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Nathalie would prefer to be buried in hours and hours of the most tedious, the most tiresome, the most waste-of-her-time paperwork in all of her career than to spend another minute sitting in the dining room with Amelie Graham de Vanily.
It is torture enough to listen to her talk about herself in that uncomfortably jovial tone of hers, which always makes her sound like she's speaking to a child – ironic considering no child would care to hear anything of the scathing judgment she holds for her thirty and forty-something socialite "friends" back in London; but what is even worse than the self-indulgent petty venting is the way she tries to get Nathalie to talk about her own life. As if her brother-in-law's assistant has been anything more to her than a monotoned messenger or occasional coat rack, she pokes and prods with questions Nathalie wouldn't answer to people she likes far better. She could slam her head against the table, but keeps a perfectly straight face as she dodges and deflects every inquiry, ignoring the vibrations of the phone in her pocket – news updates on the akuma attack occurring right at the moment, which she is supposed to be distracting Amelie from; although, Amelie seems quite capable of keeping herself distracted for the time.
"I can't believe it," Amelie says after failing to get Nathalie to divulge any frivolous workplace gossip. "You've been working for Gabriel almost as long as I've known him! How many years has it been, ten, twelve?"
Nathalie would rather not talk about Gabriel while he is currently held up in his lair, wreaking havoc on the city and not entertaining his very sudden and unwelcome guests. But she plasters a small smile on her face and answers, "Eleven."
"Wow, over a decade with that man. You have my sympathies." Amelie laughs, a sound like a high-pitched bell that makes Nathalie want to drive rusty nails into her own ears. "I kid, of course. Gabriel and I may not get along like the best of friends, but I'm sure he's excellent to work with, a successful businessman like him. Felix had greatly admired his uncle for quite some time when he was a little younger. Things have…changed in the last year or so."
"Yes," Nathalie mutters. She drums her fingernails on the table.
"But I see why my sister took a liking to him. He's a hard worker, dedicated and loyal. Emilie valued those things a lot, someone who would stick by her no matter what."
Nathalie clenches her jaw. The entire conversation has been immensely unpleasant up to this point but something about the sharp look in Amelie's eyes gives her the sense it's about to get even worse. Gabriel has only been engaged in battle for about fifteen minutes, but Nathalie silently hopes the fight will be mercilessly short.
She does not know how to respond to Amelie's remark at first, and her thoughts become only less coherent when her phone buzzes with another notification. So she simply nods.
Amelie's face doesn't change at all when she says, "It's hard to believe she's gone."
"Mrs. Agreste?"
"Gabriel's been a wreck about it, hasn't he? He's never struck me as the type to do well with change."
"Well, he…" Nathalie hates the way she's being stared at. One wouldn't think Amelie has landed on such a somber topic with the way her green eyes glitter under the light of the window she faces. "He has hope."
"That she'll just walk through the door again after vanishing into thin air? Well, that's sweet of him, but despite everything I said about what Emilie likes in a man, it will only serve her as long as she's actually around."
Nathalie narrows her eyes. "Pardon me, but I find you speak quite flippantly about a subject everyone in this household is quite sensitive towards. I would have expected you to be a lot more concerned about your sister than you've proven to be."
Now, Amelie is audacious enough to smile. "Oh, of course I was devastated to learn what had happened to my dear sister, but tragedy strikes and one has to keep living. I'll try to be less blunt from now on, though. My apologies, Miss Sancoeur. I didn't realize you cared so much about the woman yourself, especially considering yours and Gabriel's arrangement."
Nathalie's spine goes erect, like a cold finger has traced its way up her back. "What?" she asks crisply
The smile widens. "Please, you don't expect me to think that being an assistant is satisfying enough for a woman of your merits. You were awfully dodgy with my questions of what more you wanted out of life, as if it matters. I already know." The mug of tea Amelie had left untouched throughout her incessant chatter finds its way into her curling ivory fingers, and she takes a long sip, not breaking eye contact with Nathalie. Not even blinking.
"You're mistaken. I am perfectly content as Mr. Agreste's assistant. I don't appreciate the accusation suggesting otherwise." Nathalie's tone is level but prickly. She has very little patience for this conversation, but as long as the akuma attack continues, she can't afford to leave Amelie to her own devices. The last thing Gabriel needs is his devious sister-in-law concerning herself with his private business.
"You sound so serious. Anybody else might drop the subject—"
"Do drop it."
"–but I'm not anybody, am I? Honestly, I'm shocked at the utter lack of gossip circulating about the two of you. Gabriel was always a recluse, but he's been so impossible to reach during this last year – Felix tells me even Adrien struggles to engage with his father – but you…" Amelie's tilts her head, and a lock of blonde hair falls against her cheek. "You're the only person who can even be around him. All those hours spent alone together, and I'm expected to think any differently about what's going on here?"
Nathalie seethes. "There is nothing going on between me and Gabriel – Mr. Agreste," she corrects. "And that is final."
"I might have kept my suspicions to myself if I didn't see the way the two of you interacted this afternoon. Oh, Miss Sancoeur, are you even aware of the way you look at that man? If you really don't want me jumping to conclusions, you shouldn't make the conclusions so easy to reach."
Nathalie's face is warm, with rage or with humiliation, she cannot tell. She's unable to gather her composure quickly enough to try to shut Amelie down again before she is speaking once more.
"I don't know why you seem so upset. Two people spending all that time together, especially when one of them is so emotionally vulnerable, are bound to become much closer. You act like it's something to be ashamed of." Amelie sips her tea and leans back in her chair, dark eyelashes falling as she looks down into her mug. "I certainly hope you have nothing to be ashamed of. It'd be awful if all of this was going on and you didn't want people knowing because…" Like daggers her eyes shoot back up, "he's embarrassed by you or something."
The phone buzzes again. Nathalie hardly notices it. She's burning with anger and trying not to let it show. She holds her breath to keep it from trembling.
"Oh, that's it, isn't it? I'm so sorry."
