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"It has been a while since I've been in the Republic." Wedding Cake Cookie noted, looking out towards the piazza. "Especially on such.. dire circumstances! But I hope this is to your standards, I know the paladins are quite busy."
Financier stared at herself in the mirror of the small shop, freshly dressed in a paladin's finest.
Her cape, pure and ivory is held up by beautiful golden roses, which match the sleek, golden embroidery on her dress. Her sword matches but it instead has a pure white rose on the hilt, and her hair is neatly tied back. Golden earrings dangle from her ears, and her long gloves radiate the standard of a paladin with it's golden ribbons.
"Financier! You look absolutely glorious!" Kouign-Amann adds. She's a much younger, less experienced paladin than Financier is - seeing this must feel like taking a look into the future.
Madeleine tilts his head from side to side, that characteristically annoying smirk on his face. "Indeed! Dare I say that it rivals my sparkle!"
It's irritating, yes, but it's always how he's been. Since he'd started travelling, he hasn't been as focused on his paladin status. And for once, she couldn't pass judgement on him - atleast he had the luxury to travel around the world for leisure - any sane Cookie would take that chance.
She twirls the loose strand of hair infront of her face in nervousness.
She's meeting someone she used to know, in a place she loathes. It's a rite of passage for the Paladins, and she knows that it's a special role she must play in it. Especially after the White Mask debacle. It's what she'd trained for for years, ever since she was baked.
But.. even with that knowledge she felt so ill nonetheless. It intimidated her, made her feel dizzy. This was what only the greatest Paladins were made to do. Nothing more, nothing less.
Her mind sticks onto that phrase: "made to do". It makes her head spin in a way she cannot seem to be able to name, almost to the point of nausea. Especially with who she has to see soon. Was she made to protect, or to attack? Her own faith is brought into question at such a vital point in her time.
Lost in her thoughts, she hardly notices the shop's front door swing open, and the Consul slowly stepping in to be met by the sight of his fiancee. In remarkably deep thought. She's breathtaking - so beautiful that he nearly envies whoever's blood ends up on her. She looks to be concentrating heavily to the other Paladins - but he knows her better. He knows she's having second thoughts about what she's going to do.
Unlike the other two, he knows exactly why she's there.
She's been chosen to execute one of the St. Pastry Order's members. Personally.
And among the loud cheers of the Elders when he'd announced their capture, he only feels pity for her - He knows she doesn't take pleasure in the death of others, whereas some others would revel in that sick form of justice.
"Financier Cookie!" He says, gently grasping her hand and looking over lovingly. She lets out a little gasp - she's less poised than usual, probably due what's going to happen later today. His grip on her softens - she's sure its meant as an apology, even if he has nothing to apologize for.
Her eyes lock onto his own, before slowly turning away in embarrassment. As if she's a child, her face grows flushed - and yet, Clotted Cream notices her slight scowl, and the way her fingers fidget with the hilt of her blade: she's conflicted. She doesn't shy away from him, but his touch isn't entirely needed - he can tell from her eyes.
Slowly, he regains himself, letting go slowly. "You look.. heavenly."
It means a bit more than he realises - and even though she smiles, her shoulders grow even more tense. Perhaps he'd made a mistake with his wording - a slip-up that he could only ever make with her. They've been with one another ever since they were young, after all.
"Ah. Sorry. I just mean.. you look like a dream." Clotted Cream smiles, his hand on his chin in admiration. She truly looks like she's shining to him. "Like nothing I've ever seen before."
This was the outfit she'd dreamed of wearing under the close guidance of the Divines - a manifestation of her destiny to serve the Divines as much as she could.
And yet, she still trembles.
Why did it feel like an iron maiden? The mere thought of this being part of her service clamped around her like jaws on prey. The person who she had to execute - they called her a 'savage', a 'wayward', a.. thing. And she knew. She was taught she wasn't anywhere near that.
But she was going to kill someone - and that's savagery at it's finest.
Financier snaps back to reality once she realises that she cannot hear the Consul's voice anymore - or anyones voice for that matter. Her eyes scour the room: and she sees their nervous glances, their shaking. But yet, they're smiling. It's a horribly fake smile - one she knows well.
They're worried about her.
And she hates that.
