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What beauty is there in a night’s tragedy? Is it of hearts breaking like glass or the wear masked as serenity?
The citadel she built has crumbled, its sentinels fallen, the soldiers feeding the soil with their blood, and her children--forsook the womb that granted them new life.
But those are not enough cause for heartache, not even for tears. This world has ceased to create worthy subjects of such sentiment. Mankind has been failing to flourish in that fashion for decades.
She swirls the glass of Pinot Noir in her hand. The hem of her dress colored like the dark blue of the night swirls at her ankles as she steps to the balcony, overlooking the carnage and destruction below. The perfectly manicured lawn, green with a tint of blue under the marriage of moonlight and darkness during a normal night like this one, was painted red like the wine in the glass.
The retainers knew nothing but loyalty and devotion since the day they had come knocking at the door. Now they be corpses unmoving. It is a shame but not a disappointment.
She takes a sip of the wine, her eyes shifting to the heavens and the stars laughed at the misery on earth.
Arcana cannot agree more.
If not, Forget-Me-Not would have already sat at the grand piano by now, striking the ivory keys with his delicate fingers to retell a story written by beings of music from many years past. And what a thing of beauty his music was, each tinkling sound not unlike the playful twinkle of stars, every string of legato reminiscent of graceful sweeps of hand reaching to the heaven, and dynamics masterfully observed akin to his command over people on a string. Those keys will never play another note again for the artist has slumped to the ground somewhere down the hall, unmoving like the many corpses littered all over the Manus’ command post. He will never move again for the Order--as they call themselves--has perfected a spell tailor-made for the likes of the Manus.
It is a pity but still far from a disappointment.
When a symphony of screams, rubble, and casted arcanum was taken away by the night winds, the center was bathed in still silence, save for the footsteps rushing in every direction, without a doubt searching for her--the final piece in this game of chess her Manus and the Order had started.
The silence carries the echoes of the footsteps to the secret room where she leaning on the balcony with a glass of wine and a calm expression on her face.
She is not hiding. There is no cause for her to do so, but she would like to relish a time by herself before her inevitable founding.
It comes soon when footsteps light as a feather stop at the door. It was spelled with ancient arcana that removes its traces so regular arcanists might see only a wooden panel among many.
But the footsteps stayed there, as if in hesitation before an incantation is muttered from the other side of the door:
“Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, alas, I may no more.”
Arcana’s mouth curled into a smile.
What a surprise. That voice is one she has not heard in years. Though it has become firmer and deeper, it is still a voice that brings her back to the glory days of the Manus. As the Foundation’s power and influence started to dwindle over the years, she anticipated the owner of that voice to sink down with them.
A steady hum as the casted arcanum is resisted by the age-old spell. Such gentle magick holds no candle to a power that has endured decades of Storms.
The humming stops, and then another spell is cast. This time, more unyielding and forceful as the voice that carries it.
“E’ vèn tagliando di sì gran valore,
che’ deboletti spiriti van via:
riman figura sol en segnoria
e voce alquanta, che parla dolore.”
The arcanum clashes against the layer of protection and the sound is that of a whistle as the barrier fights to hold.
“Voi che per li occhi mi passaste ’l core
e destaste la mente che dormia,
guardate a l’angosciosa vita mia,
che sospirando la distrugge Amore!”
The sound of an arcanum breaking is a sigh, which the wooden door whispers in the silence.
The door creaks as it swings open, followed by a gasp of recognition.
Arcana’s smile creeps further up. She turns to face the newcomer, a rare indulgence of vanity evident in the deliberate sway of her hips in such a way that commands her garment to worship her shape.
The figure at the door is almost as tall as she is, a stark contrast to the time when their paths first crossed. Gone is now the little girl with starry doe eyes. Her wild ginger hair was tamed in a high ponytail by a checkered cloth. The tip of her infamous glass pen glowed as she held it in a gloved hand. Her intelligent olive eyes are concealed behind an ornate hound-shaped mask.
