Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

That one, that one!"

It was a common enough occurrence for the young lady to see something precious to her.
Drifting from place to place as if it was her home, she found things, and dragged them home.
And the much older woman adjusted her glasses, and stared at today's find -
Luckily brought in from among the push the and pull of the tides.

"Oh, there you are, what a lovely piece.
Now then, Aurita, can you tell me what's so special about this one?"

Aurita's arms fled behind her back, her head bowed low.
Beads of concentration and nervousness flickered across her brow.
It would've seemed a pleasant scene, for anyone who didn't understand...

Who lived anywhere, truly anywhere else.

Yet there were traces of something seeping in from the walls.
And it would flow upwards, save when it wouldn't, and skim across the tides.
Even hopping from flotsam to jetsam, you had to remember not to touch it, but...

You would inevitably touch it. Everyone always did.

But the young lady didn't seem to notice, and didn't seem to care.
Maybe she did, but her remaining companion could only hope she didn't.

It was a very quiet hope, that suited their sinking home.

"Aurita has decided... It's a perry apt!
That means, it's going to protect everyone!
You know why, don't you? Grandma?"

"Oh, hoho, I could guess. But I've always been so bad at that. Why don't you tell me, instead?"

The young lady drifted over to her, as easily through the house as if it were the sea.
She had the brightest smile, even though the older woman knew she'd meant to say - repeat -
A word, periapt. Excitedly, Aurita waved today's trinket in the air, and it shone a resplendent tone.
Hues of pearl nacre cast their patina over the surface, reflecting the smiling form of a person.

"Because, because, it's silver! And, grandma was the one who told me... Silver can ward off sad days!"

"Did she, I... Did she, Aurita? My, what an irresponsible grandmother you must have.
That's not liable to be, oh..."

Like every time she tried to gently steer the young lady away from dangerous fables, she'd had to stop herself.
Aurita was pouting, her previously nervous brow now tightly knit.
She didn't want to be corrected, or told that it wasn't possible.
In the kingdom of faerie tales, where only faeries ruled, things could be all right.

Yes, in a kingdom like that, even a figure eroded by salt water could gleam like silver.

"Oh, I hardly know. What am saying!
That's a very lovely little one. And you'll make sure to take good care of them, in kind?"

Aurita could be flighty, too.
She often forgot things, far more than the old woman had - at the moment, or in the past.
Interests came and went for her, like the tides; like the constantly-rising tides.

But she had already set the water-worn and smiling figure by other precious finds -
Even though some of them had other origins, surely.

"Yes! I can do it, Aurita can!.. So, I can keep them, right? Grandma?.."

"Of course, dear.
Did you really think I'd kick anyone out of the house that's a friend of yours..."

Fingers lined with time met their match.
She chased back words, always looking for the right time to make themselves heard.
No time had come, however, and Aurita had already said an exuberant 'ta!'
Rapidly shuffling back and forth, saying fond greetings to pieces of pewter and wood that couldn't respond.

The old woman removed her glasses, and stared.
Blurring light framed the fluttering blue and white tendrils together, as if they were as silver as the figure she'd found.

Aurita's soft face reformed as the glasses returned to the bridge of the older woman's nose.
Old hands wiped away new tears, only to be joined by the gentle rub of something like soft sleeves.
Even though she'd wanted to think of a convincing half-truth, Aurita's whisper made it unnecessary.

"I'm sorry you were crying... Because you were happy, right?"

"Very happy, dear.
Happy as anyone might ever be. Now!
Let's get you something to eat, a breeze looks as if it could blow you away!"

Not even this would last forever, but it was enough to believe that it might.
That - when the moon cast itself down upon the sea, the waves crested with gentle silver, and nothing else.

Chapter Text

The night air was always surreal, on the campus grounds.

Very rarely, Leonora would trace her steps in a fixed direction.
Usually, bed. Night walks weren't the same without company, and -
With Ramona out of commission, it was hit-or-miss whether anyone'd take them up on the offer.

Nobody had joined her, tonight. Uhvash was shadowboxing opponents half-real, half-imagined.
Murphy politely declined, claiming that very important business was calling her.

"... Ah, I should've asked for snacks. Maybe at least a scone..."

Even talking to yourself, in the dead of night, felt like a crime.
If you did it often enough, you started to ask too many questions -
Like why you had so few questions to ask of yourself, in the first place.

But, ahead of her, the air hung heavy and bright.

Air shouldn't hang, even in Mythag; it shouldn't glisten with strands of ambient colour.
It shouldn't linger, the temperature growing warmer the closer she drew.
Earlier, Leonora had been pulling at her capelet; now, it felt like the earlier balmy weather of late spring.

Right beyond her field of vision, Faros was standing and staring into the reflection of a gas lantern.
Fickle-winged moths danced in the warm currents between light, but one of the lights turned to face her.

"Oh, hey! Nice night, huh? Isn't it, I mean, Faros?.."

"The night is the night; whether I call it pleasant, it remains the night above.
But it is more pleasant, now. Were you walking somewhere?.."

Leonora considered lying about something that would've normally cut the conversation short.
A statement about evading homework, or looking for a lost item, or going to visit staff.
She pursed her lips, shook her head - and answered honestly.

"I couldn't sleep. I can't stand that, so I decided I'd work the energy out - or something close enough."

"... What a coincidence.
Do you want some company?"

Her confident laughter came as easily as if they'd spoken often.
But Leonora had learned to laugh easily, and assume little.
Regardless, the laughter was answer enough - and soon, they were walking around the night-swept courtyard.
Maintaining a distance that was just cautious enough to be professional.

"The Great City was immaculate in all ways.
You would never fear the night, though it did not exist there, but you would always find it if you sought it."

"... Sounds really convenient! Did that make it any easier to fight off anxiety?"

Leonora hadn't felt anything close to that, on the evening.
But her congenial tone, honed in late-night poker sessions in Mythag's only official-unofficial gambling den -
It'd done wonders at luring out answers.

"Nothing does, but, of course - worries and cares do not exist there.
What were you assuming?"

"That you were lost in thought, guess I whiffed that one - "

Faros paused, the back of her hand held beneath a cage of brass-like metal.
She worked her long white glove over it, and answered languidly.

"I did not say you were wrong; we are not there.
We will return there, once again. But we are not there, now.
Regardless, if you want to know what I was thinking...
Sometimes, I wish for companions. My hobbies are limited, and I have few interests in new ones.
Everything I have already chosen to understand is good enough for me."

"Tssssch, seems pretty limited if you ask me. Ramona would be all over me if I said that."

But Faros had drawn to a full stop, and Leonora could feel it.
Heat, not entirely gentle, pressing against the back of her skull.
Piercing light followed that single-eyed gaze, and she was no stranger to it.
When Faros spoke, however... Her voice drew soft with approval.

"Always count your blessings, that you have lived to have those that care for you.
I imagine this is where we part ways, for the evening."

"Oh, at least told me I helped you with - "

Faros didn't reply, but nodded.
The gesture drew down the full crowned weight of her head, casting pools of light to the ground.
But, as if she had lost all interest in talking -

She had returned her gaze to the irregularly spaced standing lanterns around them.

Leonora waved, and walked off, to another half-nod of Faros' head.
When she'd reached a corner arch, she'd risked tilting her own head to the side of it -
Brushing a strand of silvery hair from out between her eyes.

Hazy light reflected from the heat of that steady glow.
More moths had come out, drawn in by the abundance of warmth and phosphor.
Some of them flitted about as if in celebration, dancing throughout the ink-stained black night sky.
But the dance of others ended in them becoming embers, falling to the ground - and swiftly forgotten.

Faros continued to stare at the lantern, as the moths continued to stare at the light she radiated -
Only Leonora having vanished, having returned to letting the night choose her path for her.

Chapter Text

A young man is asked the question, and does not have an answer.

You approached him in the middle of a square, surrounded by his kin.
Even though he directs and mingles with them freely, and even though they see him -
The young man stands apart, separated perhaps by little more than his own doubts.
He sees you, and hears the question, and he speaks about his blood, and how strong it has made him.
It will make him stronger, still.

The excitement curdles over in every word he says. If they were to count as blessings -
What a blessed young man could he be said to be.

But the question can be repeated; it can be asked again and again, without ever changing a word.
He is not so resilient as some of his peers, despite his inner strength.
And blood gives out before his willpower does, and his words falter as he replies:

"The place I shall follow Lord Goliath."

A powerful man is asked the question.
He does not respond immediately, lounging against a chair too small.
It constrains him, as the world constrains him, and he scratches at sharp teeth.
Languidly - for he is languid, when he replies - the words ooze out as if in a confident swagger, themselves.

"It's nothing."

But that answer would never fool you.
All you need to do is ask the question, again and again, again and again, always and again.
So you do.

The question makes even him uncomfortable, if asked often enough.

In the ramshackle towns that follow the Seafarers where they sail and set port, silver light streams through a window.
Pillars reflect from the bright and gibbous moon, framing his battle-lined body - and he recoils, where the light touches.
He is not happy; he is angry. He is furious. You ask the question, again.

"Everything, nothing, why are you asking me? I'm just the guy who'll seize it, with my own hands.
Ask the crazy woman, and she'll tell you. You don't need my answer - "

Gently, but unflinchingly, you ask the question.

... He leans back into the chair, his eyes tightly shut.
When they open - just a little - they are rose bright, and meet yours in defiance.
But he is cowed in his answer, because the question humbles us all.

"Maybe the place is an idea. Maybe, to me, it means a curse.
And maybe it always has, since I first heard it given a name."

Trying to regain power usurped from him, he moves to shoo you out -
But you've already left, having stolen the information you sought from him.
When you glance back, he is staring out the slanted window, towards radiant moonlight that cannot reach the deepest sea.

A devout woman is asked the question.

Currently, she is basking against a bier of black basalt, resting as if in prayer - or exhaustion.
You have disturbed both, but she humours your question with a gracious elegance.
She clasps her hands together, her arms thin and snake-like.
Their pale hue contrasts the newly darkened moon, hidden beneath the clouds.

"Oh, you wish to know of the Holy City?
I would gladly tell you everything, but you must promise to listen.
For it is only in listening that - "

You aren't here to listen; you asked the question, to her.

When the most devout are asked the question, many hesitate.
It only goes to show that those utterly sworn to the ideal would hesitate more;
And she hesitates. She pauses, as if frozen in time.

Thin beads of sweat ooze and congeal against a delicate brow, clinging to short black hair.
She wishes to see you banished for the question, or many other things. But you had to ask it; she had to answer.

"... I take it you will not leave unless I answer you, as honestly as I can?"

Even if you didn't wish to nod, you would do so.
When she sees your head bow low, her expression hardens.

Hers is the will that has seen the legend of the place rise and fall, as the tides have risen and fallen.
Death and life and new life; death, and birth, and rebirth.
When her fingers steal under her matted hair, they return as clear as moonlight.
She does not falter, when she replies. It would be easy to believe that she had no hesitation, at all.

"Lemuria is all that will be, has been, and has ever held worth. None who lived within would disagree.
There is peace, there, and we shall find it, and to me it is peace. Does that satisfy you?"

It doesn't matter whether it satisfies you, or not. It is her answer, and you have already left.

A woman who called the place her home is asked the question.

"Oh?.. My answer isn't very complex.
I'm sorry if that's disappointing to you, in any way."

Her voice is smooth and soft, even as the heat of her vision lays heavy against you.

None of that matters, because you are waiting for an answer to the question.
But she spoke truly - her answer is not complex.
It is as simple as any, who has ever sought a single word:

Home.

"A place that I miss terribly. I will set sail, and I will find it again - the homeland.
Could it be that you sought me out, because you wished to return to it, too?"

She answers with a threat, because no other can be worthy of this perfect place.
If a home exists, it must exist by denying itself to those who are not worthy -
Or, perhaps, having lost it once before... She simply does not wish to share it, ever again.

The furnace in this place they will abandon is fed by black stone, crumbling and soft.
Callously, you warm your hands by the fire they cast, because that answer is not enough.

Light from the fire and her face linger upon you, and when she speaks, her tone is more quiet.

"Only the Divine Mother can truly understand it. Our home is a glory. It is benediction and love.
Everything about it shines as brightly as the first thing you remember truly loving; and only aches more.
Had you truly sought to ask another, you would ask her."

The air is cold outside, and you could wish all you want for the warmth of anything to armour against it.
But it chills to you the bone, and sinks in long after her words have faded, behind you.

The Divine Mother lounges against her resting place, and is asked the question.

She stares at you, and her eyes are rubies worn away by the sea.
Unlike all the others, the question has little effect on her.
And the corner of her mouth twitches, but in a way that is impossible to divine.