"I'm.. I need some space. I apologize." She abruptly starts walking towards the door, but not before placing a pouch of coins on a nearby seat. Her head spins, dizzy from the realisation that she has to kill another. For the divines. Somebody she recognises - no, somebody she used to recognise.
When she'd seen her face, when she'd been given her name - she felt ill. A name that wasn't hers. The paper, as clear as day, said Pastry Cookie.
Like she was just another one of them.
But Bavarois Cookie wasn't like that. She had an identity. She has one. And it will always be remembered - if by no one else, by her. It was definitely her on the page - but her hair was now covered by her veil, and everything about her eyes felt more.. sharp. More guarded.
She finds a small bench on the carefully bricked pavement outside, and carefully takes a seat. The spring sunshine beats on her face, and she shields her eyes away from the harsh rays.
It reminds her of when she was young, under the care of Elder Mille-Feulle Cookie. The cool breeze reminds her of purple hair, of blue eyes, long lower eyelashes and a habit of sleeping in. The memories flash of a person she no longer knows.
She can practically feel herself rolling around in the damp grass, dragging somebody's hand out her bed into the sunlight - She yearns for it back. Bavarois Cookie was always so sweet, so kind, so inspiring. This 'Pastry Cookie'.. would she be the same?
In her musing, she feels a hand wrap around her, and hair nuzzling into her. Its swirls of white and gold let her know exactly who it is - Clotted Cream Cookie. It's a comforting presence - comforting in a way she could only picture being with him. Around those two, she could be Financier. Not this idealised one - but the real her.
"Financier." He says. "I'm.. sorry. It must be hard for you."
"It is." Her response is frostier than she wants it to be - bordering on disgust. "I apologise, Clotted Cream. It's just.. difficult." She loves him - but she knows he doesn't understand. To him, she was just another person she spoke to. Another conversation he'd forget.
But to her.. Bavarois Cookie was a lot of things. Her best friend, her other half, the one cookie who seemed so closely like family that she'd forget she had none. She was so.. loving.
But that's all it is now: the past. Now, she's not so sure of how much she wants her back. - because she's around more people. She has more responsibilities, more duties as a graduate. As a paladin. She has a community, a duty, a joy in the form of Clotted Cream.
She has more.
But she never, ever forgot about her.
"Did you know her?" He suddenly asks, his head tilted up to look at her eyes. He's perceptive - much too perceptive for how long he's known her. Without words, he knows her answer.
"..I'm sorry."
"It isn't your fault, Clotted Cream."
A strained silence comes over the two of them - suffocating in the childlike spring light. It's.. unnerving, to say the least - Clotted Cream is rarely quiet around her, and when he is, it's Financier who's carefully speaking to him behind his seat at the Convocation.
Madeleine and Kouign-Amann come out after some time, when the weather becomes less comforting and more painful. They know something's wrong with her, but with a small nod, courtesy of the Consul, they're led away. They smile at her again - hidden in there is a distinct pity that she can recognise, but not quite name. All she knows of it is that she hates it.
"...What time is it?" She inquires. Her voice shakes, and yet her face shows her placid nature. Clotted Cream sits up, and calmly checks his watch. It's 1 hour until.
"12:15. Just a little past noon." He replies, green eyes practically searing into her own, as her face morphs into apprehension. "..Do you need more time?"
He slowly moves his hand away from her shoulder, placing it reassuringly on her knee. She doesn't shy away from the contact, instead leaning into him. "Can I be honest?", she says.
"Of course."
"I want to see her." It's so sudden Clotted Cream can't help but jolt at that. Such exceptions aren't all that welcome - the Elders believe in leaving the convicted alone in their final moments. He's been taught, been conditioned to realise that the rules are there for a reason - so that the convicted recognise what they've done, and how they can only pray.
But he looks at her - sees the sheer need in her gaze, hears the desperation in her tone. And it tears him apart to even have her ask that question. He wants her to have that conversation that she oh-so-craves. But..
"I.." He begins, ".. Are you sure you want that?"
"I'm secure in what I want." Her reply is distant, and somewhat uncertain. "Do you take issue with that?"
She's asking him if he'd be jealous. In that roundabout way she often uses. He isn't.. or at least that's how he'd like to think. He wasn't jealous of Pastry - nobody would be.
