Chapter Text
The day you became a stylist, you relished in the flowy twirl of your dress. In a hop and a step you had switched into shorts and a hoodie. Your little baby brother roared with laughter as you changed one sock, then the other. The colour of your clothes sparkled in his big eyes. Whim at your fingertips. Inspiration in your heart. All around the dinner table your family sat on their chairs, cheering you on, celebrating your newfound powers.
Your uncle, a stylist in his own right, came rushing over that night to share sketches with you. He had urged you to seek out the stylist’s guild the first thing in the morning. You promised you would.
It is now a month from that day. You still haven’t signed up. There is no way to sign up for you any longer. The Empire of Light took the Umbraso Stylist Guild into occupation before the fires started. A sting operation with spies on the inside opening the doors. No stylists ever got a chance to fight back before it was too late. You never got to join their ranks, or their downfall.
Instead you sit in a downfall of your own. You haven’t been able to use your power in weeks. The whim faded away when you got separated from your family. There’s no way to know if they’re living in the occupied lands, or exiled just like you but on a different road. You want to think they’re okay. You just wish you knew for sure.
The dress you’re wearing isn’t flowy at all. The fabric is rough, woven with woolfruit in a hurry. It makes it itchy. All the refugees in camp wear similar clothes, and the sound of people rubbing their cloaks or skin is like a buzz of flies. Thankfully there are no actual flies. The Heartcraft Kingdom is strict when it comes to hygiene in the camp.
You fear they will force you to bathe soon. People keep asking. It’s just that you don’t want to. All you want to do is sit and think. In order to not stare at anyone you tend to look down in your lap. Right now there’s a bowl of food in there. You can hardly remember when they handed this to you. You don’t want to eat either.
“Uhm…”
You snap out of it. The young boy with round cheeks is back again. He stands before you with his fiddling hands, with the same question as always.
“Can I have some of your food?”
Your heart tightens. You’ve never said no. He’s got the same hair-colour as your uncle, the same eye colour as your little brother. How could you ever say no?
“Here.” You hand over your bowl. “You can have the rest.”
Excitement lights up his face. Joy burns in his body.
“Okay, thanks!” He takes the bowl and runs off. “Mom, I got leftovers again!”
You feel tears coming on. The pain in your heart is getting worse. Nevermind that it wasn’t actually leftovers you gave him, you just gave him your entire portion, untouched in your apathy. Curling in on yourself you hide your face from the world. There’s no point in thinking anymore. No amount of thinking will bring your old life back.
You wish you could just disappear.
Although you’re doing your everything to hold your tears back, to not let anyone notice, there’s a seeping sense of relief around you. The air suddenly smells cold and dark. How does anything smell dark? A cry from another refugee cuts through your despair. Then you hear it. Esselings cackling all around you.
You look up just in time to be face to face with the Sssack that shoots a ball of darkness right at you. On sheer instinct you throw yourself on the ground to dodge. You don’t have enough time to count how many there are. You just know a whole bunch of esselings suddenly appeared in the middle of camp, and everyone’s panicking. Screams and shouts. Running footfalls. It’s just like when the Empire attacked.
You wish you had died back then.
The pain in your heart from that desperate wish makes you scream. Laying there, writhing in the dust and gravel, the coarseness of your clothes is the least of your problems. That wish is impossible. Then why do you want it so badly? The best you can do is stay right where you are, and die here instead. Panting through the panic, you twist your head to see if death is near. Few esselings seem to be paying attention to you. No. There’s one. A Lonely Sack with its button shield is inching closer.
Too slow. Why can’t death be swift?
Then it happens fast. Two heeled boots land from a leap, beating down on the ground on either side of you. A rush of purifying energy washes out. The nearby esselings dissolve in the same instant, but it doesn’t harm you at all. It smells like mint, fresh and fair. The Lonely Sack with its shield stands the attack, but staggers its approach. Peeking out from its shelter it is met with the tip of Bettina’s sword, piercing it through the hard button in a single blow.
Because Bettina is right on top of you. The famous wandering ranger of Umbraso has come to your rescue. It feels too ridiculous to feel real. You have a hard time feeling anything actually. What is happening?
There are still plenty of esselings around. Balls of darkness fly towards her, but she doesn’t move from where she stands over you. Weaving a dodge, beating another ball with her sword, she keeps a hand over her chest and chants something. Whim bursts from her heart. A magical shield is erected around you. The next wave of incoming darkness is uselessly shattering against the geometric faces of orange light. In fact, the entire thing resembles a cut gem…
“Listen to me!”
A lightning bolt of feelings returns to you. Bettina is angry with you? Whatever she has been saying before now, you haven’t heard a word. Embarrassment is catching up. She really is standing right above you, and oh no, now she’s crouching down. The frills of her blouse hang, and the leather of her pants is definitely holding up as her limbs bend to put her butt closer to your hips. A wisp of her long hair tickles your face. What was she saying?
“You’re the one summoning them!”
“What?”
“I need you to wish for something else.” She says sternly. “Anything goes!”
“Wha-...” The well of tears within you breaks. This is all your fault. To make things worse you can’t think of anything. “I’m sorry, I can’t-”
She cringes at a new barrage of darkness against the shield. But then something happens. Her face softens. A gloved hand gently strokes your cheek. Dries a tear at your temple.
“You can. I believe in you.”
God, you wish she’d kiss you.
This revelation from the depths of hope itself becomes a surge of whim in your soul. Right under the orange light of the shield, with the backsplash of purple orbs bursting against it, you can see the sunset. The sunset on the beach where you will have your wedding. Bettina will kiss you gently, and your white dress will billow in the ocean wind.