"You're asking me... What the Holy Land, the Great City, what it means to me?
I should have you know... My answer is absolute. I could tell you anything, and it would be true."

Patiently, you nod. You have no right or need to answer.
All you can do, all you have available to you, is one single phrase - a single question.
So, you ask it again:

What does it mean, to you?

In a lightless room, kept occluded from the rest of the waking world, she falls to her bed.
Her smile has become a smile, and she makes no effort to hide it.
The edges stretch to her haggard face, dark lines against pale flesh.
And her hennin falls behind her, veil parting over white hair, as she replies with the cruellest possible answer:

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Chapter Text

It had started simply enough, like any other mild disagreement.

Mythag's mess hall had been gripped by the implicit chaos that crawled into the campus, from time to time.
Winkle had been sobbing into a mug of something dark and night-black that smelled faintly like an archaeological site.
Czort and the most noble Dexter were talking among themselves, perhaps about budgetary issues.
Ramona had been staring out the window, missing someone whom everyone knew would surely return.

And it would've remained stable, if it had just remained simple - but how much ever did?

"I'm just saaaaaaying, you know, that women like you are the best kind to break?
You talk a big game, but if you have to cut somebody up to prove a point, well, that's just no good."

Because Mythag was run with the order and efficiency of any university campus, it was -
Run with the order and efficiency of any institute of higher learning, one might surmise.
Someone, and it was fortunate that Professor Doll was not present, for she would have had words...

Someone had decided to seat two fundamentally different Awakeners next to one another.

Pandia lay into her chair with her legs against the dining table.
Having barely touched anything edible, she'd dragged an incredible amount of wax with her.
A few people might have suggested that the globs of white and pink wax were edible.
Wanda mildly disliked them.

"I see. Please tell me what would qualify as good. I'm all ears."

Long, extended nails braced themselves against one another, as Wanda braced her hands to the table.
Unlike the woman-shaped obscenity sitting across from her, she had politely consumed what was on offer.
And it was... Serviceable, in a manner fitting for a place of common education.
None would accuse her of lacking decorum, and if they did...

Razors sighed as she steepled her fingers, and smiled.

"Oh, oh, I will! I qualify just a little bit of looooove, and a lovely bit of kiiiindness, and?
To top it all off, a pinch of sweetness, but it's the kind of thing you only get among girls!
Even when you're doling it out to guys who just don't rate? Do you feel me?~"

"I have often wondered how you can sound so brainless, while talking about incarceration.
You do a disservice to those you imprisoned, but I suppose that's the best that can be asked of you.
Lax cruelty is preferable to harsh justice, I have found.
As for me, no, I do not feel you. Speak clearly, without elongating your words, if you can?.."

Giving credit where it was due, as Wanda strove to do - Pandia rarely flinched or backed down.

Far greater men had shied away when she leaned into their personal space; but then again, Pandia was Pandia.
The flexibly curved smile on her infuriatingly bright face didn't falter, and she - annoyingly - leaned towards her, in turn.

"Okay, I'll tryyyyyyy? Oh, no, I failed? Hmn, so I was just thinking it's too drab around here.
People are too sad, right? You can see that too, since you have experiences, I'm sure.
All those people waiting on you hand and foot? Giving their all to you, what a miserable life!
Sad prisoners make bad workers, you've got to give them something to live for! So, I thought we'd liven things up!..
And settle something I'm just deadly serious about, it's burning me up inside!"

Wanda raised a single, delicate, snow-white eyebrow.
The soft curve of it held over her piercing gaze, mirroring a smile that was a sea of knives.

"I'd rather that be the case, but you have my permission to continue. Consider me intrigued."

Pandia made a noisome squealing sound that Wanda felt had to be for effect -
But, worryingly, that she felt she could not be certain of.

Swaying from side to side, Pandia eased her legs off of the table, and flipped her smile into a smirk.

"Oh, it's REALLY simple. I wanna settle - once and for all! - whose methodology wins hearts and minds, more.
Your sad sombre nonsense that just hurts too much to even consider, or my perfect pure sweetness, warm and honey-sweet!
And I figured, since everyone is just sitting around like a loser, eating food and wasting time...
We could have some help? C'mon, who here has the BEST sense of justice? I'm sure SOMEBODY has one?..
Someone, anyone?.."

There was a pause that Wanda found slightly worrying.

Ryker had walked into the cafeteria, turned on the ball of his foot, and walked out.
Czort had stood smartly, and with a professional precision - power-walked out behind him.
Dexter seemed interested at first, then clicked his fingers together... And had, of course, walked out... (At a leisurely pace.)
Not many Awakeners had remained, though Ramona seemed to have not noticed the foolishness they were engaged in.

However, chaos sometimes brought opportunity, and as fate would have it...

"I, I don't consider myself particularly just. I am merely a knight-in-training, but!
Somehow, I... I really wish I'd been practising..."

Ogier, looking at once nervous and incredibly tired, was placed at the head of their table.
Then, Pandia scooted over to a chair near to his side.
Wanda, never one to be outclassed in anything, moved to the chair opposite her...
Placing her to Ogier's other side.

"Fear not. I can promise for my part, at least, nothing bad is going to happen to anyone.
You don't need to be on guard, today. I'll make sure to keep this vile sprite in line, too. See?
Neither you, nor anyone in this hollowed hall, has a single thing, to worry about."

"Miss Wanda why are you pausing between every word there."

Wanda had kept her eyes trained on her opponent the entire time.
She didn't hate these kind of competitions in the slightest; they were delightful.
But when she had been challenged, she did not cede ground, she did not back down -
And she did not lose.

"I saw something bright that had to be crushed, so that nothing else could bloom where it had once been."

"OhhhhhHhhhh - that's it, that's the stuff! Love it, love it, love it!
Seeeeeee that's what you're all lacking, girls! And guyyyyys, I guess...
Anyway, Ogier, I'm serious when I say do I look like the kind of girl who causes trou - "

With discipline and skill befitting a knight, Ogier's eyes shone brightly. He responded swiftly, without a quiver in his tone.

"Miss Pandia, when you are eating in the cafeteria alone, you often steal food from others.
There have been two complaints from Miss Murphy of churro theft, five complaints from those who would rather remain nameless...
Several unsorted complaints of unwanted physical and emotional contact, and, uhmn, you also once lit your dorm on fire - "

"A mistake! That was a mistake! I was doing a meditation ritual!"

Wanda coughed once, and placed her right hand to the table.
On instinct, Ogier straightened his back - and Pandia muted her suddenly much-higher-pitched squawking.

"Right. Anyway, sorry, here''s how it'll work. I'll describe something, and Wandia'll answer with how she'd handle it.
Call and response! Simple stuff, right? And after three rounds of this, you're going to be our scale of justice?
Making sure to tell us ALL the ways you'd... Fall in our favour?~"

"I deeply regret this,"

Said the knight sorrowfully, and she respected his honesty as well as his candour.
But a knight he remained; and perhaps Ogier had glanced to the windowside.
He saw something, and ran his hand through pale blond hair, and his resolve hardened.

"... Yet, I accept your request. I'm not sure I follow, but - "

"Okay, so, Wanda.
A guy you don't want to see shows up to your fancy rich estate manor at three.
That's three in the morning? And he knock-knock-knocks at the door, and say it's important.
He says it's important, prommy. You have two options, do you kill him, or do you let him in - "

Snorting derisively, Wanda allowed herself to repay the useless scenario with an unearned smile.

"Neither. Why, in this theoretical, is a footman not greeting this man on my behalf?
It is three. He will be offered room and lodging, and if the staff detect issue, they will slay him where he stands.
His body will be buried under oak trees, or displayed if a threat beyond reason, so that others understand their mistakes.
But, is that really what you think of me?.. Hmph.
My body count is not so high, nor do I need to waste pleasure on those unworthy of it."

"Ohhhh, that's so mature and just like you."

Humming to herself, Wanda wondered idly what either of them truly knew about one another -
They rarely spoke, and she had little interest in people who did not offer her some use.
Professionalism was valuable, efficiency and capable hands were valuable.

She saw Pandia's eyes flicker, olive-bright, to the windowside.

"... I wouldn't consider myself particularly mature, nor did my answer have anything to do with me.
You are in the snow. It is very cold. The snow is falling down in a terrible blizzard.
And the blizzard chills you to the bone, to the core.
But a man, the same man you callously sent to my estate at three in the morning, is there.
He is dying, but you would risk dying too, if you helped him. So, you..."

Wanda trailed off, expecting an answer.

"Uh, hey, question? Why is it the same man?
I mean, I'm glad he survived your footmen killing him, but why is he here? This is just a dumb, spur-of-the...
Oh, anyway. Is he good-looking?"

"Very good-looking."

'Shit,' muttered Pandia.
'FUDGE!'

Pandia did not say 'fudge,' but Wanda had little interest in transcribing further vulgarities other than Pandia, herself.

"Okay, okay, I guess I throw him over my back and carry him home.
I don't die and I make sure to throw him somewhere safe the moment there is somewhere safe.
He's not MY responsibility! Oh, and if he escaped, I take him back to a niiiiice warm cell!"

"Miss Pandia... I was going to praise you, until the end.
Regrettably, I think Miss Wanda is more just, this round."

Pandia's face exploded into the most petulant pout Wanda had yet seen from her.
She yowled in a cat-like fashion, complaining that she'd been far more just, and many other things beside.
Wanda simply waited, because Pandia burnt brightly, and seemed to lack endurance.
Hmn.

"If you're quite done, I believe I start this round? Thank you, knight.
Next time I consider making work for you, I shall expect even more of you."

Across from where Wanda sat, Pandia mouthed that wasn't how you showed thanks.

But Ogier's smile was bright, and he mentioned - somewhat cheekily - he would look forward to it.
He was very reliable. She could see why he had been in that individual's most trusted inner circle.

"Very well. How about this?
Someone you love very much, has unexpectedly passed.
You have inherited much of their wealth.
And you could use this wealth for the good of others that you love...
Or you could waste the money on idle pleasures, wastrelry, and houses of ill-repute.
Those are your two options."

"Hmn, I feel like I'm being put in a box, here? No~ thanks!~
I do what I do because I love; a jailor's, or should I say, gaoler's salary? That's good enough for me.
Does this mean Mister Rogers bit it? Ugh, what a pain... Uhhhhhh, I give it all to people who are in need!
But they have to do something kinda nice for me, in return. We both win, that way."

See?
Pandia mouthed at her, not saying the words. Wanda noted that her lips were very fine -
Traces against her face, even when drawn into a becoming pout.

Isn't it so nice, when things are settled, where we both get what we want?

Snorting Wanda lay back in her seat, and glanced to Ogier.
A few of the remaining Awakeners had gathered, but he remained focused on the contest at hand.

"Not gonna dignify me with a response? You're gonna make me cryyyyy, and not in a good way.
Then, I'll pummel you a bit, since that's the only language you understand?
You've lost everything you have, but you can get it all back and more.
All you have to do... Is kiss someone sweetly, you just can't stand - "

"Oh, simple. I kiss them."

Pandia looked as if she had definitely had a response lined up, but it died.
Her entire face was cherry-red on wax-white flesh, and Wanda admired her handiwork.

"... I think that was Miss Pandia's win.
You were a bit cruel there, Miss Wanda. It fed into what she might have expected from you.
Besides, even if people did have to help her... I bet a lot of people are living better lives, now!"

"She didn't even do anything in reality, knight. But, I shall concede.
Well, then - final round. Are you going to be able to muster a challenge, Pandia?"

Pandia exhaled, and lay back in her seat - staring at the ceiling.

For some moments in time, no more than a minute, she seemed content to chew her words over.
When she finally spoke, her voice was far more measured than it had been.

"Okay, okay. Hit me."

"I'd rather not; I feel strongly I've made my case for that.
But, you can ask your question, any time you please."

Pandia murmured that they weren't questions, they were games.
Then, she sighed - and the familiar smile returned to her face.
Bobbing her head from side to side, she pursed her lips, and said...

"You're running out of big ideas for a collaborative project.
It's one you need to bring some outside minds into, just to make it happen.
And they're playing hard to get, right? So - you have to think of something.
The hits just aren't coming, though. So... So, what do you do?"

"Nobody can do everything on their own. Sometimes you have to admit to that fact.
I let the project fail, but take responsibility for it failing. I wasn't charismatic enough to save it.
Therefore, the fault should fall on my shoulders, and mine alone."

She saw Pandia's lips purse tighter, but if her opposite had anything else to say on the matter - she didn't.

"As for my challenge to you, hmn...
You've fallen to the lowest point you've ever found yourself.
How do you pick yourself back up?"