"Amelie…"
"It'll be okay, dear. Just don't take it personally. That's only to be expected given who his first wife was." Amelie tosses her head over her shoulder, glancing towards the family portrait of Gabriel, Adrien, and Emilie above the fireplace. "If he really cares, he'll let go of that pride. If he doesn't, well, it was never meant to be. Isn't that the worst that can happen?"
Nathalie has pushed her chair from the table and stormed out of the dining room before Amelie can turn those treacherous emerald eyes back against her. The door closes with a bit of a slam, and it's only when Nathalie is alone in the atrium that she feels she can breathe again.
A moment passes, and a pang of guilt reverberates through her chest that she hadn't managed to occupy Amelie's time for the length of the battle, but it is quickly drowned in the red-hot tumult of indignation and chagrin churning at her core. Nathalie stalks to the bathroom and shuts herself inside, facing the mirror, perturbed to find her cheeks flushed pink with the heat of her emotion.
I'd make a ruthless akuma right about now, she thinks bitterly.
She pulls the phone from the pocket to look over those several notifications, hoping that at least one of them will indicate that the fight is winding towards a conclusion, but all of the news updates on the attack only warn of the battle changing locations. There doesn't seem to be any clear victor yet. Nathalie sighs, heart tugged at by uncertainty. The last thing she wants to do is return to that dining room to fulfill the rest of her task; she'd hide out in this bathroom for the rest of the day if it meant she never had to see Amelie again, but the woman is already uncomfortably keen on the parts of herself Nathalie tries to keep most hidden, and that is an ego-driven indulgence she cannot afford. If there is any hope of emerging victorious, that hope rests in casual indifference. To play Amelie's game, she must remember that it is a game, a twisted amusement relying on cunning strategy and a disregard for consequences.
She steadies her breathing, fixes her bun, and smooths out her blazer before giving herself one final glance in the mirror to ensure that awful color has drained from her face. Swallowing the sour taste on her tongue, Nathalie exits the bathroom, crosses the atrium to the dining room, and calmly opens the door.
There is no way to predict what Amelie is going to say to her when she returns, but she at least expects those eyes to be closely watching her, those lips to be upturned in a gratified smirk. Nathalie forces a neutral expression, but as her vision settles on the table and the row of totally empty seats around it, she blinks in surprise.
"Ms. Graham de Vanily?"
Amelie is gone. Her mug of tea sits on the table, abandoned.
"Where did—?"
A cool wariness sends the feeling of electricity through her scalp. She makes her way around the table, and Amelie's phone catches her attention from behind the mug.
After a cursory glance around the room, Nathalie activates the screen which lights up with a photo of Amelie and Felix together. Her hand is perched on his shoulder, proudly displaying her shiny, silver ring. Only, it wasn't her ring, as Nathalie knew. It was Gabriel's ring, stolen in his own home during the previous visit of the Graham De Vanily family, and Amelie had no shame to be brazenly showing it off.
Nathalie's fingers curl up as she backs away, that obstinate pull of dread returning to her. The last time Amelie had entered this house, it had been with ill will. For all of Gabriel's graciousness in inviting her again after her last betrayal, no sense of gratitude or loyalty would stand as an obstacle to Amelie if there was something more she desired.
Suddenly eager to feel reassured by the presence of the peacock miraculous, Nathalie bursts through the atelier door. With it, she can at least tackle this problem without feeling so exposed, protected by the invisible armor of having magic at her disposal, even if she cannot use it against the person who has caused her to become so flustered.
A few papers fall as she storms in, and she makes an offhanded note to herself to reorganize soon before she realizes she never would have left her desk in such disarray with an important guest in the house. She can recall filing all of this away neatly, preparing everything to be perfect for this grueling weekend.
Someone unauthorized has been here, and it isn't hard to guess who.
A sharp intake of breath between her own lips startles her back to awareness. Company business is one concern, but more importantly, there are other secrets in and on this desk that nobody can know.
She pushes the papers aside and opens the large pocket folder under them, thumbing through the sections as well as she can with hands that move out of sync against her racing mind. She finds the right one, labeled inconspicuously as "extra supplies" and pulls out the pouch tucked inside. After fumbling with the zipper, she rummages through pencils, pens, and other assorted office items to locate her miraculous.
Her fingers hit the canvas lining at the bottom of the bag.
An icy hand squeezes the air out of her lungs. "No," she murmurs, fighting back against the quivering fear that burdens her. While there's still a chance that the miraculous is tucked away safely, in her heart, she knows the truth. She brings the pouch into the light of the window, but not a single glinting edge inside is the one she is looking for. Now truly desperate, she rifles through without care, letting paperclips and staples cartridges roll off the lip and clatter on the ground.
"No!" she exclaims, all breath, fearful and hollow. She empties the pouch, scooping out its contents just as she feels her vital organs have been torn out of her, not minding what she misplaces or breaks so long as it isn't blue and shiny.
The last pen drops to the ground like a gavel, marking the dismal sentencing of her last shred of hope. She stares into the ransacked pouch, cheeks burning, eyes burning, wishing that it would swallow her whole instead of forcing her to continue onwards as her entire world crumbles beneath her. If only she could curl herself up inside, taking the place of the contents that should have been there, instead of having to find a way forward through the dark.
Suddenly, the pouch feels scalding against her sensitive fingertips and she throws it to the ground. Any questions she might have had before are woefully answered now; she cannot find Amelie because she does not want to be found and has somehow figured her out — somehow known where to look, somehow known just which buttons to push — to get a moment alone with her most carefully kept belongings.
"Gabriel," she whispers. Her own voice, listless in her shame, makes her shiver.
She forces herself over to Emilie's portrait, and for all that Gabriel's wife stares down imposingly, her eyes don't have half the impact as his piercing blue ones, hidden away on the other side. Nathalie reaches out to push the buttons and fumbles for them, now unable to remember where each of her fingers is supposed to go. It takes a moment to untangle them and fit them into the appropriate slots, where she is barely able to press down steadily.
Halfway between levels, with her head only just rising above the floor, her stomach lurches as Hawkmoth quietly asks, "What happened?"
He stands at the window, looking out at the city. He doesn't even glance at her as she comes towards him with weak, matchstick legs, scared to get burned if she comes too close.