Your cheek under her glove is turning hot. The look in your eye must have shown the shift in your mindset, because Bettina smiles. Perhaps even knowingly.
“There you go. You can do it. Now lay still.”
In a perfect flurry of graceful motions she throws herself back into the fray. The shield goes down, yet no ball of darkness hits her. She weaves around them, slashing with her sword, dancing above you as she moves. Waves of purifying energy shoot back at the esselings. One by one they fall, until there are no more. All throughout it, she protects you.
In truth, she protected you all. When the battle is finished, an expectant silence is all around the refugee camp. Crisis averted, a cheer begins to rise. Too cool to celebrate, Bettina shouts out:
“Anyone else injured?” Nobody answers. She steps to the side of you and crouches again, now with less butt in your view. Carefully she helps you sit back up.
When you find yourself vertical again it’s like your walls all crumble. You begin to cry inconsolably, but not for sorrow or for grief. It’s all relief. Whatever dark hole you had found yourself in, you’ve now been pulled back up into the light. Bettina stays by your side, petting your back as you lose yourself. You still don’t know why you have held your tears back for so long. You’ve lost everything. But at least you’re alive.
“Hey,” she asks someone else, because there’s no way you’ll be able to talk. “Does she have any next of kin? Friends?”
The awkward silence beyond your sobs says it all. Until a new voice rises.
“She’s mine. She has fed my son for days, so she’s my friend.”
The gentle touch of Bettina is replaced by a firm mother’s love. This stranger hugs you like you’re one of her own. You’re rocked and patted, a few kisses placed on your hair. Bettina disappears from this world without making a fuss over it. You’re in someone else’s hands now. Over the shoulder of your new protector you see that same round cheeked boy looking sheepish.
“Dear, dear, goodness me. You must be frightened. Do you want something to eat?”
“Yes, I-... I think I’m hungry.” You manage to say.
“Of course you are! Just be with me, I’ll get it all sorted.”
Before long a new bowl is in your hands. This time you know exactly when they gave it to you, because at the very same second you’re shoveling food into your mouth. Your new friend, Marin, needs to personally oversee your eating so that you don’t choke or overeat. It tastes like kindness. It tastes like hope.
“I’ve just felt so bad for weeks.” You tell her. “I don’t know where my family is, and I don’t know how to find out.”
“I understand. I’ve sent missives to hear from my husband, but nothing has come back. Have you sent anything out?”
“You can do that?”
Marin doesn’t mention your voice crack, but nods and moves along.
“I will help you speak to the guards. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves though. You obviously need some help taking care of yourself first, so that you can feel human again.
“Yeah… I don’t even know what I look like right now.”
With a twinkle in her eye she rummages through her bag. A fine pocket mirror, with an embellished dolphin on the back. She hands it to you with utmost pride. Endeared by her trust with this treasure of hers, you carefully open the mirror and take a peek.
It’s worse than you thought. Nevermind your clothes, your hair is so dirty! And you face? Even dirtier still! Your tears have actively made streaks in the road dust caking your face. The realisation that Bettina still smiled at you when you looked so bad makes your stomach drop. She has to have been pretending.
Also, who the hell are you to dream of her ever kissing you. Nobody knows that you did that, but it’s embarrassing enough to face yourself. Such a pipedream is only useful to shock you out of despair with the audacity it bears.
“Uhm…”
Marin’s son disrupts your spiral of shame. He’s looking mighty ashamed of himself, standing there and fiddling with his hands like usual.
“Miss Y/N… I’m sorry for stealing your food. I didn’t know you were hungry.”
“Oh…” Dumbfounded, you find your own kindness. “You didn’t steal it. I gave it to you.”
“But you were hungry.” he insists.
“So were you.” You smile nostalgically. “I have a little brother too, and I always sneak him snacks. I know you’re not him, but I can’t help repeating these patterns when I can.”
It’s a lot for a young boy to understand. After thinking about it, and glancing at his mom, he settles for something he does understand:
“How old is your brother?”
“He’s three.”
“That’s very small. I’m almost eight.”
“That’s pretty big.” You agree.
“Yeah, because you can’t even play the fun games with kids until they’re like four or something.” He says with authority. “When they’re too small they can’t help out around the house either, but I’m great at helping now. Can I help you with anything?”
Now it’s your turn to glance at Marin. She’s even more prideful than when she handed you her little dolphin mirror. With a look in her eye she urges you to let her kid make it up to you. In spite of your previous embarrassment there’s only one thing on your mind.
“... Could you find me some paper and a pen?”
“Huh? Do you want to draw?”
“Yes. I want to make a sketch.”
“Oh! Cool! Sit tight with mom, I’ll be right back!”
He rushes off, as fast as an almost-eight-year-old can run, towards the guard’s station across the road. Unafraid he falls into their ranks and seeks to complete his quest.
“What’s his name?” you ask Marin discreetly.
“Alphonse. Thank you for being so kind to him.”
“I should say the same to you. I’m…” Your breath shudders on the inhale. “I’m starting to feel human again. I want to wash my hair.”
“An excellent idea.” she agrees, and then starts prattling about how she and other exiles have helped make the bathing area better in the last couple of days.
You’re stuck with the idea you want to sketch. Even if you’re never going to have that beach wedding with Bettina, you can at the very least try and make the dress you imagined. The flowy fabric and the cut of it isn’t leaving your mind at all. You have to sketch it. Then, if you can, you want to make it, and you want to wear it. These whims of yours are building up your courage. Maybe, just maybe, if you manage to do that, you could go and thank Bettina for saving you.
Seeking these wishes might be just what you need in order to restore your whim back to its full potential. It’s been a month since you became a stylist. It’s high time you try to become one again.