Pandia laughed, and shot her a cheeky wink.

"Goooood question!
Fortunately, I've never fallen that far, huh? Time!
So, Ogier, how'd we do?"

"Well, by my impartial standards - I'd weigh you about evenly!
I think you both could be surprisingly just in your own ways!.."

The room fell silent, though not out of fear.

Awakeners who'd expected something to happen, began to crowd out - no.
Each of them had been gradually leaving before the end of their impromptu conversation.
Mythag's cafeteria hall was emptied, leaving the two of them, Ogier, and a shadow of a woman -
Watching the window, always, as if staring through it hard enough would find a familiar face in the mirror.

"Let me give you a word of advice, knight. Few women of our calibre would take lightly to being told...
'You both won!..' in such a chirpy, vapid tone. Doing so automatically awards the prize to my opponent, I think.
But thank you for indulging us."

"Mmn. I'm sorry, I couldn't..."

Skybright eyes fled to where Ramona sat, alone, and he couldn't finish his sentence.
There was no need.

Wanda waved him on, and watched his form leave.
Eventually, Ramona left, too.
... Privately, Wanda felt certain she hadn't heard a word, though -
In other times, she would've intervened and been a terrible nuisance, for the alleged sake of another.

"You showed surprisingly virtuous character, there. Make sure it doesn't happen again.
I despise insipid justice, even over cloying affections."

"Hmnn, you don't gotta be like that. We didn't nail this one, huh? It was fun, though."

Pandia set out about wiping errant wax from the table.
Silently, but without request, Wanda joined her.
With the two of them working together, it did not take them very long.

"It was.
Perhaps next time."

"... Next time?"

Wanda knew it wouldn't matter how many times they repeated the gesture -
Any attempts to reach someone else, no matter how sincere nor just, could not succeed...
So long as that sole individual, was looking so sincerely, for someone who was not there.

Even still...

"Yes. Next time. Think of something more amusing than imaginary men.
There's very little pleasing for me in their presence."

Pandia said something as she left, but Wanda did not reply.
The day ended simply enough, as days were prone to do.
But, just as impartial judges could prove grating - mild disagreements could be simple, even enjoyable.

If Pandia had enjoyed it, also, she could think of a different reply next time, as well.

Chapter Text

"You're acting stranger than usual."

Ramona hadn't been the same since that day, and it didn't take a great detective to recognise that.
Even before the bloody mess in Aram, Ryker had felt the two of them, her and the Keeper, had stood out well -
Partners in crime. So it was fitting that now, she was stuck between partners, who were criminals.

"Ahaha, oh, my lovely daughter, I'm always at least a little strange!
Besides, I heard from a few of your pals-about-class that you've been down in the dumps.
You know what always gets me back on my feet, throwing money away like it's nothing!
This place is really good, too. An elegant courtier I just so happen to know, she recommended it.
I've always felt braised pork belly is one of life's greatest treasures - "

"Father, if you don't need me here, I have things to do. I'll be going."

'Lord Dexter' shot him a small smile, and it was clear what the real cost for the meal was.
But the man sitting across from him didn't believe in anything close to a free lunch.

"Now, now, little lady! I can't say I know too much about being a parent, but...
Your old man has to be a bit worried about you.
That goes for a lot of us, just the other day, I'm fairly certain I saw Wanda and - "

"Frankly, I don't care what you saw, detective. I do not want or need your 'help' right now."

Silver hair fell back deftly, as her hand brushed it back.
Ramona's gaze was stern, almost sterner than Ryker had seen it during life-or-death combat.
Her piercing glare met her father's own laid-back smile, but no matter what she thought...
The rub was that the truth, here, wasn't one you could just isolate from falsehoods, until nothing else remained.

'Dexter' sighed, but in a gentle and even-handed fashion.

The booths here were nice and spacious, the air was perfumed with the good scent of better food.
Conversation and smoke milled easily alongside one another, and as the leathery cushioning eased against his back...
Mythag's aristocratic professor gave his daughter a warm smile, and said just a few short words.

"You know, we're all hurting, too."

Ramona shut her eyes, and exhaled sharply.
If people had cared to listen, they would've heard it - but they didn't.
A family in the booth over tore into crispy skin, dissecting the remains of a duck.
Loud voices argued, and their arguments were pleasant with just the threat that they could become less so.
Sound and din blended together until they might collapse to pieces, or felt like they would.

Clearing his throat, Ryker interrupted.

"That, that was probably not necessary, Lord Dexter!
I mean, yes, we are, but it's a very different thing then - "

"... Ryker. Thank you, but I'm fine.
But I am going to be going now.
Dexter... Father, I do appreciate it, I really do, but this is the last thing I need.
What I need - well, it's nothing you can help me with. I'm sorry; it's just the truth."

She nodded her head curtly, and left without flourishes or drama.
Nobody else cared or noticed after she'd made her way from the building, save, of course -

The two of them.

'Dexter' fell back into his booth, oozing out against it in every direction.
He wasn't literally oozing out against it, of course, but it would've been easy for him to.
Clicking his tongue to his teeth, he adjusted his glasses, and the smile evaporated from his face entirely.
All that was left was a very slight and insincere frown against restrained lips.

"You know, I don't think I told you to butt in, there. Did I?"

"No, sir. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was supposed to schmooze and charm her wayward heart!
Only, ah, this is the thing, I'm terrible at following directions! Guess that's on me, isn't it?.."

For a moment that anyone could have heard a pin drop, if they'd cared to listen...
All the sound in the room seemed to go still.
Ryker felt his skin crawling under the 'gift' of his fur, and the sweat down his spine was ice-cold.

But then, the elegantly-dressed man laughed, and Ryker knew to laugh, and it seemed as if all was well.

"You always do surprise me, and I suppose that's one way of making sure to work yourself into my good graces.
Just understand that I'll make sure to properly take what you owe me later. That sort of thing is 'on me,' after all.
Not that you mind, of course! And can I say, what an interesting choice to make!
She hardly knows or cares about you, hmn? Which is to say, you've wasted time and effort and pain...
On somebody who would mourn you only tertiarily. What a contradiction that is."

Ryker's smile was frozen against his teeth. It was locked into place because he couldn't, dared not change it.
Food had been brought over, and like everything the man offered, it was delicious, indescribably so.

He ate slowly, but with gratitude. Noble Dexter's shadow barely touched more than a mouthful, opining it was 'fine.'

"She spends a few seasons stuck in place, and finds this kind of trifle suitable...
I suppose that's the difference between a gourmand and a gourmet, c'est la vie.
Oh, and Ryker, here's a question for you. Why do you think I wanted your help in giving her something to do?"

Ryker didn't want to think about anything the man politely smiling at him was saying, and shut his eyes.

"Probably... A scheme, of some sort, probably...
Something I'm really better not, hahaha, better off not knowing - "

"Wrong, I'm afraid. Irritatingly dull of you, but I suppose it puts your spur-of-the-moment bravado in context.
Dexter would have done the same, if less skilfully, and so I did it as well.
You really are very dull, naturally. It's so lucky for you that I don't give up on works-in-progress, hmn?"

Ryker replied that it was doubtless so, but couldn't help himself, and muttered that Lord Dexter might have done it better.

... And then the man sitting across from him burst into laughter.
He laughed and howled, and slammed his fine fist to the fine table, and wiped it against his sleeve.
He laughed so hard, he looked as if he might cry, but instead simply laughed some more.
He laughed and seemed as if he might clap, might burst into applause... Though he didn't.
What remained was a smile, and it was not particularly one suited to Lord Dexter.

"Oh, very good, you might be right. I'm just tired of thinking about the ONE subject everyone cares so much about.
Keeper this, Keeper that, I could have done everything that brat did - much more skilfully, I might add -
But I am grateful, truly grateful, unfathomably grateful that all of you are such morons."

"Noted, sir. Now, are you going to keep wasting your food?
It's another failure of yours, I should wager, and two men in a place like this seem suspicious!"

Finally, mercifully, 'Lord Dexter' remembered himself - and took a bite of smoked salmon, which he seemed to enjoy.
He looked as if he might cross his legs, though they were too full for the lean and lanky instincts that followed him.
So 'Lord Dexter' didn't, and instead settled on being just Lord Dexter, enjoying a meal with a 'friend.'

"... People, human beings, are never suspicious. If they were, they wouldn't make amusing bets.
It'd end up with a lot less desperation, and a lot less of you being joined to beloved and faithful friends, right at the hip.
So I'm glad that most of your ilk are terrible, mush-brained meanderers who fall prey to anyone with a good smile.
Let them be as suspicious as they possibly can. You have salvaged your dignity, and given me some food for thought.
Regrettably, I suppose I have to let dear, sweet Ramona stew in her own angst a bit more.
Wait, but what if... Maybe, maybe I could... Hohoh, that would be funny..."

"You don't mind being seen derelict at a fine place like this, with a mushy-brained meanderer like me?
Hmn. Seems you're going soft, 'Lord' 'Dexter.'"

And the man across the booth from him snorted, but seemed to find that oh-so-terribly amusing, too.

It was pleasant enough, the rest of their evening -
Ryker even pretending to care about the opérette his associate went on about.
Listening to his long-winded critiques was pleasant enough, too, and was better than any imagined alternative.

But night strolled in, and people left, and food cooled, and shadows followed.

The next day, Ramona politely found Ryker and apologised, but it was fine - he insisted -
For it was fine, it was all fine, and hadn't much troubled him at all.

Chapter Text

She is working late into the night, as she has before.

The actions are almost mechanical, at some point.
Measuring, tracing, imagining, until the daydreams become something real.
... And there's a cost to that, but she prefers not to think about it so very much.
Her eye itches, and the itches whisper, and she prefers not to think at all.

Small hands measure larger work, one that was meant to be a shawl.
Clumsy. She's so clumsy. You're so clumsy. You'd be better...

A knock at the door interrupts her thoughts, before even a wriggling could answer them.

"D... C... Please come in, I'm just working, right now.
Oh, who is it? I should - Aigis should have asked - "

"It's me."

The stern voice at the other side of the door belongs to Ms. Helot.
Aigis smiles, and puts the needles down, making sure to place them parallel.
Doing so is good practise, Ms. Sarah said. So she chooses to believe it is.

"Yes. You should always ask who is knocking at some late hour.
Lotan sent me to do rounds because there was talk of someone wandering around at night.
I found them, they were, it was harmless.
But children usually go to bed early, or should. Lily had to have me tell her a story, to rest.
... Do you need one, too?"

Aigis tries to hide her laughter, but is very bad at it.
Her laughter escapes, coarser than any textile work, and she flinches at Ms. Helot's familiar scowl.

The flinching fades, a bit, as it becomes clearer and clearer that is just how her face looks...
And the offer seems quite genuine, is quite genuine.
(Even if there's a voice in her mind telling her that such stories are for children far younger, and she wouldn't deserve them.)

"... N, no thank you. Aigis is fine, tonight.
But Aigis, I can't sleep just yet... Uhmn... I promised I'd finish a winter coat for Jenkin...
That means I have to make something for Ms. 24, as well, and Lily always needs more clothing.
Keeper should have something good, also. For - for all they've done, oh...
You could probably use something, too, I..."

Brusquely, Helot enters into the room and closes the door.
There's not even a semblance of pretence there, and Aigis flinches again.
A gurgling chuckle echoes inside of her skull, and she tries to ignore it, but only tears up.

"You don't need to do anything. Thank you."

"I, but... Even here, it's cold. Winter is cold, and -
What if, things are harsh, or... Or there's not enough, money, or..."

She wants to hug something dear to her chest, while knowing it would only make her feel worse.

Helot's piercing gaze scours a room so fiercely regimented that any would've been forgiven for assuming it was hers.
That Aigis was the intruder, and that she should - excuse herself, leave, flee!..
All save the presence of the main yarn, the needles, and incomplete projects, carefully spaced apart from one another.

With a deep breath, Helot's ensuing sigh feels like a judgment, until she speaks once more.

"Did anyone ask you for any of this?
Not counting Jenkin. Don't let her ask for things. Answer yes or no."

"I, but..."

The same intimidating glance finds her again, and Aigis wants to cry.
A reedy voice in her skull is angry, the rare anger, by what right does anyone have -

"Of... Aigis was - I was just being helpful! It's good to, to keep busy..."

But she has admitted it, and the room feels so much emptier.
Cold air seeps in, which was why she'd started knitting in the first place.
A yawn comes, swiftly stifled; exhaustion follows the chill in, soon after.

"May I sit down."

She nods at the request, and Helot somewhat mechanically pulls a chair to the wall.
For a minute, they have only silence between them; Helot sitting, arms to the back of the rest -
And Aigis unable to sit down, for fear her legs might give out on her.
It's all so funny, and just like she always is.