She freezes at the door. Her pen tip unconsciously gathers crystals in a sign of caution and quite possibly a hint of fear. The hound is still a puppy after all.
Another figure appears behind the girl as if to rescue her, and Arcana’s eyes light up.
The black gown that seemed to have bottled the ink-black night sky hugs her slender figure. Her wavy hair auburn bright like the sunset is wild and free, cascading her back like a waterfall. In her hand is a wand crafted from primeval woods so dearly beloved, precious tendrils sprout from the handle, curving lovingly around the wooden body of the wand like an infant clinging to its mother. The ornate cat mask the color of snow conceals her face but behind it, her eyes the shade of deep green glow.
A breeze blows from behind the woman and it carries to the room the familiar scent of the Weyerhauser arcanum.
She and the younger lady exchange worldless looks, sending the latter into a graceful sprint down the hall.
Then it is only the two of them.
Arcana swirls the glass again, her gaze unfaltering on the lady. "Often I have thunk when thy face ye shall again beholden to me."
The lady pauses before lifting her hand to the mask, a silent spell to remove that which binds the cover to her face, before looking at her without the concealment. "I take it you still remember me." Her voice, the same gentle thing that walks the line between a prayer and a song.
"Nay have I triumphed to remove thy visage in mine remembrance."
"I appreciate your remembering, though, I hope that I am not the only one you have kept in your memories."
"Nay. In truth, none hath I forgotten."
They both fall silent as a pair of footsteps from down the hall tap, tap taps lightly on the floor toward the secret room.
The auburn-haired lady steps aside, making way for the newcomers.
The puppy is back, standing stiff at the side of the door, watching as another lady walks through.
Arcana's eyes widen in delight. My, what an auspicious night!
She sashays inside the room, careful to maintain the allure of her movements, as she draws closer to the newcomer.
The lady is about the same tallness as the puppy. But where the latter’s stiff posture stops at just enough degree of courtesy and still conveys an openness to show meekness when needed, this lady holds herself in a manner that discounts humility. With her back straight and dignified, chin lifted in a confident angle that may easily be mistaken as arrogance, and a countenance more dispassionate than the last time she graced Arcana’s eyes, the lady walks shrouded with an air of secrecy.
Gone is the chronometer that used to imprison her arm. Her platinum hair is restrained in an intricate braided bun and her signature top hat which enjoys the same infamy as the puppy’s pen—if not more—sits upright on her head with no adornment save for a black piece of cloth and a lone pigeon feather, bloodied and disheveled.
The lady with the top hat stops just out of Arcana’s reach and speaks, “Pasis iom da tempo, Sinjorino Arcana. Ĉu vi ankoraŭ memoras min?”
Arcana is taken aback, and a surge of pleased surprise rushes through her veins. Of all things the former Timekeeper could say, words from a forgotten tongue are the last of it; and not just any forgotten tongue but the language Arcana has shown favor to.
A low chuckle of amusement escapes her lips. “Kompreneble, mi memoras vin, sinjorino Vertin. Mi ankoraŭ adoras vian vizaĝon ĝis hodiaŭ.”
Ah, what a wonderful lady she has become. That face that betrays no emotion has been left untouched by the Storms that have reversed the world in repeat.
Her eyes which Arcana remembers as once tired but still filled with hope and a flickering flame are now lifeless gray orbs with irises outlined with a glowing darkness around the edge, the tell-tale ramifications of ingesting Brew of Charon in abundance, the elixir of legends said to reveal secrets and open hidden paths.
“It makes me happy to know that you still remember me,” the Timekeeper calmly says, pulling a gun from her holster and pointing it at Arcana. “Lady Arcana, I have come to kill you.”
She recognizes the gun. A loving rendition of the Colt M1911, modified by the finest wandmaker Manus Vindictae once had among them. She needs no more explanation then.