"There is a new presence in the battle, someone other than the heroes who is inhibiting my plans, but I cannot get a clear look," he continues, unperturbed by her delayed response. "I'm assuming since you're here that you already know something I don't." He turns his ear towards her. "I trust that you found an excuse to divert Amelie with?"
Absurdly, the only coherent thought that breaks through the static is that she must be too tall, for as much as she tries to steady herself, she feels as if a breeze could blow her over. She wishes that she could be more stable, closer to the ground, and able to anchor herself against the storm with strong, sturdy roots.
Hawkmoth finally turns to her, and he very well could be the wind that will topple her. "Nathalie."
The steel of his eyes is softened by concern, and it is too much for her to bear. She feels the familiar prick of tears in her eyes, and she turns her gaze to the floor to avoid their fall.
"What's wrong?" Hawkmoth demands.
Nathalie presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth and focuses on evening her breath, a hopeless cause when Hawkmoth draws close and lightly squeezes each of her arms, bracing her. It becomes harder to avert her gaze, and she settles it onto his brooch instead, tracing the tips of the diaphanous wings with her eyes.
He presses his hands more firmly in. "Are you hurt?" he urges, shocking her. "You aren't ill again, are you?"
"I'm not—"
"I will deal with this issue. Sit," he instructs. "Rest."
"Amelie stole the Peacock miraculous!" she finally confesses, screwing her eyes shut so she can have one moment of clear thought. "I failed, sir; I left her alone and she somehow was able to locate it. She and Felix are nowhere to be found. I assume that one of them is your new challenger."
Hawkmoth pulls back. She widens her stance, a necessary adjustment to keep her upright while she continues to come to terms with her massive error in judgment. Hawkmoth paces around the room in agitation, letting out a furious yell, halfway to a growl. Nathalie opens her eyes to see his cane meet the wall, jumping as the sharp crack of metal on concrete echoes around the room. His rage scares her far less than the simmering disappointment that is sure to follow, but the torrid blast of it is difficult to withstand.
"Once again I let that infernal woman prey on my emotions," he hollers. "How many times will she use Emilie's name to circumvent my better judgement?"
To Nathalie's surprise, Hawkmoth ignores her own culpability in the situation. His anger fades just as quickly as it arose, and he shakes his head.
"I never should have allowed her back into my home." He retrieves his cane, brushing off the dust that has caught onto its head, and turns silent.
Nathalie's sympathy stretches further than her sense of self-preservation. "She is a master at manipulation, sir. The blame is equally mine; she pushed my buttons to gain a moment alone."
Annoyance darkens his expressions ever so slightly, but it is enough to pull shame out of her again. Fighting against warming cheeks, she wishes that he would inflict his full wrath on her instead of hitting her with such a laser-sharp stare.
"I'm surprised at you, Nathalie." Blessedly, he does not continue, distracted as the akuma mask lights up to frame his face. His mouth twists into a snarl.
"Sir?"
He puts out his hand, urging her to wait. "You may have subdued my akuma, but you are no match against me, Hera. Or should I say, Amelie?" The corners of his mouth rise into a sinister smirk. "You're more transparent than you realize, dear sister. I'd hate for you to think you had the upper hand." He listens for a few moments more before his smile drops, followed by the purple light around his eyes.
He turns towards Nathalie, adjusting his sleeves. His eyes are narrowed with curiosity. "By the way, Nathalie, how did she manage to discompose you? You're not easily ruffled."
She fights to keep a mask of cool disinterest as she wrestles for a response that won't expose her. Apparently, the wait is too long, as Hawkmoth's expression sours, and he strides towards the lift.
"Where are you going?"
"Amelie has issued a challenge to me; I intend to meet it," he tosses over his shoulder.
"Sir, wait," she insists. He looks at her with that same peeved expression again, and she recoils, unfamiliar with this new temperature of displeasure. "Are you sure that's wise?" she continues bravely nonetheless. "It could be a trap."
"It likely is, but I have no choice," he snaps. "If I don't intercept her, she will attack here, and both of our identities will be exposed."
"I can't let you walk into this unprepared!" she exclaims. "Let me help."
"With what means?" he counters. "You've already lost the miraculous; there's nothing you can do. Stay here."
Despite the harshness of the words themselves, his tone lacks bite. Still, Nathalie feels as if they have struck her across the face, and she can only blink away the shame and hurt as Hawkmoth descends, leaving her alone.
For a moment, those feelings weigh her down, keep her rooted there in the lair as she watches the image of Hawkmoth move through her mind, out of the house, out to the city to face an opponent unleashed by her own carelessness and oversensitivity. Nathalie's guilt sits like a stone in the pit of her stomach. Her mind races for something, anything she can do, but all she can muster is the desperation to be certain Hawkmoth isn't hurt by the monster she set free.
She wastes no more time. Nathalie rushes back to the atelier and pulls the live news broadcast up on her computer, cursing as the feed lags through its first few seconds. When at last, the image is clear, it is Ladybug and Chat Noir she sees engaged in battle, not with the akuma Hawkmoth had created earlier in the afternoon, but the sentimonster of their new unwelcome foe. Nathalie cringes. The thing is a rather hideous rendition of Typhon, with the body of serpent the width of a tree trunk and gray-green scales pulsing with every single movement. Its head, somewhere in between that of a man and that of a dragon, is twisted in a permanent scowl, ugly and vicious and with a pair of black horns sprouting from the temples. Veiny, translucent wings beat behind its back while long sets of claws thrash through air at the pair of heroes, who swing around it on the string of Ladybug's yo-yo.
When Typhon makes a blow, he holds nothing back. Ladybug and Chat Noir go soaring from the end of that yo-yo into the leaves of a nearby tree at a wicked speed, getting tangled in the branches mostly out of view of the camera.