"No, of course not! I just.." He trails off as he starts dwelling on it. That speaks louder to Financier than any words that could've come out his mouth.
He isn't jealous of who she is, he's jealous of what she represents.
She'd seen her in her youth, grown with her, but then disappeared without a trace. Only to end up here again. He hates Pastry for what she's done to her - left her alone in a world where she was her only friend.
But Financier was right: He was jealous. She had the right, the privilege to spend more time with her, to know her than he ever could - but she'd thrown it away.
To him, she represents a Financier who would never be known. But he could never say that.
"I.. just dont think it'll be safe."
"Clotted Cream, I'm not a child."
"I know, but-"
"It's the last time I'll be able to. Properly." Her voice is full of unwilling acceptance, and yet a distinct fury is hidden inbetween.
"I haven't seen her since she left. Is it too much to ask to talk to her for a few minutes more?"
"..I can arrange that." He relents, standing up, off the bench. Now he's standing above her, she truly does look like an angel. He leans down, giving her a small kiss on the forehead, perhaps as a way to soothe her nerves. Even Clotted Cream didn't know why.
Financier kisses his cheek, whispering a small "Thank you. You don't understand how much this means to me."
The trip to her holding cell is pure, unfiltered anguish.
Her feet are hesitant to even take steps forward - but her heart pulls her forward. It's quite silly to her - she was always taught to avoid temptation, and yet here she is, walking to a criminal out of the need inside her.
People gasp and gaze upon her, most stare with admiration, but she catches a few jealous glares and sympathetic looks. It's all the same as when she's dressed in her normal paladinwear, but much, much more intensified.
She hates it. She hates how they look at her, whisper about her, percieve her as one of their own, when they'd never done that with Bavarois Cookie. For once, she desperately wants to not be seen.
As she walks further and further, the stares get stronger, as if a fever has swept the Republic. The sunshine no longer comforts, but drives in that she'll lose the last semblances of a childhood outside of the paladin path she'd been chosen for.
At last, she reaches the building. It's plated, marble exterior which the sun bounces off makes it seem so.. disconcerting. Even the similar buildings next to it make it all that more imposing.
She approaches the guard - a member of Oyster's Pearl Legion, and she says nothing before they hurriedly allow her inside, but not without giving her a small, forlorn gaze. "She's been on a hunger strike for the past few days."
For a moment, Financier stops in her tracks, and her eyes widen in fear. A few days? She could be already dead at this point! Almost as if on instinct, she moves quickly to the cells.
And after she turns the corner, she sees a glimpse of purple hair, and a sign reading the loathsome name of...
"Pastry Cookie.." She mumbles to herself. The name feels wrong. Sounds wrong. It is wrong. The girl in there is no 'Pastry Cookie' - she's her best friend. She was her best friend. She is Bavarois Cookie.
Without thinking, her hand moves to turn the knob and open the door. And she's there.
Bound up in chains, but she's there. She's alive. It takes everything in Financier to not burst into tears right there and then. She's breathing. And she's looking straight at her. Blue eyes stare at her, the mere sight of them a relief as they dig into her skin.
"Bavarois Cookie."
"..That isn't my name anymore." She says, her delivery sharp and unfriendly, but her body doesn't believe that. She knows how she flinches, how she works.
Financier draws closer to her, the glint of her golden restraints binding her hands drawing her in. Part of her wishes that she could tear them off the walls herself, but then what? "No it isn't, Bavarois. You know that."
"But it is. I'm dying, Financier. At least have the grace to call me what I call myself."
She smiles, and it's bitter. But it's all she could do. It's a distorted, disgusting, disgraceful name to the Paladin - a reminder of what took away her other half - and she hates it. Hates how she so readily accepts the thing that destroyed their bond.
"...I would rather just look at you than call you that." She spits, eyes burning with vitriol, yet she's misty eyed. She crouches down to her level, taking a seat on the surprisingly clean marble floors. Her eyes see the nun's travel down her body and back up again, almost refusing to believe she's here.
"..Why are you here?"
"You owe me answers."
Her face twists in a sort of anger, a kind that even she can't name or describe. "...Is this some sick form of closure? Watching me rot in prison?"