“First love must have touched thy tongue with honey to beget thee to grasp on thine vengeance with such ardor, Lady Vertin,” she mocks.
The Timekeeper pays her words no mind and places a finger on the trigger. “Any last words?”
Arcana approaches the oak table near her. She places the glass gently on the surface in a languid motion. She says in jest, “I require a moment’s reprieve.”
She lifts her hip gracefully and sits on the table, crossing her legs. “After ye have claimed mine life, what doth thou intend to accomplish henceforth? Manus Vindictae shall not cease. Mine life is naught but a branch. Though thou mayst sever me from the tree, verily shall it grow and flourish for eternity.”
The Timekeeper grants her a jeer. “Look how low you have fallen. To think I get to see the day where her ladyship pleas for her life.”
“Mine life? Nay, for I hath already reached mine destiny.” Arcana’s eyes glow, a sinister smile on her lips as she gently lifts a hand to touch the spiked spearhead of the stake that pierces her skull, and pulls. Black slimy goo runs down from the holes in her head, down to the table, and onto the floor. “Thou, however…”
The two people at the back are instantly at the ready, wands raised, glowing with unreleased arcanum.
“Stand back!” The Timekeeper commands, gripping the gun with both hands now, eyes seething, sharp and focused on her target. “She’s mine!”
Arcana sees her gray eyes gradually getting devoured by the Brew of Charon and she feels her laughter rise from deep within her belly.
She points the stake at the Timekeeper, the smile on her lips equally sinister and joyful. “Lady Vertin, bonvenon hejmen.”
★・・・・・・★
Arcana did not bleed. When the Timekeeper pierced her heart with arcanum-infused bullets, what bled out from her was black ink. Some of which splattered onto her white skirt during the last struggle of the Manus’ leader.
Upon descending the Timekeeper’s suitcase, every member of the Order that took part in the mission tonight has been silent. There were six of them, including the Timekeeper. When the word got out that Arcana was no more, there was only silence among the members.
When they had all settled to the familiar lounge area which used to be a place of leisure and rest for them but had been in utter disarray for years with all the notes and documents containing all pertinent information about the Manus stuck on the wall and strewn across the floor, no one talked. The once cozy room where they found a new family now feels cold and foreign. Sonetto could not stay there. So, she went straight to the lake.
She sinks to her knees and peers at her reflection in the water. Her mask is still on. They had chosen it for her, an endearing humor among them six.
Puppy, she has always been called that. The Timekeeper’s puppy.
She doesn’t mind. She’s more than happy to accompany the Timekeeper anywhere.
She was. But then it has been ten years.
Slowly, she dispels the binding spell between the mask and her face. The olive eyes staring back at her are blank. The dark circles underneath them tells of unrestful sleeps that have become increasingly normal for her since her fist deliberate kill—not out of self-defense, but a strategic murder.
Her eyes hood in shame. She can’t even bear to look at herself.
She draws her attention to her skirt instead, wetting the ink stains and scrubbing it. It doesn’t come off.
“No, you can’t go! I will not allow it!” Matilda’s voice from that night ten years ago when she made the decision to leave the Foundation to follow the Timekeeper yet again echoes in her mind.
Her face was flushed with frustration, hands clenched into fists as she looked at Sonetto. “Do you realize what you’re about to do? Once you follow her, you will never be able to go back! Worse, you will be branded an enemy!”
Sonetto’s skin prickled. She was not stupid. Of course, she knew of the consequences, but her resolve had already been cemented the moment the Timekeeper surrendered her chronometer.
“I’m going now,” she had told Sonetto when the latter chased after her at the Foundation gates. “We might never meet again, but if you want to join me someday, the doors will always be open.”
“I know, Matilda.” It was an effort to keep her voice even. “But this is something I have chosen for myself. For the first time, I think I finally know what I was born to do. This is my opportunity to bring peace to mankind once and for all.”
“But what about me?!”