As they recover, another figure steps into frame, taking a stance under Typhon's flexed wingspan. Nathalie's fingers curl around the edge of her desk and she brings her face nearer to the screen, squinting to make out the details of this newcomer's appearance, who by comparison to the sentimonster she poses beside, looks nothing short of angelic. Amelie – or Hera, rather – practically glows under the sunlight with her smooth ice-blue skin, piercing gaze, and layers of ornate gold, sapphire, and emerald jewelry wrapped around her neck and arms. A crown sits upon the arrangement of curls and braids in her indigo hair, and she is draped in deep blue and green fabric, which bunches at the hips and flows behind her light as chiffon in the passing breeze, allowing her legs the freedom of movement necessary for a fight.
Nathalie's heart thumps wildly in her chest. Hera really does look like a living goddess, but the grin on her face is malicious enough to make Nathalie's stomach turn. Ladybug and Chat Noir free themselves from the tree branches and leap back into action with Typhon, while Hera stands on the edge of the rooftop, her shoulders back and her fan gently waving before her face as she watches. Nadja Chamack's voiceover cuts in:
"This new peacock villain has presented herself as a foe to both the heroes and Hawkmoth. It is currently unknown how she acquired the peacock miraculous or if she has any affiliation with the usual holder of the peacock miraculous, Mayura."
Nathalie grits her teeth. When hell freezes over.
"She has issued a challenge to Hawkmoth, asking, nondescriptly, for a ring. We don't know if this refers to another miraculous or something entirely unrelated, but – oh! There he is. Hawkmoth has now arrived at the scene of the fight."
The camera pans and Hawkmoth leaps onto the building where Hera stands. She whirls around, her smile disturbingly bright, and Hawkmoth, who had looked ready at once to charge her with a raised cane and a venomous roar, goes board-stiff. Nathalie's heart drops as the cane nearly fumbles out of his hand. An indignant heat drains from his expression and Nathalie is certain that he is pale as a ghost beneath his mask.
"Hello, Hawkmoth. So sorry we had to meet this way." Hera folds the fan and swipes her hand down her person, showing off the jewels dazzling her costume. "Do you like the look? I designed it with you in mind."
He takes a step back, eyes flicking up and down, taking in the full view of her transformation. Even from the distance of the camera aimed at them, Nathalie can register the horror in his eyes, usually cool and hard as steel. He says something under his breath, something that isn't audible, but Hera hears it and that bell-like laugh of hers rings out of her chest.
Nathalie doesn't understand what is wrong until the anger floods back in, hot and violent, and his voice thunders out like a crack in a storm, "How dare you!"
She understands then – eyes flicking up from the computer screen for just a moment, long enough to catch sight of the portrait across the room with its gold and green and blue shining paint, turning a mortal woman into a glowing idol – that this, that Hera –
Nathalie's blood runs cold.
– looks exactly like Emilie did, when the peacock miraculous was hers.
She is too shocked at first to be appalled. Hera holds up an arm, and Typhon, who had spent the length of the exchange battering Ladybug and Chat Noir around like ragdolls, snaps his hideous face in her direction. "You know, I'd love to have a conversation about it, darling, but it's time I get around to taking back the other half of the expense you owe me."
Before he can respond, Hera snaps open her fan and leaps back off the side of the building. Typhon surges forward, plumes of smoke trailing from his nostrils as those beating wings heave his great body through the air. The fear that seizes Nathalie's heart the second she sees Hawkmoth hesitate is realized when he's unprepared to avoid the sentimonster's first blow. Typhon's serpent tail sweeps through the air and tosses Hawkmoth back so far, he tumbles out of frame.
As Hera engages the heroes atop the adjacent building, her smile widens. She intended this. She knew transforming to mirror his fallen wife would mess with his head, and Nathalie has never felt like killing somebody more than she does now. She watches the battles with her hands clasped over her mouth, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. The mere spectacle of Hawkmoth hardly holding his own against a sentimonster, absent of the clean viciousness with which he has been known to fight before ensures that the focus is on him and Typhon two-thirds of the time, and Nathalie must watch, terrified and ashamed as he quickly wears out under the horrendous might of the creature. Smoke obscures the fearsome glare of his beady yellow eyes, but Hawkmoth's expression is painfully visible, fraught with rage and dread and anguish.
She can hardly listen to Nadja's commentary, hardly pay attention when the shot changes and Ladybug and Chat Noir become the focal point. They're managing against Hera, but it only helps her that Typhon is quickly pushing Hawkmoth further and further away from the scene. The heroes are too distracted wondering where the fight is being carried. Observing the all too familiar location, Nathalie already knows.
The station begins to air both sides of the fight as a split screen, and Nathalie recoils when Typhon slashes his claws at Hawkmoth. He raises his rapier up to block the paw of the creature, but Typhon meets the counteraction with little hindrance and nearly knocks the sword from his grip. One claw tears down the side of Hawkmoth's mask, exposing the skin around his left eye and drawing blood from his brow. Nathalie cries out at her screen, and her hands wave in front of her eyes while she struggles to decide whether she can continue to watch.
Meanwhile, Hera knocks Ladybug's yo-yo from the sky with a stroke of her fan. The fabric of her costume spills behind her as she starts to follow Hawkmoth and Typhon's path, moving with the ease of water. Nathalie feels ill. She wants to shut off the computer. She wants to shatter the screen, just to spare herself the guilt-ridden stare of her reflection in the blackness. But she continues to watch while Hawkmoth draws his sword across Typhon's scales and elicits a monstrous screech. A wing descends with incredible speed to throw Hawkmoth down into the street.
Hera is gaining. They're close to the mansion, so close, that if Nathalie turned around and faced the window, she might be able to see them approaching. She swallows dryly and chooses not to look, not wanting to know if this fight seems any worse in person than it does on screen. Hera barks an order Nathalie can't make out, but a ripple of dismay fires through her as Typhon turns his head, heaves deeply, and releases a bright flow of coiling orange flames from his mouth, which splashes in the direction of the heroes to keep them at a distance. Even Nadja is rendered speechless by the sight.
Then, Typhon dives out of the sky. His large sets of claws wrap around Hawkmoth on the ground and carry him into flight. Nathalie trembles where she stands. She is terrified at first that Typhon will rip the miraculous from Hawkmoth's chest and expose his identity to the hundreds of thousands of people watching this broadcast, but then she realizes where the sentimonster is flying, that he flaps himself even nearer to the mansion, to the point where the property's walls become visible in frame.