"Of course it isn't." Even she doesn't know about that. Financier is angry at the prisoner infront of her, but she didn't want her to die for it - she wanted to hear her. "You know I wouldn't do that."
Bavarois Cookie scoffs, "Do I? I wouldn't think a Paladin would have so much compassion."
She remembered all the looks, all the chiding she'd recieved from other Paladins when the two of them were younger - how one was always placed above another in priorities because she was a 'prodigy'. She never really considered how it must've affected her. But..
"..You don't get to say that. You left me. You changed your name, and you left." Anger slips through Financier's composure. All those years waiting for her to come back - she didn't want this hour to be a back and forth.
Something in her words breaks the nun's accepting facade, but whatever it is, Financier keeps going.
"I came here to ask you why. That's the only thing I've ever wanted from you: another chance."
"..Don't act like you know me." She coldly replies.
"I wanted to. But you left me without any chance to." Her quiet anger is practically threatening to deepen into full-blown rage. "I hate it. The fact we are now strangers to one another. But what other choice did you give me?!"
Their eyes are both unmoving, perhaps lost in each of their own. It's like a psychic connection - the two women stare at another, and they see a girl in the other's eyes. Themselves, as young and as fearless as they were when they'd been together. The tears run down, but no sobs escape them - like the girl opposite her was not a Cookie, but a reflection, eternally bound to one another.
"I hated you. Because others saw you as something - but they didn't see me that way." Bavarois Cookie admits.
"..Why did it matter to you?"
She looks almost apprehensive to tell her former friend. But she has to. "The Order saw me as something."
"I did too!" It's as if on cue, on instinct. It comes out as naturally as breathing does - and Financier doesn't regret it one bit. She saw Bavarois Cookie - with her hair blowing, her soft laughter, her dedication to their friendship, the way she'd sleep in most days - and she loved it.
She saw her - as someone, as a being she would've shared her life with. Shared everything with.
"...It couldn't just be you." It's sad, and her words were not kind. But they were honest - and that's what she wanted. "When I went to the Order - they gave me a purpose. You already had your own."
Financier's eyes never stray from her own. "So why did you not tell me you were leaving?"
"You enjoy being a paladin. All the praise it got you." Despite how much she wanted to disguise it, Bavarois is right. She did - perfectly well. While she wasn't like Madeleine, constantly flaunting it, she did smile when people held her in high regard.
Her silence tells Bavarois all she needs to know. "See? You have always, always enjoyed basking in the light. That's what you trained for, is it not?"
"It wasn't what I trained for."
"..Well why else would you?"
"Because I wanted to see you again." Financier mutters, and Bavarois feels herself shudder.
"We could've had something together. A life with one another. But you threw that away."
Bavarois tries to focus on something else - perhaps her beautiful outfit, or her hair to smother her guilt. But her eye spies something - a bright, brilliant, ring. Her gaze drifts away from her own to focus on it, craning her neck slightly to look at it, but Financier's other hand raises her chin to look at her.
"Did you think that I trained for something I cared little about, for a glory I never needed? I looked up at the stars and prayed for you to come back to me."
"Well.. I'm here now."
"But not in the way I wished for."
The former nun processes it, with that comes a small silence. She thinks to confront her about it, but what good would that do? The words don't find their will to come out.
"You have a life here now, Financier. I had one at the Order."
The mere mention of that poxy 'Order' makes her feel sick to her stomach. If she could, she would destroy those who'd even thought up the idea - burn down the last semblances of the building, until nothing remained.
"What life was it if they were willing to sacrifice you? They left you to save their own skin, Bavarois."
"Don't call me that."
"But am I not right? They didn't respect you - otherwise they would've tried to reach out to you!" She trembles with rage. "Even when I first saw you - those scars were not there when you left."
The nun sighs. "They may have looked away when I bled, but the people here did the exact same and more."
It's true, and Financier never noticed - but she didn't blame her. They'd never pick on her when Financier was there - the others would just shower her in praise and admiration and compliments - to the point that Bavarois felt practically invisible. In a way, it felt worse. It was worse - because even taunts and jeers and cruel words meant somebody noticed her.
"I couldn't stay here because it'd kill me, but I couldn't live anywhere else because being without you was already suffocating enough. My faith was the only thing keeping me going."
