Chapter Text
The journey to Kurain Village is infinitely longer the second time.
They take the bus instead of the train, if only to prolong the trip even more; all these years and still the buses only run three times a day. Two seats, but Pearl stays at Dahlia's side as though she's glued there. They haven't spoken much since earlier — or maybe they've already spoken too much. Nothing more to say.
Pearl has to go back. They both know that. There are some things — some people — that even Dahlia cannot fight. Or at least, cannot finish the war with. But she has won the battle, and the rest comes with time.
"What are you going to do?" asks Dahlia, speaking up so as to be heard over the screeching of the wheels over the bumpy road. "When you return to the village?"
Pearl's hands — small, so small — clutch Dahlia's sleeve. A safety blanket, of sorts. Or barbed wire; she cannot let go, no matter how hard she tries.
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
Leaning her head against Dahlia's shoulder, Pearl shrugs, the motion traveling through them both. The braids in Pearl's hair are an uncomfortable ridge; Dahlia should move. She doesn't.
"Dahlia," Pearl murmurs. "Can I come visit you sometimes? In the city?"
"Mother won't let you."
"I know. But can I?"
The bus hits a speed bump, then, tilting Dahlia's head to the side. Resting it on top of Pearl's. She should move.
"If you want," says Dahlia, evasive. A non-answer. She learned from the best.
Under Pearl's watchful gaze, Dahlia slips a hand into her purse and draws out a piece of paper. Small, easily hidden. Unnoticeable, unless someone knows what to look for. Numbers carefully printed on it in her best handwriting.
"Here," she says, pushing the paper into one of Pearl's hands. "My phone number. You know how to use the one by the bus stop?"
"Mystic Maya showed me how."
"Of course she did," Dahlia mutters. "Then let's see how well she taught you. It's easier to sneak to the phone booth than out of the village, I bet."
This, actually, is one thing Dahlia does not know. She'd played with the phone a few times, in the way kids do: pressing the buttons one after another, tangling the cord around and around until it's nothing but an impossible-to-undo knot. But never once did she have anyone to call.
Not like Pearl does now.
"I'm not going to tell her," says Pearl, so long after the original question that Dahlia has nearly forgotten she'd asked it. "That's what you were asking, isn't it?"
"What aren't you going to tell her?" Pearl is warm, tucked in the crook of Dahlia's neck as she is. Does Mother know how warm she is? Has Pearl ever grasped Mother's sleeve like this? Or is royalty like Mother untouchable, even to her own daughters? "That you left the village at all? There's no way she'll believe that."
The bus is empty aside from the two of them, the driver so far forward that he may as well not exist at all. Just the two of them, in this space separate from the rest of the world. Not the village, not the city. Something in between.
"That I went with you on purpose," says Pearl.
Dahlia lifts her head, craning it to look at her sister. "Ah, so that's it. You're going to lie to her. You're going to blame it all on me. Big bad Dahlia, come to steal away Mother's little treasure. Is that right?"
Contrary to her words, there is pride in her tone. Pride she doesn't bother to hide, not anymore. Look at how little Pearl has changed: a manipulative little liar, just like her oldest sister. Maybe it's Iris, then, who's the black sheep of the family.
Mother should be so proud. Her daughters, growing up to be just like her.
"Yes," says Pearl. Bravado fades away, then — Dahlia fades away, leaving Iris behind. "Is... is that okay?"
Dahlia laughs. "Go ahead, Pearl. Spirits know Mother would love to think even worse of me than she already does."
Like when she criticizes the tea and still has the audacity to drink it all down, not a drop left. Power, Mother thinks, is having your own beliefs constantly reaffirmed. But what she has never understood is that reaffirmation is the enemy of growth. Progress. Learning.
"Next time, I want to meet Iris, too," Pearl says. Demands, more like. Never comfortable with asking for things before, and now...
"Why not?" says Dahlia, indulgent. "We'll go visit her together next time. If you manage to sneak away from under Mother's thumb."
Pearl grips her sleeve tighter; she's taken those words as a challenge, then. It seems she, too, looks forward to growth. She plays with the paper in her other hand idly — and then, finally, she turns it around to see the truth. It isn't a scrap of paper at all. Instead, the picture of the two of them: Dahlia and Pearl, smiling, cheek to cheek.
"You're... giving this to me?" Pearl asks softly.
"No," says Dahlia. "You're in it, aren't you? Then it's yours."
Pearl is careful with it, holding the picture by the edges as though it's something fragile. Breakable. Precious. “I’ll keep it safe," she promises, solemn. "I won't let her find it."