Nathalie finally turns to the window right as Typhon drops Hawkmoth from his claws.
She shuts her eyes as he is thrown towards the house with a blow from the serpent's tail.
She screams as he crashes through the window in the atrium, the sound of exploding glass and raining stone echoing violently in her mind.
Then, silence, save for the pounding of her own heart.
Typhon circles over the mansion, casting a shadow that, for a few moments, darkens the entire atelier. It isn't until his shadow hits her desk twice that she regains her senses and runs out to the atrium before any more harm can be done.
Hawkmoth's fall is devastating. The glass from the shattered window crunches under Nathalie's heels, leering up at her like glinting, curious eyes. Worse, however, is the way that not only glass, but stone has been disrupted by the collision. She finds Hawkmoth not on the stairs, but in them, the marble cracked open by the sheer force of his landing, holding him like an open casket.
She prays this is not his resting place, but she fears the worst. He lies so still that she cannot even tell if he's breathing, and the destruction around him suggests an impact nobody could survive. She navigates carefully, carving out a circle around him, too scared to approach in case the truth is something she cannot bear.
"Gabriel?" she whispers.
Seconds pass without any sign of life. She takes a petrified step back, accidentally hitting Hawkmoth's rapier with the heel of her shoe. With raw reverence, she reaches down and curls her fingers around the hilt.
"Nathalie."
Her head whips back up, and she takes Hawkmoth in with awe and gratitude. "You're alive."
Hawkmoth's eyes widen, focused behind her. "Nathalie, look out!"
She spins around, immediately dropping into a fighting stance. Typhon's teeth bear down, and she rolls to the side, just barely getting grazed. Typhon snarls and cranes his scaly neck out, intent on devouring her.
Determination renewed, Nathalie adjusts her posture, forming the perfect defensive stance. As Typhon lunges down again, cracking the walls as he tries to force his torso through the broken window, she sees the perfect opening and sprints forwards, pushing off with a great leap. She twists in midair, readies Hawkmoth's sword, and before she can second-guess herself, drives it down with as much force as she can muster up.
Typhon's disembodied head meets the ground a second before her feet. She skids on the tiles, covered in shimmering glass dust, and does her best to regain her footing, panting from the effort. Typhon's expression is frozen in a snarl, gruesome enough that Nathalie nearly wishes his features still bore life.
A wet cough brings her back to Hawkmoth. He wipes away a trickle of blood from his mouth, but in spite of that, the corners of his mouth are turned up in a smirk of victory.
"Don't get too excited," she warns, quickly approaching him. "That won't keep him down for long." She wipes the blade on her trousers, trying not to think of the gory remains left behind, and offers it back to him. When he only responds with a grimace, she grabs his hand and closes it around the hilt.
"It bides us some time." He coughs roughly again, filling his mouth with blood.
"Can you stand?"
He only laughs bitterly, a trail of red snaking down his chin.
Nathalie tries not to fall victim to the plummeting feeling inside her. She drops to her knees at his side. "I won't leave you."
"Nathalie…" He drops the sword, face contorted with pain.
"It… it'll be alright," she insists, swallowing down the rancid fear that curls around at the back of her tongue. She dreads that his bones will be dust under his skin, but she cannot leave him the way he is, encircled by sharp, cold marble. Ever so gingerly, she works her hands around his back, eliciting a groan. "I'm sorry." Bit by bit, she sits him up further, wedging herself behind him to support his head on her shoulder. "I'm sorry."
A gentle sigh breathes his eyes shut. The furrow in his brow remains, but at least the tension in his temple subsides. "Thank you."
Nathalie lightly strokes the wound over his eye. She tries to say, "You're welcome," but the words come out so quietly that she herself cannot even hear them. Her pent up fright and despair lodge themselves in her throat, and she fights back tears, letting her forehead rest against Hawkmoth's head.
Soft fingertips nudge against the side of her hand before tracing along the ridges of her metacarpals. The feeling of warm skin on hers soothes her until she fully registers what that entails. "Hawkmoth," she exclaims, staring down at his bare hand. "She did get what she came for. Your ring."
"No." He reaches into his jacket, pulling out the aforementioned band. "Thankfully I had the foresight to impede on those plans." He tucks the ring back against his palm. "Though I'll be an easy target now."
"Of course not," Nathalie asserts. "I'm getting you out of here."
"Please. Don't." His words don't sway her, but when a slight adjustment at his back results in a sustained groan, she is forced to face the harsh reality of the situation.
"You can't be moved."
He doesn't answer. The ring falls into his loose fingers as he opens up his hand, reflecting waning sunlight against his skin.
She had never expected it to end like this — so quiet, and bright, and oddly peaceful. The panic that had stirred within her before is gone, replaced by muted disappointment and deeper understanding. She looks out the window, above Typhon's now twitching body at the news helicopters beyond, feeling only slow, steady regret.
"Sir, I—"
"There's nothing you could have done." He rolls the band between his finger and thumb. Nathalie would protest, but she senses Hawkmoth has more to say. Those words are too precious and fleeting to let go of, now that she knows they only have so many left.
The movement of his hand stops, the ring sliding onto the tip of his thumb. He is silent for a moment, save for the soft exhale of his breath.
"I was too vulnerable," he says, "and far too transparent. Hera is untrained — inexperienced — but she knew that all she had to do to gain the upper hand was to weaponize… to use…"
He lets out a dissatisfied grunt, failing to find the words. "I know," Nathalie tells him. "I saw her transformation. It was underhanded."
"It was smart," he counters. "It seems I lose my mind where Emilie is concerned, and for that, I am a fool."
"Gabriel." Even with their identities likely exposed to the world by now, the word slides carefully off her tongue, just a hushed shimmer in the air.
"I am."
"Then I am, too," she says, pressing her hand against his chest. "I let her use the same tricks against me. I let her hit the same soft spots."
"Not Emilie, but..."
Her fingers let up slightly, betraying her. She stops, but the damage is done.
His head tilts in her direction and he sits for a moment. "She used Emilie against you?" Nathalie stiffens, nearly pulling away, but he holds her surprisingly firm. "How?"