Sonetto looked at her, dumbfounded. Matilda very rarely got angry. Sure, she was often a stuttering mess at odd times, her voice pitching higher in embarrassment when her mouth would not cooperate with her brain, but she was never like this, fury making her voice crack.
“Aren’t I your…” Matilda stopped as if catching herself. “Your friend too? Aren’t we—Are you just going to leave me behind like this?”
There was a tone of bitterness in her voice when she called her a friend. Sonetto’s heart ached. “I’m sorry. I know this is a hard decision. But when all of this is over… I promise you, Matilda—I will come back. When that time comes, I will never leave again.”
“Hah!” Matilda tilted her head at a haughty angle, arms crossing defensively. “What makes you think that’s possible? I know you are smart but why are you being intentionally foolish?!”
Matilda looked at her as if she knew something Sonetto didn’t. Her eyes were as furious as they were hurt and fearful. It was as if she saw a glimpse of the future—and perhaps she did, and perhaps she was right, but the Timekeeper was fighting a war by herself right now.
She bit her lip, swallowed, and tried to even her breaths. Matilda was doing the same.
“I…” She hesitated. This was not what Matilda would like to hear, but this was her choice. “I’m sorry.”
Matilda looked at her for a long moment, and Sonetto saw something in her eyes that she had not seen before: tears.
Matilda’s voice came out with a rasp when she asked, “Can’t you just stay? Can’t you just leave the matter of the Manus to other people’s hands and just be?”
Sonetto’s mouth dried. Her hands shook, suddenly cold like the stem of her wand. “We… We are born-to-die martyrs,” but her voice was weak, trembling.
Matilda scoffed. And then she was quiet. Her tears silently ran down her cheeks. She did not make an effort to wipe them, instead, she narrowed her eyes in faux arrogance Sonetto knew was her way to build walls around her heart. She had seen it since they were children, but she had never been the reason. Until now. And something inside her broke when she saw that.
“Matilda, I—”
Matilda exhaled, as if casting out the last of her inhibition. “I knew you would say that.”
She cleared her throat and swallowed several times before finally deciding to wipe her tears.
When she looked at Sonetto again, her eyes were cold and distant. “It seems like I cannot change your mind after all. Well then, if that’s what you want…” She stood up straight and fixed her work attire, her face stoic and proud once more, before declaring with an air of finality: “May the peace be with you.”
Sonetto left in the dead of the night. She had never seen Matilda since, but she took with her a blue topaz brooch that seemed to had been left on her window sill.
As she continues to scrub the stains, droplets of water fall down from her eyes one after another, blurring her vision. Her fingers hurt from all the scrubbing. That’s why she is crying. Her fingers all are red now. Of course, she would cry. She has learned to comfort herself this way since. Nothing drives a knife deeper to the heart than forcing it down with the truth.
May the peace be with you. She had spoken those words since she first learned of her purpose—to die for the sake of humanity’s peace. She treated it like a gospel, her guiding light. It had given her purpose and hope. But when Matilda spoke those words that night, all they have ever brought her was heartache. She never thought those words could sound like a goodbye.
The rustling of grass behind her says that someone has come. She hurriedly wipes her tears and takes several calming breaths.
She stands up and faces the intruder.
“I’ve been looking for you,” the Timekeeper greets.
Sonetto looks at her eyes and stifles the urge to cry. Where are the beautiful gray eyes she has always admired since childhood? These eyes clouded with a strange darkness around them are foreign to her.
“Do you need something from me, Timekeeper?”
“We’ve just taken down the Manus. Aren’t you going to celebrate with the others?”
Sonetto searches her face for a suggestion of irony. When she finds none, her lips purse in disappointment.
Druvis, who could easily bring plants back to life, was tending to a dying iris with her bare hands. Regulus, who has been so eager to share her music around, was listening to it with headphones on. Mr. APPle has been aimlessly floating around. And Sotheby—perhaps the one who carries the most burden of them all for successfully creating the Brew after countless imperfect prototypes—was sitting on the couch with her hands shaking, shell-shocked eyes staring at a wall.