"... There's no way I can talk you out of this.
What a good girl you are."

Even the rustling leaves, the painful tinnitus is silent.

Aigis isn't sure what to say, though she always appreciates sincere compliments.
Hesitantly, for fear of doing or saying something unkind, in kind...
Small feet cross the small horizon between them, and her smaller palm tries to rest against the back of Helot's hand.

"Thank you very much. Please don't worry about Aigis. I want to..."

"But instead of talking you out of it, let me ask you a question.
Do you need to make everything, for everyone, all at once?
... You can't share a single loaf of bread with a company of five starving men.
So. Do less, and do it more slowly. Don't do what you don't have to do, right now."

Her fingers have their hidden calluses, and they dance as Aigis tries to steady her hands against one another.

"But, I... I have to, I know sometimes - not everyone has their groceries taken care of, or...
Or eats enough, and I don't want anyone else to - "

"I understand."

Finally, Aigis allows herself to sit back down at her desk.
The faint orange warmth of candlelight reminds her of harsh times she misses.
She misses everyone; every part of her misses everyone, even as she's so happy to be here.

"You'll keep doing it, so I'd like to watch you work."

Her normally downcast eyes lighting up, Aigis stares intently at the woman across from her.
It would be too much to ask, but...

"Oh, Ms. Helot, do you - do you knit, too, maybe..."

"No, I don't.
But I would like to watch you work."

She tries to think of several excuses, all of which Helot rebuts.
You must be tired; I am, but I'd like to watch you work.
You have to have other things to do; I do, but I'd like to watch you work.
You have to know I'll be fine; I know you will, but I'd like to watch you work.

With a small, tender smile, a young girl returns to the desk, and returns to her work.

Throughout the night, Helot occasionally offers short, clipped, terse advice.
Nothing about knitting; merely that she doesn't need to do as much, or that something looks sufficient.
Aigis doesn't agree once, but doesn't find herself minding.

Jenkin's piece is finished and set aside, and she has a good start on what she wants for Ms. Mason.

"... I'll excuse myself. You did good work, so do less work tomorrow.
That's not something I usually say, but I'm saying it. When kindness becomes a chain, it's no longer kind."

Helot leaves without a further word, and the cool night air might become a cool morning, though she isn't sure.
Aigis snuffs the light and wonders if she should feign sleep for a bit, or if it even matters.
She knows she's accomplished so much less than she would have, on her own.
There's always more to do, too, and if she doesn't do anything...

Bad things always have a way of following you, to even a gentle place.

Yet, the thought doesn't weigh as heavily against her neck, this time.
Her head is pleasantly silent, and she admires what was always intended just as a gift, because she cares.
It feels like a gift, again; she remembers why she cares, and tears up.
The tears aren't anything to be sad about, nor is the way she clings to a familiar stuffed toy.

When she sleeps, it's a pleasant one, just for her. And when she wakes, careful hands make a careful note -
That sometimes, it's okay to do just a little bit less, even when she feels as if she has to do more.

Chapter Text

Her hands are covered with grease again.

She can never quite remember how it gets there, despite knowing what she was doing just a few seconds ago.
It isn't like repairing cars for the university is glamorous work, and it isn't like she needs to be doing it.
There are plenty of skilled tradesmen either studying or alumni of the campus, and she is, she just...

Bright yellow eyes find a note she wrote, and she curses the idiot who took the carburettor set she needed.
Nautila is certain she didn't lose it, and just as certainly glad that some thoughtful soul put it back -

Right back on the drafting table, right where it belonged.

Occasionally, the work is exciting enough.
Committee members having riddled sidecarriage with shot, for example.
Gives her an excuse to practise detailing.
And just as fun to ask for a story of how it happened.

"Hmn-mn."

She's talking, but nobody else is here.
... Nobody else is here.

There's grease on her hands again. When did she take off her gloves?

Fresh stains supplant old ones as she wipes her hands against her brow, slides out from under the car -
And casts about for the carburettor, no, her gloves. She just had them.

Like a phantasm, she wanders around the section of the workshop they've - that is, the staff -
Have politely cleared off for her. She always cables well, so there aren't many tripping hazards.
But the terrarium test she carefully placed against the wall, to see if a perfectly closed atmosphere can sustain itself?
It's almost one, and she half-dances, half-stumbles around it as she makes her way to another table.
This one was for... Tool storage, yep, everything put exactly where it ought to be.

She smiles, and wipes at her brow, which has something greasy against it. Stupid, aggravating.
For now, that doesn't matter.

"Right, repair this, build that, uh... Hmn..."

Usually, she's given a wide berth. Plenty of things to do, plenty of time to do them.
But it's strange. The note she left herself, she had to have left for herself, it's nothing but a pattern.
A line, going round and round, caught in its own cabling, spinning, drawn taut, pulled taut, strangling.

The dark lines on yellow paper get thicker and thicker, steadier and steadier, like repairs she's made.
Her throat feels tight. Nautila chases her own breath, tries to remember why she came here.
Who made this? Was it a threat? Why did she - why would she...
She reaches bare fingers towards the paper, and wonders why she isn't wearing gloves.

But they touch the lines she drew, and that makes them real.

Yes. She's pulling herself above water, she's falling back.
No amount of holding her breath is doing anything. Her lungs have burst.
The pressure is too vivid, too real, she's bleeding water.
And she keeps falling lower, until she's tossed back up, until she's dragged back down.

"... Nautila. Nautila."

The weight, the pressure, it's too strong. A cable couldn't handle it, why hadn't she planned better?
There was a cable she could've attached, metal cabling, as a security measure.
But her body is being pulled apart, and she can feel herself being torn to shreds and made into water.

"Miss Nautila."

"Uh, yeah. If it's actual tech that people use in their day-to-days, you want Winkle.
Otherwise, how can I help you?"

She isn't spinning, here; she hasn't lost control of her feet, or her breathing.
It's just that she feels as if she's still drowning, something like it, she...
The interruption has shaken her thoughts right out of her. She feels resentment bubbling up, like water set to a boil.

"I know that. I work with Winkle, Miss Nautila."

"Oh, uh... Professor Doll. Of course.
Yes, I know that. You don't need to test me.
And I was just, uh, I was..."

Professor Doll wasn't speaking cruelly; her voice was flat, as it almost always is.
And the Professor crosses over, and not unpolitely wipes some of the grease from her brow.

"I borrowed some gloves from you. I'm returning them."

"Hah, of course that's where they - I knew I would've...
Thank you, yep. Oh, but that's not why you came here I'm done with everything, I think!
Just - not entirely satisfied, never entirely satisfied - "

Doll is admiring the handiwork, and the distinctly quiet surprise she shows fills Nautila's chest up, too.
Even if she can't remember the full process, she's still good with her hands, she's still useful.

"... Excellent job, and ahead of schedule, again. I'll confess I also had another motive.
A... Friend of yours asked me to check up on you.
But, due to tests ongoing, she cannot be here in person.
Therefore, I was forced to bring an in-between."

For a fraction of a fraction of a second, even the neutral voice of the professor cracks, or seems to.
But Nautila feels like it might be a trick of her own imagination, even as she stares at what's hidden behind Doll.

"Oh, ha, I... What am I supposed to do with this..."

It makes her angry, again.
She should know its name, not that she needs to, it was, it was...

But, Professor Doll is - without an expression at all - manipulating the otter's little limbs.
Its, his little face looks peevish. He's even wearing a little hat? Hat, hat...
Come on, now, it's Vortice's friend, Vortice... Oh!

"Coalsie, it's Coalsie! Come to play in the machinery again, huh?
You can't do that, not safe at all! I almost lost a finger, once! Maybe more than a finger!"

Just like that, her momentary memories are dispelled. Some of the good, too; but mostly, the bad.
They aren't important, either of them. The little otter is looking entirely disinterested with either of them -
Beady and powerful eyes set on her terrarium project.
Nautila whistles, steps in front of it, and casts her arms wide.

Just as she recalls, the otter runs around in circles, chirping as if challenging her.
This one had to have been important, but it's fine if she forgets it, and has to do it again.

"... I'll just leave you two to have fun, then..."

Professor Doll's voice calls out, but she's hesitating - loitering around in the doorway out of the workshop.
Some of the other staff have gathered, because it's Coalsie, technically... Coalsie the third, maybe?
Coalsie, the inheritor. A Coalsie that's returned, through thick and thin.
Through everything.

"Ah, no, Professor... Everyone, why not stick around for a bit?
Company doesn't bother me while I work, and I can't focus on little Coalsie as I like, so.
I'll just take him back to Vortice when I'm done here. You all can keep him company!"

Even though there's a few token complaints, nobody disagrees. She gets right back to work, without hesitation.
Before too long, her hands are covered with grease again.
Nautila calls out that she forgot her gloves, laughing, and tiny little paws shove them (rudely) to her side.
Someone has stolen Coalsie's little hat, and is viciously attacked until it is put right where it belongs.

Just like her tools, just like her notes, just like her mind, just like Vortice. Everything where it should be.

Chapter Text

It was a pleasant night, that any other might have called dark and stormy.

Rogers continued to pull at his collar, even though it was hardly done up tightly.
He had just come from a fundraising meeting, one of those... Terrible operations, where very...
Very assertive women would, hang off of your arm before you could refuse and if you did refuse!
Then you didn't acquire any funds, which were necessary to produce art, and it was dreadful!
Besides, sometimes there were very fine materials at those galas, but... Right now...

"It's really wonderful we're doing this,"

Repeated Rogers for the second or third time, to a drafty room rife with dust.
Anyone could have heard the unmistakable downpour and tumult of Londinium outside.
But the only other person who'd arrive, slightly late in his fashion -

Was far more interested in feeding his cat small morsels, stripped from fine red flesh.

"Oh? Rogers. Yes. I think we're making progress as scheduled.
Haha, haha. Galatea, you really are such a peevish young lady..."

Mrowl, replied the two-headed cat, not seeming much to care.

Rogers felt a little bad at being ignored, of course, but that was just one of the -
The necessary risks in being part of the bleeding edge of society! Yes!
All those who strove to truly better their craft had to risk isolation, even among their peers!
He didn't have an animal companion of his own, of course, Pandia had once thrown an entire box of kittens into the street -
But, occasionally, one of the things in the wax museum made cat-like-sounds, and wasn't that almost the same?!

From the opposite end of a great and hoary old wooden table that would have held far more people than were present...
One Herbert Rosenthal looked up, adjusted his eyepiece, and offered Rogers the first pleasant smile of the evening.

"Yes, yes. Rogers. I suppose nobody else made it, what a pity. Perhaps we should turn in early - "

"No! I mean, no, of course not, that would be too sad!..
Isn't it... That we've strived so hard to make our showpieces, and how often do we even meet?
Once a month, once a year, oh! I'd at least like to introduce my latest piece!
And see how you've all been progressing!"

He had asked Pandia to help him haul what remains of the day in, but she had laughed and slapped him.
Right on the rear, which made him deeply uncomfortable, but he couldn't quite say it was out of character for her.
And then she'd said, voice low and yet gentle, didn't he need to get stroooonger if he wanted to be a goooood artist?

But he'd nearly died! His back hurt! He'd nearly died and his back hurt!

"Oh, is that what that awful tarp-covered thing in the corner is.
I am sure it'll be very impressive when it's unveiled. Isn't that right, Albino?"

Mr. Albino had been here the entire time?!

"No.
Don't humour the help, Herb... Ert.
Or, do. I'm not your mother, am I?"

"Hmn. I don't really have any issues with my mother, or my father.
But I suppose you aren't. Hahaha."

Albino and Herbert shared an indescribable sound that resembled laughter.
Not wanting to feel left out, Rogers decided to laugh as well -
Which had the two of them stopping, almost immediately.
Really, though, where had Albino materialised from? That man was danger -

The double-doors, their dark teak embossed with a water-worn chisel, burst open.

"You. One of you.
Make room, immediately."

Rogers always stood on instinct for a lady, even though he usually did so with... Just a touch of resentment.
Nothing serious, of course! He resented men as well! It was a momentary resentment!
But Sanga, a tarp-clad bundle carried against her back, pushed past him as if he wasn't even there...
Placing it aside what remains of the day.

"C, c... C... Competitive, are we? Haha, my piece is really - "

"This was a waste of effort.
Only myself and Master Rogers seem to have brought anything.
You. Master Rosenthal. Did you even produce a piece?"

Her voice dripped with resentment, just as her clothes dripped with water.
Sanga's almost purely white hair hung over her eyes in clumps, which she blew aside with a frustrated exhalation.

