Work Text:
It happens in the middle of a fight.
The Nevron is huge—six-legged, beetle-backed, with a mouth full of shimmering teeth and a long, scorpion-like tail that sparks with Chromatic energy. They’re used to weird side effects by now, but this one is especially weird. It unleashes a pulse of light right before it dies, like a dying star exploding in miniature. They all shield their eyes—
—and when they lower their arms, Maelle is gone.
Gustave is the first to notice. “Where’s Maelle?!”
“I thought she was behind me!” Sciel shouts, scanning the ridge.
“Maelle!” Lune calls. “Answer us!”
Then: a sound.
A squawk.
A cry.
Sciel turns toward the source and drops her scythe. It lands in a clatter, dissolving into flickering light.
“…Oh. My. God.”
“What?!” Gustave cries, sprinting over, Lune hot on his heels. “What is it?! Is it bad? Is she okay?! Is she—” He stops dead in his tracks, too.
Because, sitting there in a pile of clothes that is most definitely the Expedition uniform, is a baby.
A chubby-cheeked, red-haired, furious little infant with unmistakable bright blue eyes and the exact same scowl Maelle wears when someone tells her to take a break.
No one speaks at first.
Sciel blinks, her jaw on the floor.
Lune squints at the baby, then at the heap of Maelle’s clothes, then back at the baby.
“…Oh,” Gustave breathes. He rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside the clothes, staring in mute horror at the infant that has taken the place of his foster sister. “Oh no. No no no. MAELLE?! How did— Is that— Are you really—”
The baby kicks in fury. Her tiny fists flail. She lets out a strangled screech that can only be interpreted as, “How DARE you let this happen.”
“It is her,” Lune says, eyes wide. “It’s her Chroma signature. Same threads. Just…wildly compressed.”
“Compressed?!” Gustave squawks. “That thing turned her into a baby! That’s an ability?! Since when?!”
“I don’t know!” Lune says. “I’ve never heard of this happening before! But this can change everything we know about the world! Will she still Gommage in nine years? Or has her clock been reset, and now she’ll Gommage when other children born this year will? Will she—”
Maelle wails louder, cutting Lune’s scientific rambling short. Her cheeks are flushed with anger, and she slaps one of her own discarded boots like it personally betrayed her. She then tries to army-crawl away with astonishing fury.
Gustave quickly but gently picks her up, cradling her awkwardly in his arms. She’s tiny. Maybe eight or nine months old. Still chubby with baby fat, with the same wild brows and that persistent little wrinkle between them.
Her eyes lock on Gustave’s. And she gives the most judgmental baby glare he’s ever seen.
“Okay,” he says, gently bouncing her as if that might help. “Okay, Maelle, don’t panic. We’re going to fix this. It’s temporary. It has to be temporary.”
Maelle grabs a fistful of his collar and makes a noise that sounds a lot like an angry raspberry.
Sciel, who has been surprisingly silent up until this point, suddenly speaks up, “Oh, she’s so little…”
Gustave turns to her. She has a look in her eyes that makes his heart twinge. “Yeah, she is. But she’s still vicious, I bet.”
“AH-BAH!” Maelle shouts.
Sciel laughs. “I think that’s pretty much confirmation of that.”
Welcome to Day 67 of the Expedition.
It just got a whole lot more complicated.
Some things they learn quickly:
- Baby Maelle hates being on her back.
- She loves being swaddled tightly in Gustave’s coat.
- She has the tiniest, angriest baby growl when something confuses her.
The clearing they’ve taken refuge in isn’t anything special, but it’s safe. Lune goes over to the other side of it and paints runes with Chroma, attempting to replicate the Nevron’s magic signatures. She says she hopes to try and reverse the effect by unwinding the hex put on Maelle.
Meanwhile, baby Maelle is screaming her lungs out.
And Gustave is slowly unraveling. Not in the bad, angry, impatient way. In the oh god, this little one is gonna have me at her beck and call, and I won’t be able to do anything about it kind of way.
He’s never been more protective in his life. Which is saying something. Maelle was already reckless enough as a teenager—what possible defense does she have now?
Every time she sneezes, he flinches.
Every time she lets out a startled hiccup or whines with a scrunched-up face, he’s at her side instantly. Sciel has to forcibly push him away more than once.
“She’s fine!” she insists. “She’s just fussy. Babies get fussy. Go sharpen something.”
“I am sharpening something.”
“Something other than your nerves, gramps.”
“I’m thirty-two!”
“Ancient.”
Sciel titters. She’s pacing with a blanket-wrapped Maelle bouncing gently in her arms. “I promise, she’s fine. She’s probably hungry. Or overstimulated. Or mad. Maybe all three. She was just yelling at you this morning about not getting enough sleep, remember?”
“I remember,” Gustave says grimly, then turns to rummage around in their packs. “She threw a mushroom at me.”
Sciel gives Maelle a sympathetic look as the baby hiccups mid-wail and then hiccups again, voice cracking from the sheer effort. “Poor thing. I’d be screaming, too.”
Gustave finally pulls out some wild vegetables and a small stone bowl. He mashes the vegetables into a fine paste. “This is the closest thing we’ve got to baby food,” he mutters. “And if she bites me, I’m not gonna take it personally.”
Sciel snorts. “She is still Maelle. She might bite you on purpose.”
He settles beside Sciel on the grassy floor, gently taking the wriggling, furious bundle from her arms. Maelle’s face is red, eyes streaming, fists clenched like she’s preparing to punch fate in the face. Again.
“Hey, hey. Maelle. I know, this sucks. Deep breaths. Or…little baby wheezes. Whatever works.” He props her up carefully in the crook of his arm and offers a spoon full of the vegetable paste.