What is there to celebrate?
“I’m fine. Thank you for inviting me.”
They have killed Arcana, the long-standing leader of Manus Vidictae. But somehow, it feels hollow. They have reached the end of the tunnel, but the darkness still seems to loom.
The Timekeeper takes a step forward and, to both their surprise, Sonetto takes a step back, gasping as she loses balance at the bank of the lake.
Before she falls to the water below, a pair of strong cold hands grab her waist, pulling her a few steps forward until she falls forward to their chest.
Without even thinking, Sonetto pushes the Timekeeper away as if on instinct, earning a surprised look from the Timekeeper. She is surprised with herself as well.
“Are you alright?” The Timekeeper asks.
“Yes,” Sonetto replied, catching her breath. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
It’s not the same, a tiny voice in her head says. Her arms do not feel the same anymore.
They both have changed so much. The Timekeeper has outgrown her small frame and become physically taller and stronger.
At what cost?
To distract herself from her thoughts, she asks, “Is that all you want to ask of me, Timekeeper?”
“No. There’s something else I want to ask you.”
Sonetto anxiously waits, breaths increasingly becoming shallower.
“Do you still remember the promise you made me when you joined the Order?”
Sonetto’s shoulders slump and her heart plummets. “I do.”
“I want you to make good on your word. Tonight.”
Sonetto freezes and a chilly breeze passes by.
There’s a pounding in her chest that’s a little too loud. Her hands feel cold, they are almost numb.
Her wand weighs heavily on her belt.
The Timekeeper’s voice sounds distant, and her words sounds like a distant concept as well, like something from a dream that has been forgotten in the morning.
She reminds herself to breathe, to calm down. They are still talking. Nothing has been done or decided yet. Maybe the Timekeeper is not being completely serious. She can’t be… right?
When she looks at the person who made the request, however, she is met with cold dispassionate eyes, nothing like the girl who caught a frog to show her, or the young lady who looked at her with eyes always full of concern and tenderness when she felt lost and weak. It’s almost like she doesn’t recognize the person in front of her anymore.
For a strange moment, Sonetto finds herself asking for the first time, “Why did I ever agree to follow you?”
“No, you can’t go! I will not allow it!” She hears Matilda’s voice again from the depths of her memories and it just makes her ache for… home. The warmth of it when she knocks on her door and asks her to divine for her again because she feels like she’s making a mistake. And Matilda would take her in, like she always had, gently guiding her to the table and asking her to look into the orb.
Sonetto takes a deep breath before answering: “I… I refuse to heed your request.”
The Timekeeper raises her eyebrows in surprise. Then she smiles wryly. “Huh. That’s new. Who knew you have it in you to say no to me?”
Her words are like hot iron, burning her skin all over. Her... Her Timekeeper would never say those things to her. Not in that tone. Not in that spirit.
She squares her shoulders despite her chest constricting. “You’re right. I can’t believe I have never learned to say no to everything you asked of me before. But it’s not too late to start, isn’t it, Timekeeper?”
“It’s good to grow a spine, Sonetto.” The Timekeeper walks towards her and she has to force herself to keep still and not run. “But a promise is a promise. Do you want to be someone who gets back on her word easily?”
Suddenly, she’s taken back to that night of their first mission together.
It had been months since they worked together again. After leaving the Foundation, she had to adjust to a new environment. New rules. New policies. A new vision. Having the guidance of the Timekeeper beside her was a comfort blanket in a cold winter.
But that night, they were forced to face the fact that weakness truly had no place in the world if they were to take the Manus down.
Their unit was obliterated. What were they thinking? The Order was still new and its members were usually arcanists who had so much idealism and not enough experience in the battlefield.
They were the only ones left.
That night, when the Timekeeper was lying on the hospital bed, covering her eyes with an arm to hide the tears of regret in them, she had told Sonetto, “The Brew of Charon.”