If those words came from anyone else, Dahlia would simply laugh them off. Take them at face value and see right through them, right down to the lies they are. For some reason, from Pearl, she finds herself wanting to believe them. Actually believing them.
She can even picture it. Pearl, keeping the picture hidden in her robes or under her pillow or in one of the numerous old urns scattered around the village that Mother would never take a second look at — or in. Sneaking out after dark to the old pay phone, sliding scrounged up coins into it. Huddled against the cold, shoulders hunched, phone pressed to her ear like a lifeline.
She could just as easily be describing Iris. Herself, maybe, in another time. Another life.
"I know you will," says Dahlia. "And that's why it's yours."
An unfortunate thing about children is that they cry, and Pearl, for however un-childlike she may be, is no exception. This is the second time the prospect of leaving Dahlia has made her tear up.
It should be annoying. It shouldn't be nearly as flattering as it is.
The bus rolls to a stop before the village, and still neither Dahlia nor Pearl rise from their seats.
"Come on," says Dahlia. "I'll walk you up to the village."
Pearl sniffs loudly. "Okay," she says.
Dahlia has done this before: walked Iris to the door when she was being sent away to Hazakura. This, surprisingly enough, isn't so different. Pearl's hand worms its way into Dahlia's. Before, it was Father watching them; now, it's the bus driver.
The disappointment, too, is the same. Every step Dahlia had taken back then, she was just waiting for Iris to say something. To scream, to shout, to fight. To say, Don't send me away. Keep me. Burn the rest of the world down, if only it means the two of us can stay together.
But in the end, Iris had kept her mouth shut. Pearl is nothing but history repeating itself, a bruise Dahlia can't help but press and press no matter how much it hurts.
They walk off the bus together, hand in hand — Pearl has to be lifted off the last step, too far from the ground. And then, they are transported. The world disappears, leaving nothing but this world. Kurain, and all it contains. A cold wind, the spirits welcoming them back. Pearl huddles closer against the chill; Dahlia lets her.
One step, and then another, in unison. Going away from the village is the same as going toward it, in that way. Just one step after another.
The closer they get to the village, the more acolytes appear, popping up all over not unlike weeds. They stare, open-mouthed, at Pearl as she passes. The prodigal daughter, returned. Not a single one looks at Dahlia — and why would they? They don't know her. They don't care. To them, the matter is simple: Pearl was gone, and now she's back. Mystic Morgan was angry, and now she won't be. At them, at least.
And Dahlia, well, the spirits have turned their backs on her already. In the eyes of the village, she doesn't exist anymore. She might as well have been burned right off the family tree. Mother must have loved that — don't all trees need a bit of pruning to grow strong?
Pearl holds her head high as they walk up the path to Fey Manor, and Dahlia does, too. Neither one has done anything wrong, after all. May the spirits strike me down and so on and so on. Both still standing. Both still walking.
In the distance, Fey Manor rears its head. Last chance to turn tail and run. But no, there's someone standing in front of it. A figure Dahlia sees in her dreams, her nightmares, every time she closes her eyes.
Mother.
She stands tall and proud, hands tucked into her sleeves. No shoulders for her to dig her nails into. Axe hidden. Too far to see the look on her face, but Dahlia can imagine it well enough. Her eyes, too, are on Pearl.
"This is as far as I go," Dahlia whispers. "Go on, Pearl. Go home."
"I'll be back," Pearl tells her. "I promise."
"I know. I believe you."
A squeeze of the hand, a brush of fingers, and then she's gone. Running off toward Mother, who opens her arms to her little lamb returning home. She kneels down, whispers something in Pearl's ear — and then, for the first time, looks Dahlia's way.
Not so invisible after all, then.
Mother's eyes travel up and down the length of Dahlia like a hot iron brand. Scorching, scalding. Taking back the ownership that was once hers. Recognizing her own mark. Eyes widen, then. Mouth tightens. Hands extend from their sleeves. Her mouth opens, shapes the syllables of Dahlia's name — so clear that it's as though she's whispered it directly in Dahlia's ear.
So, Mother can still tell her daughters apart. That, perhaps, is the skill of a shepherd. Able to recognize all of their lambs by sight alone.
But what the shepherd fails to understand — always has, always will — is that lambs travel in herds. Mother’s little lamb is no longer hers. And one day, that lamb will take the axe in her own hand.
Smiling wide, Dahlia raises her hand in a wave. Blows a kiss to Mother. A hello, a goodbye.
A promise.