone.
“I’m still mad at you,” she told Verso.
“I know,” he muttered.
“I won’t stop being mad at you.”
“I know that too. If anyone can hold a grudge for eternity, it's you.”
“ . . . What now?”
A pause, and then, “See some old friends. Say some things you never got to say. And then . . .”
“And then?”
“Whatever you want.”