She stiffened on her chair, alarmed. “What are you saying? That brew is forbidden. Besides, no one has ever proved it to be real.”
“It doesn’t matter. If that’s what it takes to bring them down, I will blur the lines between fiction and reality.”
Sonetto fell silent, carefully considering her next words. “It is said that one integral ingredient of the Brew of Charon is a part of that you wish to find. If such part consists of any form of infection, it shall be absorbed in your bloodstream, and alter your body, your brain chemistry, your… your soul. No counter-cure has been discovered for it to this day, which is why it is forbidden. So, if your intent of creating the Brew of Charon is to find the Manus, you…”
Sonetto bit her lip, unwilling to finish her sentence, unwilling to consider the thought.
The Timekeeper chuckled. “Are you worried that I might become like them?”
She did not answer.
“You must promise me then.” The Timekeeper lifted her arm and looked at her. “Promise me that when I begin to descend down the path of the Manus, you must be the one to stop me. It has to be you, Sonetto. I can’t trust anyone else, not even myself.”
The Timekeeper cocks her head to the side and regards her with an indifference that makes Sonetto’s blood run cold. She looks at her like she is a child throwing a tantrum.
Sonetto is no stranger to being treated like a child. Having grown up in the Foundation, she’s aware of how sheltered and naïve she is of the workings of the outside world. She had stumbled many times, at times even tripping over her own foot. She had failed. But all the while, the Timekeeper had been there to offer her a hand and pull her up, providing her with the strength she needed to push forward until the day she became a soldier worthy of bearing the Foundation’s name; worthy of standing beside the Timekeeper.
Never—Never had the Timekeeper done anything to make her feel small. Not until tonight.
Her entire body feels hot. Bile rises to her throat, making it hard to breathe. She pushes through it and forces herself to take deep breaths to calm herself down. She refuses to lose herself any more.
Then meets the Timekeeper’s eyes head-on but when she does, she finds that can’t reign in herself at all. “Fine. I’ll humor you. I’ll make good of that promise. What do I need to do? Do you want me to kill you? Is that what you want? I can do it!” She whips out her wand sharply, too carelessly, as her voice rises and rises. “My hands have already been dirtied beyond salvation so what is one more life to take, right? We can’t go back to the way it used to be. I can’t go back to the home I left. I can’t go back to how I was before I chose to follow you. I can no longer say “peace be with you” because I have no more peace left in me!”
She is screaming. She is crying. Why is she doing this? This is unbecoming. This is not like her. But then… so is she.
Nothing is like anything at all anymore. It feels like the Storm over and over again.
Once you follow her, you will never be able to go back!
Matilda was right.
She was such a fool.
The Timekeeper remains unmoved, still looking with a hint of impatience. And Sonetto is stunned at how she can be treated like nothing.
She swallows. And swallows. As she loses the battle within herself after all because then... her tears are falling. While the Timekeeper simply stares with eyes that have already lost their spirit.
“I can’t do it,” she sobs, her entire body shaking.
The Timekeeper sighs. “Calm down first, Sonetto.”
How can her voice still be so dispassionate?
She shakes her head. The hand holding her wand trembles with her voice. “I can’t do it. Please don’t make me,” she pleads as she covers her face with both hands, stifling the sobs that push against her throat.
“I know you’re scared—”
“No…”
It’s like the Timekeeper is not even listening.
“And I know this must be hard—”
She shakes her head again. And again. And again.
“Sonetto, you have to--"
She rips her hands away from her face and screams, “I said I can’t do it, Vertin!”
Finally, the Timekeeper stops; her eyes widening in shock.
She has dreamed of the day when she’ll call the Timekeeper with her name again. Ever since that night of their escape, when she let them go, Sonetto had lived with regret so immense she was at a loss at how to face Vertin. Let alone call her by her name.