"Oh, if it isn't Cité's prodigial daughter. Hahaha. I think an old friend of mine would have liked you...
But don't fret, I take everything I do very seriously. Isn't that right, Galatea?
... Ah, she's so truly wonderful. Look at her little teeth, everyone. Aren't they art, themselves?"

Showing no interest in the twin sets of small fangs tearing through leathery skin - which scarce bled -
The progenitor of their little meeting of the minds held his tooth-marked hand towards the sky...

Or rather, the ceiling, which was not quite so rainswept.

"My piece is called, ode to human supremacy over nature.
The title, some would say, is sardonic. Others might not. Hahaha.
I wonder what you'd say, Alistair... Anyway, I wonder if any of you can find it?
Here's a hint. You just have to use your eyes. Hahaha."

Rogers immediately jolted up from his seat, and began to sleuth around the room.

Sanga, who had taken a seat somewhat diffidently, made no attempt to join him.
Albino was... Albino was leaning with his leg to the wall, looking utterly disinterested?

"D... D... Don... Don't make this a farce, everyone! Let's find Herbert's - "

A wet squelch met his recently shined shoe, and he froze in place.
Very slowly, Rogers cast his gaze down, as Herbert let out a cheery little chuckle.

"Oh no. You found it. I suppose that's it for the ode then. I'm mortified..."

It was...
Honestly, it was...

"This is a very disappointing piece, Mister... Master Herbert, sir.
You just stitched together several different skins from several different people.
I expect better of you, and now it's all over my... My shoe, which is a shame.
What is the point of art if it cannot last through privation?
Furthermore, it smells very bad, which I think is not ALWAYS a flaw, however..."

"Mmn. I have to agree with him. You barely tried.
I see your days as an artist are far behind you."

Sanga, who had been wringing water out of her hair, was now laying her head to her arms.
Her voice was barely raised, and the sound of Herbert chuckling was far louder.
For Herbert's response, it was simple - starting with a small little shrug, as if to say:

What can you do?

"Don't blame me too much, everyone. Artistic tastes, changing times.
People are so boorish these days."

That, at least, everyone could agree on. Even Albino seemed to agree! How pleasant!

"I was pursued by a few busybodies who wanted to ask me some questions, so I had to kill them.
Well, I didn't do that, actually. Thank you again, Albino. You're an incredible asset to our group.
Let's have a round of applause. Albino, everyone."

Rogers clapped appreciatively, Herbert clapped politely, Albino looked non-plussed, if a bit smug...
And, naturally, Sanga didn't even budge her head.

"Oh, so these are the remnant materials. Very artistic, I suppose I think... A bit, a bit better of it, sir.
But I'd like to showcase my latest piece, because... In times of struggle, one must move even harder against them!
Therefore, I'd like to present my piece! Which is a sign of how the soul endures even the whims of the masses!
Please, behold, what remains of the day!"

Rogers limped over to the sculpture, and yanked the tarp off.

He... He yanked the tarp off, anything at all, would be preferable to this silence...
Like the rainwater outside, beads of sweat formed against his brow, his neck, even his fair blond hair...
Please, someone, say something...

"Trash. If you've seen the most rote work by Pickman, it has more value when burnt than yet another work in the same mode.
Did you just remove everything from another high society socialite, and pose her? Tsch.
If you're going to waste our time, consider dying in a ditch, instead.
Or did you not want criticism."

Although it wasn't a question, he tried to respond to the withering words spat forth by Sanga with a smile.
His eyes were tearing up.

"Well, I... I, that is... It's not just a, another... You know, I found the highest quality materiel...
Please, try looking at it from another angle, what if. If you look at it like...
Uhmn, this one won't be destroyed even if a fire were to break out which is really..."

"Goodness, gracious. Mr. Rogers, that's quite enough. I think Ms. Sanga was very brusque, back there, but...
I can't say I see the point of it, either. Caught up in your predecessor's work, are you? Hahaha, that's hardly rare.
But here's some professional advice.
You have to adapt, some time, or you'll eventually die. Nobody has time to appreciate corpses, anymore..."

A note of wistfulness entered into Herbert's voice at the end, and Rogers felt his heart twinge.
For indeed, it was true; what had come to society?

"... I'll agree with that much. But that's why it's insanity to simply call one death meaningful art.
You should instead solely focus on death that means something. Something intimate. Unavoidable.
No, inevitable, like the calling of the tide."

He hated to admit Master Sanga was correct, but correct she was. He had been going about this all wrong!
Stupid, stupid, stupid Rogers, and he could hear Mr. Wax sighing and shaking his head at his naiveté.

"W, well... W... Did Albino, make anything, at least?"

Albino's smile widened to almost the entirety of his cheeks.
It was a lean and hungry smile, reptilian and primal and promising nothing artistic at all.
He opened his thin lips to expose white teeth, and said:

"Oh, of course I did. Here."

From his breast pocket, Albino produced a neat little daguerrotype bromide.
It was a portrait of an indistinct figure, screaming; indistinct because their flesh was completely absent.
The picture itself had been nicely coated with dark brown stains, ugh, how did Albino get so tasteful...

"... Shit."

Muttered Sanga, conceding defeat.
Rogers tried to join her, but stuttered over the swear, so that it sounded a little like sit.
Fortunately, for all their flaws, none of the Sculptors seized on the opportunity, for which he was very grateful.

How courteous, their sacred Tilosian band of art!

"Well, my piece is untitled fifteen.
Let me unveil it without hesitation, and there you are."

Sanga's piece was a mish-mashed tensile nest of biological and artificial matter.
Wires and golden strings intercrossed with treated bone and other materiel he could not identify at a glance.
Even though he could appreciate the cost and time in creation...

"U, u... Hmn, w... Well, forgive me for saying, but...
This is an absolutely abomination of art. I can't derive any greater meaning at all.
B... Beyond the essentially chaotic and unordered nature of the... Roadway, of lines and marrows...
What am I supposed to derive from this besides you put together something in a hurry?
Art, I think... Art must never be rushed, therefore, I cannot in good conscience call this a piece I would endorse."

To his surprise, Sanga nodded languidly, having already returned her head to her arms.

"Mmn. Yes. I agree, but I've already learned everything I can, from here.
Probably time to find newer wellsprings of inspiration. Thank you for your considerate criticism."

"Oh, uhmn, I... Yes! Always happy to help a fellow."

And he meant it, of course, but then what was there left to discuss?
Some minor gloom settled over the table, like a pall. It had to hit all three of them -
Though not Albino, who had returned to loitering and was content knowing he'd won. (Bastard.)

"You know, I feel like even if we radically reform society, nobody is ever going to value tonight's subjects.
Isn't that sad? I think that's rather sad, Galatea... Oh, there you go again... Haha, isn't she a princess..."

Galatea had wandered over to Herbert's piece, and consumed it entirely, despite no longer needing to eat.
She had started on his own, but Rogers couldn't begrudge the adorable kitten that much.
Yes, he sometimes got instinctively scared of animals, but she seemed so viciously content.

"Cats are all such little murderers,"

Opined Sanga, sounding somewhat cat-like and unenthused, herself.
Rogers nodded, and wracked his brain for a way to keep the evening going.

"W... Well, I just think that even if there's no hope to ever market our ideas in the - the public consciousness...
Isn't it important to push the boundaries we push, as... Artists and scientists, creators and innovators...
So that, that... They have no choice to? Or, at the very least, we know who makes the best materials, and who makes good materiel?"

Herbert shrugged, but seemed to agree. Sanga said nothing.

Albino had appeared soundlessly behind him, a dark-gloved hand cold against Rogers' shoulder.
Leaning in close, Albino whispered:

"I'm sure you're an excellent judge of that, Noblest Master Rogers."

He then laughed - deeply unpleasantly - and simply disappeared.
There one minute, and gone the next. What a disquieting fellow!

"Well, that's that. I'd kind of hoped some of our other friends would appear. Oh.
That's just how it goes, huh, guys. Hahaha. Well, I still think this actually turned out to be a nice success.
Come on, Galatea, you've already eaten enough of that poor woman's drooping bits.
Good girl... Good girl... Oh, you're such a charmer. I'll expect results, so don't do anything too boring.
Now, then..."

Seizing a raincloak, Herbert muttered that he really hated Londinium, sometimes, and left as the rain picked up in intensity.

"I'll be going too. Oh, and Rogers?
You should consider using a binding material besides wax, sometime.
That would enhance the feeling of your pieces, make them more than just human."

And there was no real affection there, but he was surprised enough to bob his head in a short bow.
Sanga had already left herself, not caring to take her piece with her.

Once more, as always, he was alone.

... Darkness clung, and he felt his throat seize up.
He could do anything, be anything, here. Terrible, terrifying, terrible, he - he had to leave...

The moment came and went, and he reminded himself with a watery smile that he had the freedom to leave.
It wasn't a place he'd been put because he was a bad, unforgivable boy.
For this was where his esteemed peers and friends called home, temporarily, and practised their fine and noble crafts.
A temporary place, he could choose to leave.

Going where? To the museum? Are you sure?

His broad hands, lined with calluses, shook. He placed one to the other, and tried to breath in.
... Opening the door, rainwater obliterated the moment's doubts.

It was just Londinium, and had always been nothing more. How silly, he thought to himself...

Leaving to return to a place that was his own, and home.
Sweating, all the while, with precisely 7/8ths of a statue-featuring-skeleton-and-flesh wrapped in a tarp, against his back.

Chapter Text

Soil pulses and writhes, and she places the seed within.

From a rich field, will grow richer crops.
The front of his house is not a rich field, not yet.
But, she is busying herself with the groundwork, which she hardly minds the labour of.
It is a protective charm, a periapt against loneliness, until he returns to her.

His name, of course, is f̶̗̻̓͊u̴̥̾̉M̸͕̹̓I̸͈̹̐ń̸̠̈ŕ̶̻͘ͅĮ̸̲͌.

She knows his full name, too. She'll be the only person who knows it, at least for awhile.
The thought is comforting, but not quite comforting enough.

When was this moment in time? Why did it matter? He was there. You have to remember him.

A girl named Saya, whose membrane is pallid, rises from the earth she is tending to.
Light reflects off shifting blossoms, some of which are in the soil.
With her hand to the sky, she tries to remember the only thing that truly mattered.
But the scene is fundamentally unreal, like one of the sorrows he told to her, as they lay next to one another.

He is returning from work, or minding people, or something like those things.
The task had to have been hellish; he has forced himself to clean up, to hide his tired eyes, he has dressed in an ill-fitting suit -
All because they were 'attracting too much suspicion.'

"... Oh. Are you a gardener, now?.. Saya."

"Welcome home!..
I like to think we're both gardeners now. It's just something I read about.
You need to eat more, so I wanted to have food fresh from farm to table! I think that's the phrase?"

But she can remember most of him.

The tired, perennially suspicious gaze that softens - only a little - when he sees her.
All the uneasiness with which he evades the shapes milling around them, which aren't here anymore.
(She has made sure of that.)
Occasionally, the mixture of regret and unpleasant joy she likes best, because it's just what he needed to grow closer to her.

Which, too, she was just a matter of learning the right steps. Heroes need to overcome villains to win their lover's favour, after all.

f̴̛͚͌m̶͕̀i̸̲̼̒Ò̸̥n̶̗̞͂͂r̶̩̎͝Ị̸̿ tries his best to show disinterest, though it's because there are still elements of this place that displease him.
He shows notable peace as he bends down to the soil, a tall shadow over her diminutive form.
And he looks at the row of plants that she has sown, unique in all the world.

"I'm not familiar with this kind of gardening. The last time I can remember, I think...
My parents..."

"You don't have to say anything, if you don't want to."

Her voice is as gentle as the breeze against his back and her analogy for the same, as she places herself to his.
Against his shaking shoulders, she is a steady bloom, soothing away the few tears he has remaining.

"I don't mind their death, I've told you that. I'm just proud of you, that's all. I'm... I'm happy."

She swells with pride, and wishes it were a million other things.
But she is proud, too, as one of the seedlings cries out, feebly.

"Well, if you like what I've done... Help me, a little? I want to see your form when you garden."

"Haha. Saya... I just got home.
My arms are tired, my legs are tired... I had to listen to someone telling me a lot, that amounted to very little.
And - gardening. I can't remember much outside community gardening, that - tiny, insignificant little plot."

She mimes his arms, thrusting several into the air, and mouthing the words 'go for it!' gently, as a mantra.
He can't resist, and gives in.

"... Fine. Do you have a shovel?"

"I like rooting around in the soil myself.
There's a strangely satisfying feeling to it, that I only just discovered.
But I did find a spade. I wonder if someone used to own it?"

