Chapter Text
It had been a strange past few weeks, or first few weeks, or whatever it was. Shanoa wasn't quite sure how to conceptualize her current state of existence.
A bit like a ghost, or a memory. A manifestation of the magic within the grimoires, every little inscription...
A bit like a Glyph?
She shook her head. It felt strange to consider herself alive, and yet she didn't feel dead. Just plucked out of the middle of her story. She remembered settling down, and then...
And then...?
And then she was here. Here with Maria, and Simon, and Charlotte, and all the others who were like her. Heroes from the grimoires. Summoned from death, like a vampire...
Everything after the Dark Lord's defeat felt vague, but maybe that was just in how it all was recorded. A normal, unremarkable life was hardly worth being noted within the history books beyond the broad idea of it, and she detested how little she remembered of Wygol; the blurry image of her wife's jewelry store; all the little things she must have enjoyed once-upon-a-time. Why were they deemed unworthy of remembrance?! (The tragedy of such an encore of her amnesia was not lost on her.) All she knew now was her doomed quest; her tragic story with an ending that left far too much ambiguity. Though even still, she was astonished that records of her life had survived to this point at all, let alone how they came to be in Elgos's hands.
She was not quite Shanoa, but the story of a Shanoa, possibly misremembered or exaggerated or something, and she had no way of knowing what of it was true.
And the strangest part of this...
"You look thoughtful."
Shanoa jumped on instinct, then relaxed her tension a little bit as she recognized the voice of her older brother, the notorious gunslinger.
"Albus, you frightened me." She smiled a bit.
Yes, this was the strangest part.
He was alive, and yet not alive, like her. The trace of magic that had clung to her all this time. It was him, though. She knew him, missed him, mourned for him.
And now, here he stood.
"I apologize. I'm just glad to see you, dear. Since there aren't any grimoires acting up at the moment I thought it'd be nice to spend some time together. We haven't talked much since I was summoned yesterday. Of course, if you're busy-" He began to speak.
"Don't worry. I'm not busy at all! I'm merely... thinking. About how all this works...? Being summoned from the grimoires and all that. I feel like nothing's... real? It just doesn't feel real to see you again. I'm myself, but I'm not really the me who lived in the mid-nineteenth century... If that makes sense."
"A simulacrum, you mean. I'm surprised. I'm usually the one getting caught up in the particulars of this sort of thing." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's an interesting type of magic, certainly. Something summoned from inscriptions... It is in my area of expertise, as a Glyph researcher."
"And maybe it's in my expertise to have a tenuous sense of self and the haziest possible grasp on my memories," Shanoa replied wryly. "I suppose I just don't believe this all can be real. That I'm allowed to have you back with me. I didn't think so hard about it before you were summoned, but now..."
"You think that it's undeserved, is that it? That you don't think you're a good enough person to let yourself be happy here in Elgos?"
It was a biting question, one indicative of just how well her brother knew her. Like stinging medicine pressed to a wound.
She swallowed.
"I killed you, Albus."
That memory was far too clear, and always would be.
"I know," he said, soothingly. "I've never been angry at you for that, and never will... I always knew I was going to die. Not how, but I did."
Would the real Albus have said that? ...How should I know? She asked herself this, then hated herself for thinking of him that way. He wasn't... fake. Not real, but certainly not fake.
She leaned close to him, head laying on his leather-clad shoulder. That was a warmth she could never refuse. His familiar arms clutched her tightly. That certainly felt real, and the force behind his arms spoke more than words of his devotion to his younger sister.
"It's like I keep seeing your ghost. But it's you! It's really you." Her voice wavered with unshed tears. "I just wish I could remember more... We grew up together, I know that, but it's all so fuzzy."
"I don't remember much either," he admitted in a quiet hush. "But we have time to make new memories, don't we? It's a happy ending. Who cares what it took to get us here?"
"I'll try to think of it that way," she nodded, pressing closer to his shoulder. "Though, I... I am happy, dear. Don't mistake my turmoil for sorrow."
"I would not dream of it," he replied, and the quiet joy in his eyes- just to look upon her once more- was enough to convince her.