It seems silly to hold onto secrets now, but the truth is still reluctantly pried from her. "Insinuations were made. Followed by comparisons that were… difficult to bear."
She winces in anticipation. Gabriel is returning his signature weighted silence, which can only indicate that he has caught onto her meaning far too astutely. And yet, he doesn't pull away. If anything, he leans more heavily against her, tilting his head into the crook of her neck as she waits for him to snap.
But all he says is, "I must give her credit for a keen eye. I would never have known for sure, even with an emotional beacon pinned to my chest. You mask it well."
She bites her lip. There are a thousand questions her heart is screaming to ask him, but time is running short, and Typhon gives another great twitch, head beginning to reform at the stump of his neck. "We need a plan."
"And I have one." It takes a large breath for him to be able to lift his hand, which falls over hers one more time, squeezing against his chest. Nathalie quickly adjusts, cradling his head with her other arm. "Thank you for everything you've done," he says. She gapes at him, shocked to find his eyes so soft. "It's far more than I've deserved, especially since you'll be incriminated as soon as they arrest me."
"No—"
"Nathalie," he says firmly. "You have access to all my accounts and resources. Take whatever you need to get out of France and hide. Hopefully, Hera will cause enough of a distraction for you to get yourself to safety."
Outside, a ripple of gold catches Nathalie's eye. Hera approaches, radiating in the sun, with smugness carried in every inch of her body. Nathalie's rage flares within her. A slight tilt of Hawkmoth's head betrays that he has spotted her too.
"It's time," Nathalie says coolly. She can feel ice crystallizing inside her, hardening around her organs and making everything so cold. Only her hands remain soft and thawed, one warmed by Hawkmoth's own and the other kept alive by stroking his jaw. "I'm sorry."
"You owe me no apologies," he promises. "Your loyalty to me has been unwavering, and it's time I attempted to repay the favor. Go, Nathalie. Don't look back."
Never taking her eyes off Hera's approaching form, she presses a kiss to his temple, one last indulgence. His fingers grip hers tighter in a silent question.
"That's not what I'm sorry for." She eases him back to the ground and stands, removing her blazer. Leaning over Hawkmoth to slide her hand up his chest, she is nearly disarmed by the unanticipated tenderness and hint of invitation in his eyes.
Her fingers run over his miraculous. And then, they pull.
"Nathalie!"
She ignores Gabriel's protest, flinging her blazer over him to conceal his face from outside eyes. "Stay covered. Dark wings, rise!"
Becoming Mayura had always felt like being stripped down, torn away bit by bit to reveal a small, raw, chaotic part of herself that was lodged deep inside her ribs, but with the Butterfly miraculous, she feels built up, like layers she didn't know that she had have sprung up out of her skin to make her something bigger than before. Gone are svelte gowns with soft fur trim — flowing garments that carried their own breath and movement. Now, she wears an exoskeleton, a rigid extension of her body with far more power. A durable yet flexible purple material wraps around her, topped with metallic armored pieces too multicolored to be made of steel or silver. Hues of lavender and cyan dance across the elegant yet solid breastplate like crystals in a kaleidoscope. There is only one delicate touch to the whole ensemble — a large, gossamer butterfly's wing that wraps her left side in a swath of resplendent sapphire.
"Nathalie," Gabriel says, having disobeyed her order and lowered the covering from his head. He looks worse than he did as Hawkmoth, small against the grand staircase that holds him, but his eyes are full of shining wonderment.
"Actually," she clips, looking down at the sword forming at her hip, sheathed in a proper scabbard, "it's Admiral now."
His eyes skate down, appreciating the power of her new form. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Her sword glides out of her scabbard like skates on ice. "I'm sure," she says, looking down the line of the blade, adjusting to its new weightier balance. She gives it a flourish and glances back at him. "We're both getting out of here. I'm not giving up that easy."
"If I can't convince you, then good luck. I can only hope you're correct."
She nods once at him curtly and sets her shoulders, readying herself for battle. Typhon is nearly reformed, but in a gift of perfect timing, Admiral spots the heroes approaching. She runs at the window, making sure to press her heel extra firmly into the sentimonster's head, and buries the sword into his body, vaulting out the window and onto the ground below. Typhon writhes, and she knows she's bought a bit of extra time.
Slow clapping draws her attention. Hera leans against the inside of the iron gates, wearing an insufferable smirk. Rings of gold glitter on her fingers, but the single silver one shines brightest, catching every ray of light.
"Oh, how impressive you look!" Hera exults, but Admiral knows a backhanded comment is to follow. "Most women will borrow a sweater or a jacket, but you went for something special." Admiral's grip tightens around her sword. "Don't look so offended dear; you wear it far better than him. He looks like a sad showman, but you're a true knight in shining armor." Hera's teasing expression falls into a more sinister arrangement as she flares her fan open. "Now I hope you're capable of fighting like one."
Admiral falls into a battle stance, waiting for Hera to make the first move. "Careful what you wish for."
Hera doesn't hesitate, jumping in with startling prowess. In spite of her total lack of experience, she seems impossibly fast and strong. Admiral is shocked to be struggling so much; she never thought it would be easy, but this is her area of expertise. She is the one who has wielded a miraculous for months. She is the one with extensive combat training. She is the one on her own home turf.
Her eye is caught by the heroes swinging over the iron gates. An idea surfaces in her mind.
Perhaps she isn't on her home turf yet.
Typhon, returned to life and ramming against the window once more, finally sets sight on the new targets. "No," Hera orders, but he ignores her, swooping down on Ladybug. The heroes have no choice but to engage, leaving Hera and Admiral to their own devices.
Admiral takes the moment of distraction to leap up onto the gates. Even in her bulkier armor, she is pleased to find her impeccable balance unaffected. Hera's scowl deepens, pulling her stony blue skin into a snarl. Her fingers twitch in displeasure for a moment before she jumps to follow Admiral up.
Her rise is powerful, sending her higher than Admiral would anticipate from a single bound. At the top of her arc, she seems to float, defying all laws of physics. She twinkles her fingers as she lands, sending a coy wave in mockery of her opponent.