He mutters that he doesn't care, and she beams with pride.

F̶̖̖͊m̸͙̊i̴̙͑̏ḭ̸̈́n̷̮̋ȑ̵̖̬̔i̵͕̝̍͋ easily works the shaft through his fingertips, as he has played with other such things.
The same dispassionate dislike flickers through those eyes, as he falls upon the struggling seedling.
If it were their own, her heart would break. It isn't, of course; it's just a flower.
She watches, and lets out an appreciative laugh as he drives the shovel down.
Again and again, until it splits and stops making that unpleasant sound.

He wipes very meagre sweat from his brow, and smiles gently.

"... You're right about everything. Aren't you?.. Saya.
I never realised you could cut plants to grow them like this, though.
No, wait. Is it like potatoes?"

"Sort of. A lot of organisms are clonal. You have a lot of texts about it in cells, but...
With a bit of groundwork, I thought about all your favourite foods, and realised it'd be great if they could work the same way."

Others might have to make it clear they wanted rewards; his broad hand sinks against a heart-shaped part of her, and pats it.

"Hmn, I should have guessed. Well, I'll be glad to help you finish this, then.
Maybe things are finally getting more peaceful, aren't they?..
Just for us, just for the two of us, alone."

She vacillates. In the memory, she vacillates, for it is all wrong.

There is something she hasn't told him, and this moment hasn't happened - not like this.
Dark black fluid is oozing from the sky, from inside of her. She can feel a thousand separate pains.
None of them are the kind she can so easily ignore, and she makes a sound of pain that is not part of the memory.
It is overwritten by him, hunched over, every part of his lanky form slowly being erased by the flowing ink.

"F̶̛͕͕̥͚̋͋̑͒̈́͂̈́͝U̶̡̬̾̎̾M̵̝̲̦̰̓̂̉̋̃̉̕͜İ̶̢͇̲̠̤̬͇̝̇̓̒̈́͠N̶̡̨̖͇̠̩͈̮̔́͝O̴̦͍̬͇̟͇̒̓̍̽͗͘͜͝R̵̨̢̢̳̦̪͖͐̌̒̀̒͌͘͝Į̷̲̪͈̤̆̾!̸̨̛̬̥̩̯̜̤̈́͐̇̓̇͂͠"

Almost perfectly, it's almost perfect, the name she says - but for all his pain and her loss, she can't say it.
He smiles at her, softly; as he has only ever smiled at her.
In the memories, it is the one she remembers most.

"... Don't worry. Saya. It's fine."

Those are the words meant for her to say, to him. To give everything, to be everything, to live.
Yet he is eroding, dissipating, the whole world is falling to pieces
her heart is falling to pieces, there is nothing, there is nothing, there is -

"My... Would you like me to say something, then?"

Saya's eyes open, from where she has kept them tightly shut.
Glistening pools of almost translucent green shine with fresh fluid, almost like water.
And she is not resting in a hostile darkness, but against the dark brown skin of Thais' lap.

"... No, thank you. Please let me wait, a bit."

Thais waits, and Saya closes her eyes again.
It is a comfortable warmth, unlike the terrible emptiness she remembers.

Finally, however, Thais speaks.

"You know... I really do think it would be easiest for you to talk about this with, someone else?..
Miss Sylvia is very skilful. She has experience dealing with even - "

"No, she doesn't. Not like me. I spoke to Clementine, too. Their mind is wrong.
I dislike them immensely, though they are fun.
But they are they, and that is innately hostile to what I want."

... The reason she is here, and not with the smiling human woman or that chittering hostility, is simple.
She sees 'Thais' as Thais, and Thais sees her as her. Vortice is also like this, but Vortice is also not like her.
And so she can talk about things with Thais, and Thais will not approve, but...
How permissive, she is. It's something Saya likes, that she knows might prove useful, one day.

"I think you're wrong about that, you know?.. She, Clementine, has a very functional mind.
Just like yours, though I think it's kind of sad to only want one thing in the world."

"You would think that, wouldn't you? Hmmph!"

Others, thanks to the Keeper's kindness, would perceive a tongue stuck out of a pouting cheek.
Really, it's exactly like what she's doing.

Maternally, with an almost indescribable gentleness, Thais places her hand to Saya's forehead.
Unable to stop herself, Saya leans into the touch, and tries to hold out, but...
For a minute, she thinks that it's even better than memories of a fondly recalled pet.

"I would, yes. I love all creatures, and seeing one triumph over them to the exclusion of others...
Do you really think that's what he would have wanted?"

Yes, is what she wants to answer instinctively.
Because it's right, because it's what they wanted, and yet...
Now, that's all gone. So maybe they were wrong, and maybe she failed him.

Even her hair droops down, falling against the softness of Thais' thighs.

"I don't... Agree with you, Thais, but... Maybe I understand a little better.
There's a lot I am learning from this place, that I didn't learn before.
When I find him, I'm going to use everything I learned to make things right.
Yes, that's... That's how, I'll..."

She trails off, just glad to be resting against someone so kind and forgiving.

Comfortingly, the impossible shadow of a dark tree looms over a solitary flower, and sighs.
Even her sigh is warm and nurturing, and reminds Saya of the comfort she craved most.
Once more, she shuts all of her eyes, and smiles.

"There, there. You've been brave for so very long, and it's natural to feel afraid, and alone.
I'll sing to you a song of Aram, the home I called home for so very long.
Listen to it, okay? Listen to it - and I think you might understand me, a little better.
And your own feelings, too. Just forgive me! I'm not a brilliant vocalist, like our dear Tinct!"

Saya laughs, and hiccups, and isn't sure if she's sad or exhausted. Thais is right.

And the song is more of a story, than a song, and Saya feels the heroine is far too self-sacrificing.
But the thought somehow makes her laugh, even as she returns to a peaceful sleep -
Only capable of remembering the softness of spoken words, of a gentle hand, of warm flesh, and warm Caro.

When she finally sleeps, she doesn't dream of the past, but the flower remembers it, all the same.

Chapter Text

The scent of blood was stronger than anything else.
It overwhelmed, it overpowered, it consumed, and it destroyed.

Blood fed dry lips, clung to his blade, and painted the cresting waves.

Seafarers roared their approval, and he resented their weakness.
Resistance from the weak had risen and fallen with the tide -
Mere minutes, but minutes, nonetheless.
His fault; he had been too lax. The woman would criticise him, later.

Exhaling salt air, he drove the blade down.

Flesh and arteries burst, and the seafog was tinted with blood.
A mariner's corpse glanced sightlessly up at him, forever blind to the world.
His family, his shipmates, his everything had been taken from him; and the tribute was poor.

Goliath barked orders that the Seafarers dutifully followed. It was all they could do.
Like roiling dark tides, the resentment grew, threatening to spill over.

Spitting blood into the water, he shut his eyes, and allow himself a moment to think.

"... and that's the real problem.
Philistines."

Mythag had granted every one of them 'time' 'off.'
It wasn't something he thought about, because there wasn't a point, or hadn't been.
Goliath had found himself strangely paralysed by the idea, and had entertained several possibilities.
But avoiding troublesome women was easy, he didn't feel like bossing Caecus around.
He felt tired, more than anything else, so he'd just let himself wander, and try to find a place that wasn't noisy.

"What'd you say?.."

That place had ended up being the workspace commandeered by the artist, Pickman.
No place in Mythag was quiet, it was too damn busy.
But outside of the constant stream of babbling, Pickman didn't really seem to notice or care he was present -
And that had been good enough for Goliath.

With an artist's apron on, and his back turned - something nobody ever ought to do, Goliath felt -
He barely acknowledged the wire-tense words Goliath had uttered over jagged teeth.

"Philistines. Present company included, but more literally.
Barbarians, incapable of understanding anything put in front of them.
Even if you explain it, and I have explained it! But most people are far too brutish to understand.
I could complain about it, but that's just how they are."

"... You really don't have any sense of self-preservation, do you?"

The room they were in had been a garage or workshop.
Goliath'd seen a few around. That scatterbrained woman used one to repair the - things, they made.
Useful stuff, like the communicators.
One, he and that silver-haired man occasionally used for fights.

Mythag had too many rooms, so what was conceding one more to this guy, was what their logic seemed to be.

"Hmph. You barged into my studio, sat yourself in the corner, and just keep glaring.
I assumed you were trying to culture yourself, but maybe I thought too highly of you.
Move that pile over there, no! That one. I'm busy, I can't stop now..."

Nonplussed, Goliath responded to the orders as he did when he wasn't leading: He followed them.

Pickman wanted an increasingly inane series of objects moved around, seemingly not focused on any of them.
From his paints and tools, to the leftovers from whatever the room had been before.
An anatomical model, a bookshelf, the books that had fallen out - he just wanted them moved.
But he didn't shift towards Goliath, once. He had his focus entirely on his 'canvas' - one that took up the entire wall.

"... I don't get it. It looks meaningless."

Unsure if he were talking about the artpiece, or the tasks he'd performed, Goliath loomed over Pickman.
The artist was scratching at the back of his head, tilting it from side to side in a way Goliath had assumed was meant to be seen.
But his nails were digging into his scalp, and his focus remained unbroken - his eyes, unblinking.

"Yes, yes. It is meaningless, right now. I've barely decided how to make this as vulgar and cruel as possible.
My last attempt was cloying, sweet, and ultimately a failure. I didn't hate it, but it wasn't my intent."

"... Explain it to me. I don't see the value in art."

That, at long last, brought Pickman pause.
He whirled on his feet, frowning intently, eyes burning a rather violent red hue.
Seemed a pretty different sight from the cheerful energy he brought into battle.

"You don't see the - you don't see the value in art.
No, no, don't start, I understand. Chances are you came here to reflect on some torrid past.
Ransacking temples, running off with sacred valuables, who knows what else.
Am I right?"

"... No, because it isn't - whatever you're babbling about.
The strong take, the weak produce. If you waste time creating something that I can seize...
Why don't I? You wasting time on it, proves you're too naïve to live."

Goliath spoke evenly, expecting the white-haired man to back down; he didn't.

"Kh, too naïve. Alright, let me make sure I understand you so that I can explain this and return to work.
You think that your ability to take whatever you want makes you strong, and that strength sustains your right to do so."

"Close enough. I don't 'think' that, it's true. A cattle produces meat for a farmer, a farmer is to be slaughtered.
He produces meat for those powerful enough to kill him; that's his only value in the world.
When he dies, he ensures that the strong last beyond his life - as it should be."

Pickman had an unpleasant little smile that Goliath wanted to do something about, but...
Some part of him also had that miniscule smug confidence Goliath associated with that woman. Ugh.

"Sure seems to me that a lot of art remains in the world, but how many folk - outside of cloistered academics -
Know about the sea people, hmn? That's right!
... Does that mean art is stronger than all of you were?"

"Tsch. Watch your tongue, or I'll rip it out."

Pickman shrugged, merciful in (perceived, Goliath told himself) 'victory', having already returned to his art.
He genuinely showed no fear, none at all.

... So Goliath sat down against the concrete, cross-legged, and watched him paint.

"I still don't get it.
This just looks like any scene of battle, but from somebody who hasn't survived a battle.
Since I know you have, I don't get it. Explain it to me."

"Mmn. I'm not happy with it. It's garbage. Utter garbage!
Trash, but... There's something here, I think. Anyway, it's called mother and daughter.
And it's not supposed to be a battle, it's supposed to represent the instinctual hatred people have for one another.
For example, see here."

Placing a scraping tool to the ground, Pickman rubbed tones of every red shade against his apron.
Goliath watched him point at an indeterminable mess of colours, and tried to focus on what they meant.

"What I want to convey is man's inhumanity to man! You can't see it now, but imagine!
Haven't you know any single, living, breathing thing that - from a place of love -
Starts to hate so profoundly it consumes them?"

... Resisting the urge to gnash his teeth, Goliath shrugged. He didn't reply.

"But there's other elements, here.
If you can see it, there's a faint cloudy white above. Light should break through, I think.
Light that the viewer can't identify as light, yes, but that the mother or the daughter might.
Maybe they both can, but neither of them is willing to admit it."

Goliath could just make out the mess of bloodied smears that were 'mother' and 'daughter.'
He remembered corpses splattered and cruelly disfigured after death, and the piece made more sense.

"Okay. I think I understand you better. But I still don't see the value in it."

"Does there even NEED to be value, gh, it's like talking to a wall!
No, no, no. Think of it more like a, what's some metaphor you'd understand...
You train your body rigorously, and the bodies of your soldiers, helpers, whatever they are.
Cultists."