"Faith in an Order who'd forsaken you. Why do you choose to defend their actions? Why-"
"They delivered, did they not? I prayed to find you again and here we are." Financier hates how she isn't wrong.
"Maybe this cell was the best place I could've ended up. You had a light, a future, Financier. And I didn't. There isn't a prayer that can solve that."
That brings back memories for the two of them - ones where they felt that nothing mattered but the very moments they shared, away from prying eyes - a part of their memories dying with one of them. It's a type of mourning that Financier will not know how to process - they used to be practically inseperable - now? The past is only the past, fleeting and fading.
She can't accept this.
"Why do you give up on yourself so easily? We could've been happy together. We should've been happy together."
"..Because you already have someone, no?" She gestures to the large, rose quartz ring on the paladin's finger. "Never thought you were a romantic."
Financier can't muster up anything meaningful to tell her for a little while. After all, he never wanted her to notice it - she knows it's selfish, but it came naturally. "Yes.. but he understands me."
"Better than I?" It's worthless to answer that - she knows nobody else could. "Does he make you happy?" She has the urge to ask her more, but the words don't find themselves.
Financier smiles - a childish, giddy smile that she remembers fondly from their childhoods. "He does. He really, really does. You should've met him."
There's a hint of jealousy in the air, mixing with the silence as the two sit there. Slowly, Financier wraps her hand around Bavarois' own, despite the glowing restraints - her wrists feel bonier than they used to, and she glowers at that foreign feeling. Her ring gleams and glimmers in it's light, refracting the beams into the nun's eyes, and she squints to avoid them.
"Holding the hand of a criminal?"
"..Like when we were kids." the paladin adds, her fingers interlocking with one another. "..Did they not feed you while you were at the Order?"
She's silent for a few moments, but then a small voice escapes her. "Barely. Most of it I couldn't stomach."
"I'm so sorry."
"It was but a consequence of circumstances."
"It still shouldn't have happened. None of this should've."
"But it did."
There is a loud chime - and they both know what it signifies. Their hour is up, and one of them will place their head on that block, while the other will swing the sword. It's what was expected to happen yesterday, this morning, and the hour before. But it's still a dizzifying, mindbending realisation that slowly sends the both into tears. Sobs echo off of the marble as Financier cradles Bavarois' face in her hands.
She kisses her softly on her forehead - a sensation that felt like 2 halves becoming a whole, and it was not an unwelcome gesture. Rather, it felt like the grace of a deity upon her. A line of saliva connects them, and the chains slowly fizzle out as she hears Clotted Cream coming closer and closer.
She stands, but not before whispering in her ear.
"I love you so, so, much. I'm so happy the universe allowed us to exist at the same time. If only for a short while."
The door opens, and Clotted Cream's face turns from composed to empathetic. "Financier." He says carefully, taking her hands into his own. "I hope you feel at peace. Go ahead."
She does, but not before glancing at Bavarois with a tear-filled gaze, mouthing a small apology. Now the nun is looking at her, she glows. She glows with the light that she herself had never recieved. The room feels darker without her in it, and it sends home the message even further: that these are the last steps she'll take.
When he's in there, it feels infinitely more tense - and when she spies an identical ring on his finger, it makes her hate him all the more.
"I may be a stranger," He said, tone smooth and suave and so irritating, "But I am sorry it had to be like this. Especially to Financier."
"..What could you know about her that I don't?" Her tone is unfriendly, callous, rude. If it shakes him, he doesn't show it.
"..You have a point. But I know it means a lot to her to see you again, more than I could fathom. And I have to admit, I hate you for leaving her alone like that - but I cannot speak about things you don't know."
"Are you gonna keep delaying the inevitable?" She hisses.
"..I guess you've done all the talking you want to with Financier Cookie. I will keep you in my prayers."
"You can save the speech."
He sighs deeply, leading her up by her chains to her deathplace. The walk is quiet, quaint, and so unfriendly - much like it was when she was living here. She hates the marble decor, the click-clacking of the man's heels on the floor, the sounds the chains make.
But as she places her head on the block, as Financier picks up her sword, she feels the spring sun's light cascade on her.
And for even just a minute - she's running around with Financier, rolling in the grass and taking in the air. Not as women, but as girls.
There is a prayer, a slash, and then a rolling sound.
And then, there is nothing.