She has dreamed of how Vertin’s name might sound in her voice again. She thought it would be on a fine day when all six of them have surrendered their Order ID’s and are now free to roam the world, maintaining peace like how they have always intended.
It would be quiet and Sonetto would look at her as a gentle wind blows strands of her platinum hair.
And then, on a whim, she might smile before calling her name.
And it would be like the first time.
Not like this.
Her name used to sound like music, but now it sounds like a swear word. And she hates herself for thinking, despite the pain she is going through, that if Vertin’s name is a swear word, she’d choose to be uncultured, unsophisticated, and uncouth every day.
But Vertin schools her face into a deadpan expression. “Why can’t you?”
Because I’ve loved you too much like how you’ve loved her too.
Schneider’s gun never left Vertin’s person. Ever since leaving the Foundation, she has worn it on her hip like a companion, and devoted her life to avenging its owner, before her eyes darkened and began to seek revenge for the sake of seeking revenge.
That Vertin that loved Schneider was also the Vertin she loved—with a heart that beats for justice, peace, and hope. How could one potion change all that?
When Sonetto does not answer, Vertin takes her hand holding her glass pen ever so gently, but the darkness that is slowly enveloping her eyes tell her that it is nothing but a ruse. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you, Sonetto. I know how painful this must be to you.”
She hates how thought-out that sounds, like being read off a script. Nothing but empty words to her.
She shakes her head, “Vertin, please. Please don’t make me hate myself any more than I do. I can’t… I can’t.”
How can you take the life of someone you love?
Vertin’s grip on her hand tightens. “Yes, you can. And for the sake of the world, you must.”
There is no warmth in her. Everything she was has become distant memories of yesterday. A shell of who she was, and Sonetto wishes she could reverse time again, if not to bring her Vertin back, but to at least see her one more time.
“Come on now.” Vertin lifts her hand that still holds her wand, and points the tip to her chest.
She smiles at Sonetto in a way that she used to smile in her memories and she sees a glimpse of their past where Vertin was still a child unchanged by the Storm and she—as rigid as she ever was. Vertin had tried to bring the colors of the world to her palm, only for her to turn up her nose in the spirit of self-righteousness. And then, a few years later, she would see Vertin in a brand-new light—her Timekeeper, ever so composed, intelligent, compassionate, and overall lovely.
She wants that back. Everything. All the mistakes, silliness, and pain at that time—she wants it all back.
“Say the words, Sonetto,” Vertin tells her softly. “Say them and dispel me like a bad dream.”
She wants everything back. She wants her Vertin back.
If only. If she has a way. If she has a chance.
Gritting her teeth, she digs her wand into her chest as tears continue to fall from her eyes like rain until she can’t see Vertin anymore.
If only she could erase her mistakes like this.
In a moment of grief, despair, and weakness, she leans on Vertin’s shoulder and weeps a spell that will render her heart irreparable:
“Questa storia che senso non ha
Svanirà questa notte assieme alle stelle
Se potessi vederti dalla speranza nascerà l’eternità..."
She feels the familiar hum of magick flowing from her veins and transferring into her wand. And along the torrent of hot and bitter arcanum from the tip of her pen, she pierces Vertin's heart with a prayer: Please give her back to me.
She does not know if it's her spell doing its work but Vertin's eyes look at her with such tenderness that Sonetto thinks amidst her tears: finally. Finally.
Vertin smiles at her, one so tender and sweet. For a moment, Sonetto has half a mind to retract her wand because isn't this enough already?
But Vertin gathers her in her arms as if to comfort her and tell her to keep going. This time, the hands that hold her are as tender as her smile. And it was warm. Finally. Finally.
"Dankon, Sonetto," Vertin whispers in a voice so gentle and fragile, Sonetto almost thinks she is dreaming. "La paco estu kun vi."
Sonetto clings to her as the spell envelopes Vertin's heart and she thinks: please, please, please... along with the lines of her incantation:
"Stammi vicino, non te ne andare
Ho paura di perderti…”