Goliath pondered defending the Seafarers, but - it wasn't incorrect.
He chuckled, under his breath, as Pickman's gaze fully returned to the incomplete wall-covering-canvas.

"Art can have a lot of purposes. It can train the mind, refine the soul, or exist solely to be consumed.
King Doresain is incredibly wise about such matters, he could explain it better than I can.
I'm only trying because you're here right now!"

"You haven't kicked me out, though."

Pickman - smiled.
Goliath didn't know what to do or say, and fell back on an old habit, returning to silence.

"Naturally, of course not! Art craves being seen, so it's fine that you're here.
I'm just not going to give you my full attention, right? But it's like watching a flower bloom!
Oh! Exactly like the dandelions Miss Saya was talking about! Wait, wait, there should be flowers...
Maybe the daughter is rotting, that has a kind of cachet to it..."

"Hey. Artist. Aren't you just doing the same thing, over and over? All of your work seems to be, kind of... It's just meat."

Pickman's smile spread all across his face, bright and enthusiastic.
For a minute, Goliath felt certain he'd clap his hands together -
But his eyes never drifted from the wall-spanning canvas.

"Of course! Well, but not really. There's a difference between being imitative, derivative, inspired...
How about it. Wait right here."

And then he ran off. He just left, leaving a dumbfound giant alone in an otherwise empty room.

Goliath narrowed his eyes, and tried to understand the canvas in front of him.
He couldn't see a mother, or a daughter; he saw a larger red smear that collapsed over a smaller one.
It felt to him like something less cruel; the larger shape seemed to be trying to protect it.
Maybe from the deluge of obsidian lines spiralling towards them, as inevitable as dissolution felt.

So, he didn't hear Pickman padding back in.

"Oh, trying to see it better? I'm glad. I think there's promise in everyone!
But you have to try. You can't unlearn mistake, but you start by becoming immune to criticism.
Nobody else will see what you see, they'll see what they say - anyway. Here's one of Miss Sanga's pieces.
Untitled portrait #27."

Even though he wasn't sure if Pickman should have just hauled the small statue in, Goliath begrudgingly acknowledged it.
Sanga worked with seaborne materials more often than not, and Goliath felt it was carved from one solid narwhal horn.
The spiralling figure was distinctively feminine - by his standards - and had no head.

Instead, there was nothing past the neck - and a solid red line heading down, vertically, from the neck to the abdomen.

"Well, I don't get this one either.
Tsch. It's just like any other - "

"Save your grumbling. Over here, one moment... This is my piece inspired by it, reflection of a woman.
Unlike Miss Sanga, I wanted to name this piece, but...
You'll find artists who only name those they deem as having merit, or sometimes the reverse."

Pickman had dug through a pile of canvases, and thrown out a small one that was - quite unlike the wall-spanning mural.

Goliath could see a very faint, androgynous form, cut off by the edges of the canvas.
The most distinct feature was the black void that comprised their face, the sole distinct feature being pools of dark blue -
So dark you could almost mistake them as being part of that same blackness, but could not forget they were eyes.
All other details were obscured.

"I, but that's nothing like it. I don't... What are you trying to say?"

"Nothing. Our works inspire one another, and that inspiration can be similar or entirely different.
But even if you draw the same vase a million times, a billion times, even if the vase never changes -
Your hand will, losing shape or muscle mass. Your eyes might give out. Maybe you develop a better sense of space.
The results change, and there's real value in that."

Pickman returned to his piece, and Goliath returned to his thoughts...
Only for a moment, however.

"Artist. What are you going to do with this, when it's done? The bastards who run this place -
No matter how big it is, there are limits to how much they can store, right?
You planning to sell it?"

"Hah! Absolutely not. I'm going to burn it."

Goliath wheezed hoarsely, uncertain why he felt so strongly.
But he recalled the dead bodies of men on wooden boats, with linen sails.
Memories stained themselves with the corpses of Seafarers, scales losing consistency.
Their lives no longer having any meaning or value, just more dead flesh underneath the violent sun.

"You... After putting all that effort into it, rrr, rrrgh..."

"Does it bother you? I'm glad, but it shouldn't. It'll have meaning in being destroyed, too.
Here, wait exactly one second. No, five seconds! Maybe a minute. Just - just wait."

Pickman kept mumbling, and Goliath steeled himself, one breath after another.

... Time passed, gradual and languid pools of sunlight growing more gilded and then more orange.
Each faded in notes of colour not unlike those tones Pickman painted in, as they slowly faded to a peaceful blue-black.
Night had swept in, and Pickman cheered a quiet little cheer.

"Wonderful, perfect!! I have done it! Nothing here is what I planned at all, utterly disgusting!
I'm not satisfied at all!"

"... You know, I've made my peace with not understanding a word you say. But - "

Pickman was cleaning his tools; brushes, art chisels, his gloves, everything he had.
He did it quite skilfully, like a warrior cleaning his blades.
Goliath suddenly thought of Caecus, and the momentary pang of regret that came with the memory felt -
Odd, almost unfamiliar.

"I don't think many people can understand me, maybe nobody, but that's just how it is.
Surprisingly, you were patient, so I will try not to refer to you as a brutish barbarian as often.
Only when you are one. Anyway! You liked this piece, didn't you?"

That wasn't the word he would have chosen. Goliath shut his eyes tight, and sighed.

"Like hell I do.
It disgusts me. Everything about it makes me sick. Don't look so proud."

"Well, I'm planning to get rid of it, anyway, but - maybe I changed my mind.
Now, my art is allegedly doing better, so I suppose we can try selling it to raise funds.
Or something like that, no... Anyway. It's not complete, yet.
Go on - add your touch to it."

Seconds oozed on, and Goliath knew his mouth was open.

"I... Really?"

"Really, truly. I've found the meaning I intended in it, and the audience will take theirs.
But you were here, for the entire process! No, well, the last six hours or so -
For some reason, I'm hungry? Well, I'll think about that later. Do whatever you like to it!
You've earned that right, and I can tell you want to."

Pickman drew back, and Goliath found himself staring at the floor.
Cool concrete met his gaze, and it was nothing like the sea.

"I can do anything I want to it, then?"

"Anything. I'm done with it, and consider it a failed experiment.
But one I'm very happy with! Go on! Go for it! Show me the artistry of a Philistine!"

Goliath felt the blade's handle, as much a part of him as his own bones.
It was there, because it was always there. He had killed, would kill, would kill again.
Like basalt in the depth of the ocean's heart, it returned to him, and he to it.

He didn't hesitate; fabric and board and tones of red split into pieces, leaving an ugly wound.

"... So, I see. I guess I'll think about this.
Just so you know, I still don't see any value in your work.
Go eat something."

He put his hand down against the artist's shoulder, and Pickman beamed from ear to ear -
Waving excitedly as Goliath strode off, lost in thought.

So consumed had he been in the moment, he couldn't even recall what he'd severed.
... Perhaps, it hadn't mattered, or perhaps it had.
Thoughts continued to do battle in his mind, and he let them.

It seemed like there might be some value to them, after all.

Chapter Text

"All right, keep practising. I'll check back in an hour!
Remember, breaks and breathing exercises!.."

She wasn't adapting well to this place.

Alva had tried - over and over, she had tried - to find a role that she fit into.
Mythag was welcoming, in the same way that an obelisk in no-man's-land was welcoming.
You welcomed the sight of it, because it broke up cracked red soil or scattered sand...
For no other reason, because it could offer you nothing.

So she'd attempted to offer it something, in return.

It worked, sort of. There was already a better combat tutor -
Lotan had seen all the battles the world would ever need, and would see more.
And when it came to survival skills, many of the people she taught - Awakeners and others, both...
When it came down to it, Alva didn't know if the lessons she'd learnt would do them any good, at all.

There were other issues, and they shook within her mind as she jogged out of the field they'd reserved.
Lily was - seemingly - emotionlessly practising knife-hand strikes, and Alva had noted with some skill.
She also noted that Lily had immediately wandered off to play with one of the training canines the moment she'd left, but...

Honestly, that was fine, too.

In her own attempts to adapt, she'd sought out those she knew.
Not necessarily liked; her evenings spent playing games of chance with Ryker were often irritating.
He was irritating, though she didn't hate the how of his naturally charismatic, easy-going and (above all) -
Fundamentally civilian character.

The detective, for his assumptions and his faults and his biases and his stupid devil-may-care attitude...
Right now, he was one of the only people she could talk to.

Leonora would always welcome her, and talk happily, or mostly burble on, herself.
Alva found everything she did fascinating, because the Keeper was at once chaotic and ordered.
She was a font of wisdom, who only shared that wisdom in the most unusual of circumstances.

But there was one person, whom she had avoided, and continued to avoid.

"Oh! Alva!
I didn't see you, there!.. Hmn, what do you think? I don't have the green thumb Father Salvador does...
Nor do I appreciate climbing roses like Horla. She's so radiant, don't you think?"

Alva had been jogging over; the autumn heat was muggy and warm, in an unfamiliar way from an unfamiliar clime.
She bit back the words she wanted to say, wiped sweat off that had snuck in from the heat, and tried to say something.

"... Perhaps, I don't know much about her.
We don't talk much. She doesn't train, either, but, that...
That's fine, of course. What are you doing?"

Many others would have heard the clipped tone she spoke in, and assumed it detached. A sign of aloofness, and not intimacy.
Thais had already cast her lidded eyes back to the dirt, where she was casually rooting around in fresh soil.
Nothing seemed to bother her, not the tiny forms of larvae or worms, nor the slight wounds left by loose fragments of twigs.
Carefully, she rubbed darkened fingers to white linen, and pretended to look up at the sky -
Although her eyes found Alva, who looked away.

"A good question. I'd been speaking to Saya, you know? That girl doesn't have very many people to talk to!
... We see eye to eye on some things, and very differently on others, but I think I can be a good influence.
You know, though, we both have something we love? Gardening, and that's a commonality between us."

"I'd be careful. People who joke about killing, are the first to find it easy to kill."

She screamed internally to not say the words that were already in her mouth.
She berated herself, knew she was an idiot.
She tightly shut her eyes, and exhaled, and quickly spoke before Thais could offer 'comforting' words Alva didn't need to here.

"Which is to say, I'm glad you had a good talk with her.
My apologies. I'm still getting used to this place."

"Aren't we all!.. Aha, sorry, that's not true. Your struggles can't be mine, and it's deeply disingenuous to suggest they're the same.
But I'm here, if you need someone to talk to, in fact...
I'm actually having a lot of trouble clearing this soil~ Can't you help me a bit, Alva?"

That, of course, was an outright lie. But Alva had already half-squatted to the soil, legblade making it an easy gesture.

"Mmn-hmn. You've done great groundwork, as expected.
So what are you growing, here? It's not Aram, so you - "

"I'd already asked Doll about a greenhouse; she refused outright, but said that if I went and talked to Czort, well...
Maybe, somehow, they'd find the budget.
And I did ask, and it turned out they couldn't find the budget, but...
Some alumnus had made a greenhouse of sorts, and so I might manage to grow just a few things from home.
We'll see, won't we? But - I love all plants. The ones that yearn to live, here, are just as wonderful as those we said farewell to."

Thais cleared more of the inviting dark soil, and the swell of her lips drew downcast.

"Maybe hawthorns... I think they'd be very nice, here.
But, hmn, I don't know if we'll even be around to see them. What do you think, Alva?"

I don't know. I don't know anything, save how to kill, and to order, and to follow orders.

"Well, I... Guess...
You know, I don't even know what Londinium's hawthorns look like.
So I guess I'd like to live long enough to have identified them by sight, at least."

"Heh, you've already seen so many, though? Hmn, I'll point out some that are fully grown, later.
Oh, and I can tell you about the life stages they go through, but I imagine you're pretty busy, aren't you?"

Thais had made a lot of room for the root network to expand, and entombed the seeds in a welcoming and loamy black blanket.

"I... Yes, no, I don't know.
Everyone has been very helpful, I have nothing unpleasant to report. Your -
Thais."

"You don't have to report anything to me, Alva. But I'd love to listen, all the same."

She smelled like the soil of this unfamiliar place, like the sky before rain broke after years of nothing.
And she'd drawn in close, too close, and Alva didn't want to linger but couldn't stop herself from doing just that.

Gently, Thais held her tight, and she was also the first to break the embrace.

"... See? I'm not going anywhere, and you didn't look especially unhappy.
Meaning, I think, that everything is probably just fine.
Hmn, I know! If you're going to be that grumpy, you can put a good word in for me with Father Salvador -
Convince him I'm not such a terrible influence, hmn?"

"Denied. He's a good person who shouldn't have to put up with your whims, y... Thais.
If you need someone to humour you, I'll make more time to do just that.
But I should probably go check in on the recruits. I - I think we'll see plenty of new things, in the future."