"How did you do that?" Admiral demands. "The Peacock miraculous doesn't have any flight powers."
"Doesn't it?"
Admiral dodges, refusing to let Hera get the upper hand again. She swings mightily, satisfied to see Hera struggling to stay upright. "No."
But even Admiral's sword can't stop Hera's quick tongue. "Maybe you've been playing with toys above your level."
She shakes off the insult and observes her new surroundings, using them to throw Hera off her game. With an inner smile, Admiral dances Hera backwards, getting a good hit in as Hera wobbles on the slightly loose left gate. She hisses, incensed by the shallow gash Admiral has managed to leave in her arm.
Meanwhile, Admiral's concern with the battle below only grows. While Typhon's distraction of the heroes is welcome, she'd hoped he'd lead them away from the mansion. It's unlikely that either of them have time to look through the windows and spot Gabriel, but the slim chance has her worried.
Admiral lands a solid kick to Hera's chest, sending her careening backwards. As she hangs off the fence, trying to keep a solid handhold, Admiral takes the opportunity to run along the top of its metal peaks and create some distance between them.
"Ladybug, Chat Noir!" she calls down. They keep their eyes on Typhon, but the tilt of Chat's head indicates that she's gotten their attention. "Hera doesn't have the amok herself; it's somewhere else."
Chat frowns in thought, or maybe with concern, as he dodges a charge from Typhon, accompanied by great beating wings that nearly blow him backwards. Meanwhile, Ladybug's eyes narrow as she counters in the opposite direction. "You're the last person we'll be trusting for advice, Mayura."
"Admiral," she corrects. It seems foolish to take the time to make her new name known, but how she feels inside this armor is so foreign from how naked it was to be Mayura, so foreign that they might as well be entirely different people. "You don't have to take my word for it. You saw yourselves how she tried and failed to control it. Someone else is instructing him, and we're not going to make any headway until Typhon is dealt with."
Ladybug and Chat Noir run past each other as Typhon swoops at them, exchanging meaningful glances. "Even if that's so," Chat says, "There are people in this house. We can't leave them to fend for themselves against three supervillains!"
"One supervillain. Hawkmoth and I have no interest in hurting civilians."
Hera, who has finally managed to grab a bar firmly in one hand, makes a little gesture at her side with the other and somehow swings herself up with very little effort. Admiral grits her teeth and readies her sword.
"Oh yeah, like we can count on that," Chat bites. "Stunning track record."
"Remember what Typhon did to Hawkmoth." The silence that follows, filled only by the clinking of swords and staves, encourages Admiral that the heroes are at least taking her seriously. Although revealing their weaknesses is a risk, she prays that it will pay off. "Right now, Hawkmoth is nothing more than a man — a man who has been seriously injured. Your civilians are more of a risk to him than he is to them. But if Hera gets inside…"
Admiral's blood chills as Chat inexplicably goes running toward the house, but fortuitously, Typhon intercepts, sending him leaping in another direction. Ladybug grabs Chat, ushering him away as the two of them escape the talons that follow. The two bicker with each other, too softly for Admiral to hear, but it becomes a nonissue once Hera catches her again and painfully pins her arm behind her back.
"At the very least, isn't the devil you know better than the one you don't?" she exclaims. With a war cry, she wrenches her arm out from Hera's grasp and elbows her in the nose. "You don't want Hera as an enemy. Consider this a temporary truce."
Between slashes of her sword, Admiral sees Ladybug whispering to Chat. "Come on," the hero says out loud, and Chat follows, sending a glare of warning to Admiral as they take off, Typhon in pursuit.
"Stop!" Hera instructs the departing creature. He pays her no heed, opening his wings and following after the heroes. Admiral takes a good swing, noticing her distraction, but apparently, Hera is not distracted enough, easily blocking the sword with her fan. "Félix and his grudge," she mutters.
"So he is involved," Admiral comments. "When will you stop getting your son to do your dirty work?"
"When Gabriel stops using you for his," she sneers. Admiral bristles. "Honestly, it's just sad, dear. Don't you ever grow tired of him taking advantage?"
Admiral stops to find a retort for just a moment — a moment too long. Hera darts alongside her and seizes her bun, nails raking her scalp. Admiral howls as Hera gleefully yanks her by the hair, driving her face down into the bricks below.
Her armet-like mask protects her from the ground itself, but the metal lacerates her skin and bounces her skull around. She stumbles to her feet, twisting the mask around until she can see again, just in time to catch Hera halfway through a bizarre dance. Her hand draws back, as if pulling a string, and with a frightening, wolfish grin, she sends the other fist to the center of Admiral's chest.
Admiral begins to swing her sword before the impact, but she never gets to follow through. The punch to her armor is explosive, propelling her off her feet. Sword barely hitting its mark, she is hurled back, screaming as glass shatters behind her and she is sent through the window adjacent to the one Hawkmoth came through.
Her momentum doesn't stop when she meets the painfully solid floor, armor scraping and screeching as she tumbles across the marble and crashes into the banister of the stairs. She cries out an unintelligible sound, trying to compute her sudden new whereabouts.
"Admiral." She weakly twists to see Gabriel pulling her blazer from over his head. He breathes heavily, making an effort to turn his own head, or possibly it's a sigh of relief in finding signs of life in her.
Admiral herself feels no such relief, not even as Hera curses outside and doesn't immediately follow in. "I'm sorry," she croaks. "I failed."
Gabriel closes his eyes and drops his head back. "You came closer than I did."
Her whole body aching, she flips herself over and begins to crawl to him, limbs too heavy to walk. "She's impossibly strong. And she flew. She used powers I never even knew the miraculous had. I can't best that."
"I know there are secrets we never uncovered. Maybe I was always in over my head." He offers her an arm in invitation, and it's more than that — perhaps it's solace, or even an apology. Or maybe he only wants something to hold onto in their last moments. Whatever the reason, it's there, and she feels the draw of comfort pulling her in. Admiral drops onto his chest, wincing as the ring in his inner pocket digs into her cheek. She pushes herself up to adjust, but something nags at her in the back of her mind. Her fingers hover over his chest.