The words would have been met with the boisterous laughter of Aram; not judging her, but familiar with her.
Old men would have doubled over, that their adopted chief-of-sorts had made another fumbling attempt at things she...

She never even believed, but had to strive for, regardless. Like dreams, like love, like some place that did not exist.

But Thais had knelt down again, the suggestion of her body followed by a mesh of cradling cloudy white.
If anyone else had passed by, it would have been very easy to assume she wasn't paying any attention at all.
Yet she smiled, and Alva followed the smile as it drew smaller and smaller, but never entirely faded.

"Let's do just that, then... Dear Alva. I'll make sure to think of plenty of whims for you to humour, later."

This wasn't an audience, but it was over, and they both knew it.
Alva tapped her fingers to her cheek, and exhaled, and waved only briefly to Thais.
But as she jogged off, she had to fight the urge to look over her shoulder, over and over, to ensure she was still there.

"... Ms. Alva... Lily wants to adopt Column..."

The moment she had returned, she was swarmed -
Not by the older students, who had all mysteriously disappeared, but by the remaining Lily.
Who had come up with a name that sounded eerily suspicious to another one, but childishly edited a bit.
('Column,' whose actual name was Sagebrush, if she recalled, was lying on his back and being pleasantly goofy, as dogs oft were.)

"You - are a very good student to keep practising, Lily.
But, Column is actually living in Mythag, just like you. So he can't be adopted, but you can continue to see him - "

"Even if Lily doesn't train?"

Alva chuckled, and would have answered the same even if everyone present hadn't wandered off.
(Did they cause this much trouble to Lotan, she'd have to ask, later...)

"Of course, even if you don't. You did very good, so we can close up, together.
How about you play with Column, while I do that?
When you're in battle, allies help allies - part of that is taking care of each other."

"... Okay!"

Lily smiled joyously, and then quickly reverted to the seemingly closed-off young girl she was, most days.
Closing up wasn't difficult, and Alva viewed it like maintaining a weapon, doing a field strip on a rifle, any number of things.
The night'd be present, soon - so she made up the excuse of walking Lily back to the cafeteria mess hall.
And Lily didn't talk much, but - neither did Alva, with most people, and it suited her just fine.

But she waved, though - she waved a lot, and then ran off to eat with some of the other Awakeners.

Just as she often did, Alva ate alone - reflecting on everything that'd happened that day.
She talked with people she'd spoken with, who would never speak to anyone else, again.
And maybe she didn't notice when someone excused themselves and sat beside her, but...

Maybe she did.

The truth was, she might never adapt to this place. To a role she felt was too much for her -
No matter how hard she tried. She could not be the support she wished to be, for the person she chose to support.
... But that same person was here, now, and real. That was what mattered most - and, perhaps?

Possibly, she'd adapted, found the role that she was needed for - and never even noticed it.
Like a seed, in unfamiliar soil, simply waiting for its moment to bloom.

Chapter Text

Juliette sat alone, in a comfortable sleeper cabin.

She faced the chessboard with seeming disinterest, a soft smile, and no real plan.
Her moves came to her, but she did not consider herself a master at the game -
It merely entertained, and could not slaughter time; but only kill it, barely.

"You look troubled, child. Would you wish to unburden yourself?"

Though she had wanted a more austere cabin, the travelling cars were -
Pleasantly? Unpleasantly?...

Every part of the train was luxurious. Matte brown plush couches to lie upon, fine food from far-off locales...
Anything under the sun, and more things beside, could be found here.
It was a fitting enough comfort, suitable to returning from those most unpleasant of necessities.
... So, though she had travelled alone, it was only naturally she had not travelled alone.

Father Salvador sat across from her, his downcast gaze and leonine white beard making his concern known.
He looked as she remembered, but not entirely as she remembered, never entirely.

Playfully, she moved the knight forward, and let it rest.

"I wouldn't say I'm troubled.
Quite the opposite. I've done something incredible, though the groundwork for it...
Would you approve, I wonder?"

She didn't quite say the words; no steward roaming the halls would hear them, and presume mania.
Nor did she believe the phantasm was the man she'd known. He was a figment, because...

Because playing chess by yourself was a dull and lonely affair.

"... That would depend on the nature of your deeds.
I cannot tell you how I would feel about them, until you've told me of them, yourself.
Perhaps, the pawn - "

She stood up, dusting foreign sands from pale white skirts.
Once they had been robin's-egg blue, she thought, but time had taken a toll on them.

Thin fingers delicately moved the black pawn he had gestured to, as she remembered his style.

"We grow ever closer to it, you know.
A world where there is no suffering or loss, only joy.
That promised place beyond even despair... And revenge, for all the cruel vagaries of the world, inflicted on you."

His phantasm shut his eyes; she could see the telltale crinkling of his blindfold.
Occasionally, she had cleaned beneath it. She had never feared him, for his heart was true.

"You know, more than anyone, there is no such place."

"... Perhaps not, not yet. But can you truly tell me Father God wouldn't smile upon my actions?
For, in the end, shouldn't there be an end? To sacrifice, and to pain."

Salvador's phantasm gestured again, and their soldiers traded lives.
Countless lives would follow, too; there was no cost too high, after all.
Juliette grazed the scalp of a bishop, and wondered if Salvador had known him.
If so, he must surely deserve an even more terrible pyre.

"Ours is not to declare such things. People are not cruel; they are wounded animals.
They hurt, and mistakenly take actions that hurt in kind. We could be just like them, in their - "

"Wrong. That's - that's wrong.
How can you tell me, by what right...
Every snivelling person, talking about how their life hurts, so terribly, as they consign a -
A million more to fates unbelievably worse, deserve anything, other than..."

She had not raised her voice, even then. But she wished to; she wished to, dearly.

Carefully, Juliette worked back hair so grey from stress that it almost matched his own, made pearl-white from age.
With a sigh, she half-shut her eyes, and shook her head.

"Saviour though you may be, you do not understand. People are cruel, and the end I give them is more than they deserve.
I could argue it with you a thousand times, but it would not change a thing between us.
You would forgive them, no matter what they did. Wouldn't you?.. Salvador?"

"We could only answer that if we spoke once more, Juliette. But you already have your answer, and it is the wrong one.
But - there is still time, always. Father God knows that there is always the chance, to walk a better path..."

Rather than answering, she went as silent as the grave.

Outside, the gentle rolling terrain of the Rodofeyan highlands crept by them, permanently consigning Aram to memory.
Well, other peoples' memories, perhaps - and didn't that prove the point?..
She opened her eyes, a slight frown upon her lips.
The opponent she had played against was gone, of course; for he had never truly existed, and the image she had known -
It was far better for that ideal of him to be erased, than it was to allow the flawed person he'd become, to persist.

A knock on the door disrupted her regrets, and she instantly drew to her feet.

"... Hello?..
I'm in the middle of something - "

"Madame, there was a yell - is all acceptable?"

The muffled cry of a porter or coachman filtered through the door.
Juliette wondered if she'd cried out in anger or sorrow, or it had been some mistake.
She couldn't remember, and she couldn't remember when her fist had tightened into a ball of pallid white flesh.
Forcing herself to let her arm go slack, she smiled - to nobody, for she had not opened the door - and answered:

"Ah, that was... Un cauchemar, a nightmare. Nothing more."

"Of course, madame.
Please say something if there is any need."

She didn't reply, and the sound outside the compartment ceased; it was as if it had been stripped from all the world.
Her eyes shut, and if she concentrated, the same could happen to all of it - the rolling of the track, the lonesome cry of the horn.
If she just imagined it, it was there - a quiet world, where there needed to be no sound, and nothing else might remain.

Juliette smiled as she returned to her seat, but when her eyes opened, the chessboard still remained.
And, bit by bit, her smile was erased, as well.

Chapter Text

It was a cold autumn night, that much he knew to be true.

On Sylvester's advice, Hameln had taken to long walks at late hours.
Apparently, the Keeper had seen Faros doing just that, and his immediate thought had been of him.

"I always find cold air gets my brain working right!"

Those exact words, always, had seemed childish and hyperbolic even then, but...
Hameln knew himself well enough to know he sometimes enjoyed the company of childish, or hyperbolic people.
Perhaps only the one, for how little it mattered.

So, despite his frown and despite his misgivings, he had acquiesced - though with one question.

But the Keeper was always busy; oft shirking important tasks, only to show up exactly when needed.
Rain-swept puddles cast their liquid mirrors to Mythag's campus grounds.
Hameln avoided them by second nature, but the person running towards him - without an umbrella, of course...

"Well, sorry I'm late! I got caught up trying to stop Murphy from eating my secret sugar reserve!
So what's been on the mind of a certain legendary conductor, wait, let me guess - "

"You didn't have to show up."

Others would have taken his slight sneer and downcast lips to be a sign to leave, but Sylvester did no such thing.
With a feigned yawn, his messy silver hair brushed up against Hameln's shoulder as they fell into an easily matching pace.
Although Sylvester didn't elaborate, that was fine. It left for plenty of time for Hameln to sort his thoughts out -
Something that had never come easy to him, with people he'd wished for little more.

"I have been working on a composition that I want to celebrate a new age. Something that, even if forgotten, stands the test of time."

To a conductor, to a composer, these were parallel and impossible ambitions.
Music spoke freely, but if you could not hear it, could not feel it, to imagine it lasting was impossible. Simply impossible.

Having cupped his hand over his eyes, Sylvester was staring up into silvery night rain he couldn't possibly see.
The natural faint smile that came to his face and went as quickly had emerged, muted by the dark colours of night.
Like they'd been hidden in the darkness, and only Hameln would see this exact moment.

Arches cast by hanging lanterns cast tall shadows over them, each one remaining unlit.

"Well, that probably means it's more serious than not, I guess. I prefer night music.
Real calming stuff, I think Ramona called it easy listening!
Yeah, it'd be pretty great if more music was like that, but, uh... Why do you feel like it has to last that long?"

It was a good question, and Hameln didn't like his answer.

"... How are you supposed to deal with the feeling of missing someone.
To know they will never return, in any way or shape, in any world or moment.
Questions like those were what I wanted to answer in my piece, for anyone who might have them.
Music can answer those questions, where men cannot."

'Oh,' said the Keeper, 'alright.'

Going against his doubts, Hameln laughed.
It was a very slight, restrained, and deeply concealed laugh, but it remained laughter all the same.

"Even the master's laughter is a refined instrument!.. Did I say something so funny?"

"A little. You didn't sound very convinced. I expected better of the one who I see as my patron.
You inspire many, you know? So you must seek to live up to the hopes they place in you...
Though, perhaps that you're fine doing anything but, is why we're all so drawn your way."

'I feel like I'm being mocked again,' said Sylvester, before his eyes lidded and he spoke more seriously.

"Nobody can answer those kind of questions.
For somebody like me, even trying to think about them just - hurts my head, I get tired, sleepy, I guess.
Just imagining that I'll be in that sort of position someday, that we all will... Maybe I have been, and I just don't remember.
So I guess my answer is, 'never' and 'know' are very certain, unchanging words. I don't know much, especially how long never lasts!..
Maybe the answer is, you're just not sure 'when' you'll see them again."

Rain droplets, translucent splashes of natural silver, stole through the night.

Hameln worked his hand over his hands, imagining how he might conduct a piece he had not written.
... Sylvester gave the back of his hand a soft pat, not bothering to let the touch linger, for it was not needed.
It could return later, even if it might not, one day.

"You remind me of a conversation I had with the ballerina.
Maybe we both wish to believe in you, Keeper. I think that gives me the answer I sought."

"Are you gonna add a 'thank you,' at the end there?"

This time, Hameln's laughter was so silent that it couldn't have been detected amidst the falling rain.
Only the Keeper heard it, and he could see the simple happiness vanishing against that gentle, shadow-clad face.

"... No, but I would be fine with walking for awhile longer.
What terrible tasks have you been wrestling with? I am capable of listening.
Unfortunately, I was also asked to remind you that perfection can only be found through training - "

"Gah, Hameln, you, too?! Who put you up to that? Lotan? Ramona? Doll! Everyone's against meeeee - "

The walk, itself, was not something important to him.
He could not parse the cool breeze as sound, the conversation that went very few places afterwards.
Even the way he and Sylvester would make halting physical contact, Hameln always hesitant lest it last too long.
None of these things were notation to be copied into song.

But he was reminded of the things he knew to be true, and he was reminded of how they mattered.
If those had become the roots of a composition, even one left purposely incomplete -

So too, was there merit in what he did not know. Or so, at least, a dear friend had suggested.