"What is it?" he asks.
Her eyes squeeze shut, and she revisualizes the last few minutes. Hera's combat was odd, so odd that even now, she can't move past it. Hera was unskilled, fending Admiral off with brute strength alone, strength she should not have had with her petite frame and sheltered lifestyle. Beyond that were the strange, unrelated movements peppered in. It was a dance, but there were no steps. Every move was a wave of the arm. A flick of the wrist. A twinkling of the fingers, sending blinding light glancing off of—
Admiral gasps, a hand jumping up to her mouth in new understanding. "The ring!" she exclaims. "Gabriel, that's why she wants them so badly. They give her additional powers."
"It can't be. I've had one all this time."
She shakes her head frantically. "The power isn't inherent. There were movements she did with her hands to use it, like this." She replicates one of the shorter motions she saw from Hera — pinching her thumb and forefinger together and quickly flipping her hand.
Gabriel's eyes widen, and he fumbles in his pocket.
Admiral is desperate for a glimmer of hope, but even with the ring, she can't imagine Hawkmoth battling Hera in this condition. "Do you really think you can—?"
She stops. Gabriel doesn't put the band on his own finger. Instead, he holds it out to her — steadily. Deliberately.
She sucks in a breath so sharp that it stings her teeth. Heart racing, she almost asks if he's sure, but the gesture could not be more intentional. She offers him her hand, realizing too late that it's armored, but that doesn't seem to be an issue. He slides the ring onto her finger and it resizes itself, fitting over the protective plates on her fingers.
Time stops for a moment. The implications of the gesture are not lost on her, but neither are her task and purpose ahead. She forces herself to her feet, fingers curling around his. "I won't let you down," she promises.
The front door bursts open, revealing Hera, who clutches a bleeding wound on her side, face twisted into a deep snarl.
"I managed to hit you," Admiral triumphs.
"A lucky shot, but not lucky enough," Hera croons through her pain. She looks down at the blood seeping from under her palm. "This won't slow me down for long." She begins to weave the fingers of her left hand together, and Admiral, watching closely, does the same.
A soft, invisible hand runs over her wounds, soothing them. The spell has the effect of a good night's sleep, restoring strength and clarity, but Hera is equally reinvigorated, wasting no time with words. She lunges forward with her fan wielded like a spear. Admiral dodges, only to find she isn't the target when Hera sails past her for Gabriel. She twists and pins Hera down with her sword driven into her skirt.
"Looking for this?" She boasts the ring, making sure to tilt her hand so it catches the light in its hypnotizing way as she retreats to gain ground.
Hera's eyes narrow to murderous slits, but she remains closed-lipped, only confirming that the ring has powers that neither her nor Gabriel are meant to know about. Her beautiful outfit cascades behind her as she approaches like a galvanic storm, light flashing in the gold accents which catch the waning rays of the day.
Admiral almost counters before reminding herself to stand firm. She may not be a storm, but she can be a mountain — solid, steady, and reliable. Hera comes for her in a flurry, and she blocks with heavy, surefooted strikes of her sword, never flinching away from the clang of metal. She mimics some of Hera's movements from earlier, and the more she uses the magic, the more she recognizes it, like a familiar dream long forgotten. The ring is soon speaking to her, giving her new motions to use that she's never seen before, giving her the upper hand.
She sweeps her arm open to point her sword between Hera's eyes.
Hera stops and simpers at her, while Admiral's heart beats like an echoing drum inside her armor. "Don't you see it doesn't matter? Even when you think you've won you can't, because you have a terrible weakness." She raises her hand to strike Gabriel.
Admiral's fingers flare, freezing her in place.
"What?" Hera sputters, taken by surprise for the first time. "How?"
"Gabriel is not my weakness; he's my strength. If you hadn't threatened him, I never would have gone this far."
"This far?"
Admiral pushes her pinky up to the sky, suctioning energy in. She swoops low, reaches out, and pulls the invisible string.
"Goodbye, Amelie."
She pushes forwards, releasing all the built-up pressure. Hera is thrown against the back wall, shattering a light before falling to the ground.
Wasting not a second after ensuring she won't be back on her feet anytime soon, Admiral sheathes her blade and rushes back to Gabriel's side. With eyes round with awe, he lets her grapple for his hand and holds it against his chest as her armored fingers find their solid, desperate grip.
"Nathalie," he murmurs.
"Hold on. We need to get out of here. Before somebody sees you," she says quickly. "I know what to do." Pressing the one hand against him, she holds out the other with the ring. Gabriel watches her execute the same winding motion with her fingers as she had to heal her previous wounds, but the placement of her touch above his heart changes the target of the spell. Admiral's breath catches in her throat as Gabriel relaxes beneath her, the visible bruises on his face fading away.
He squeezes her hand, and there is strength in his grasp.
"Come," she urges. Admiral starts to lift him to his feet, setting one of his arms around her shoulder. Gabriel groans with the effort, but he is upright soon enough, pulled from the rubble of the destroyed marble steps.
Before escaping, Admiral takes the other ring and the peacock miraculous from Hera, who shifts against the floor where she's fallen. The transformation drains away, leaving a battered, seething Amelie in her place, who lifts her head to glare venomously up into Admiral's mask.
"I'd watch what you say about this if I were you," growls Admiral, holding the ring up to the light. "Wouldn't want anyone finding out about the Graham de Vanily's dark little secret. You messed with the wrong pair of supervillains, Amelie, and if you try to take us down, you'll fall in our place."
Her threat plainly made, Admiral and Gabriel take flight from the house, searching for a place to hide where they can't be traced back to the attack. When they are safe, Nathalie detransforms, and clasping Gabriel's hand, she slips the ring on his finger as deliberately as he had done to her, feeling bold, feeling unstoppable.
He clenches his fist and glances up, locking eyes with her. There appear to be a million words dancing through his gaze, but when he speaks, he only whispers, "Thank you," and embraces her against his chest.
Nathalie hugs him back, and her heart soars. From the closeness of his hold, she can feel the warmth and tenderness of everything still left unsaid.