She blinks up at him, momentarily confused.
Then, she slaps the spoon clean out of his hand.
Paste splashes across his pants.
Sciel howls with laughter. “That’s her, all right.”
Gustave just sighs, calmly wiping his legs with a cloth. “She’ll come around.”
Maelle glares at him, then lets out a pitiful whimper that melts straight through his ribcage.
Without a word, Gustave pulls her closer, rocking her gently. “I’ve got you,” he says. “You’re okay. We’re going to fix this.”
She sniffles. Her tiny hands cling to his shirt. The warmth of his body, the steadiness of his heartbeat, finally begins to calm her. Her eyes droop a little, though she keeps glaring—just in case.
Sciel watches, sobering. “You’re good at that.”
“Raising her once wasn’t enough, huh?” Gustave murmurs.
“She trusts you.”
“Yeah. And that’s what scares me.”
They sit in silence a moment longer. Maelle wriggles, suddenly wanting to move, so Gustave loosens his grasp on her.
Across the clearing, Lune’s muttering grows louder, the spell rising to a crescendo. Pale blue light sparks and crackles around the glyphs on the ground. The circle flashes.
Then shatters.
Lune collapses backward with a gasp, coughing, magic crackling around her fingertips.
Gustave stands immediately. “Lune!”
“I’m fine,” she says, breathless, wiping blood from her nose. “But the hex isn’t. That spell was meant to last. It’s complex. Probably some kind of weird disorientation effect to disarm large groups, so other Nevrons could pick them off when they’re unable to fight back.”
Sciel frowns. “So we’re stuck?”
“For now,” Lune says. “But I do think the effect is temporary. There’s a stabilizing wobble in the energy pulse—see how the resonance keeps decaying? It’s wearing off.”
“How long?” Gustave asks.
“Hard to say,” Lune answers. “But judging from the curve, maybe seventy-two hours.”
“SEVENTY-TWO HOURS?!” Gustave and Sciel yell, both laden with different emotions in their cry. Gustave is mortified. Sciel, however, looks thrilled.
“This is going to be the longest three days of my life…” Gustave says woefully.
“Don’t pretend you’re not enchanted,” Lune says dryly.
“I’m concerned. There’s a difference.”
At that moment, Maelle tries to sit up, fails completely, and dramatically rolls off Gustave’s lap with a plop into her blanket nest.
Gustave freezes. “Is she—”
“She’s fine,” Sciel says, laughing. “She’s made of rubber and spite.”
“Guh,” Baby Maelle contributes.
Yep. This will be a long three days.
When the next morning comes, Gustave is immediately startled by the baby staring two inches away from his face. He screams, and she bursts into high-pitched laughter.
Oh. Right.
The memories come back to him.
His little sister is now an infant. For three days.
He sits up, adjusting Maelle to be in his lap. “Did you sleep well, at least?”
She gurgles at him.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
* * *
Maelle actually eats this morning. But only from Gustave’s spoon, for some reason.
“She likes you,” Sciel teases.
“She likes food,” Gustave mutters.
But Maelle gives a big smile and squeals when Sciel leans in, kicking her tiny feet like she’s just seen a circus.
“I will never recover from this,” Sciel says, grinning wide. “I’m going to buy her so many socks. And a hat. And a duck plush.”
“We are not keeping her like this,” Gustave warns.
“But look at her!” Sciel says as Maelle lets out a sneeze and then starts clapping for herself.
“I’m aware,” Gustave sighs.
And he is. Painfully.
* * *
They spend the day continuing to travel.
Gustave takes baby-duty—Maelle rides around in a sling Sciel fashioned out of a spare tarp, head bobbling with every step. Lune maps out the path, making sure to avoid any Nevrons on the way. And Sciel can’t take her eyes off of Maelle for a second.
And Maelle? Maelle loves it. All of it.
Everything is exciting now.
A bug crawls across a rock? Big squeal. A bird flies overhead? Full-body kick. Gustave says the word “moss”? Peal of laughter.
“She wasn’t even this happy as a teen,” Gustave mutters.
“She’s warm, fed, and doesn’t have to worry about Nevrons,” Lune says without looking up. “Of course she’s happy.”
* * *
By nightfall, Maelle is wiped.
Being a baby is hard work, apparently.
Gustave bundles her in a spare scarf and tucks her gently into his bedroll. She stares up at him with dazed eyes, letting out a sleepy warble.
He pats her cheek. “You’ll be back to normal soon. Probably.”
A beat.
“Please be normal soon. I’m going to get eaten alive if you stay cute much longer.”
Maelle yawns. A loud, squeaky, kitten yawn.
Then she hiccups, grabs his finger, and falls asleep holding it like a lifeline.
Maelle is, in fact, not back to normal by the next day.
They wake to find her chewing on the corner of Lune’s journal.
“NO—”
“WAAAAAH!!”
Lune gently removes it from her mouth. “That’s handwritten data, Maelle. With fountain ink. Not food.”
Maelle responds by thumping her forehead dramatically against Lune’s thigh and making a noise like “mmbbllglggh.”
“She’s taking after Sciel,” Lune mutters.
Sciel beams. “Good taste.”
* * *
As the morning goes by, and they’re starting to pack up, they’ve tried a few more methods to reverse the effect early. Still nothing.
Maelle has, in this time, attempted to:
- Crawl directly into the fire (stopped by Gustave)
- Eat Lune’s journal again (stopped by Lune’s death glare)
- Bite Sciel’s arm (Sciel let her)
- Pull off her own sock and wave it triumphantly like a banner (allowed)
“She’s having a great time,” Sciel says, proudly holding Maelle like a prize turnip.
“She doesn’t know what time is,” Lune mutters.
“She has no trauma,” Gustave says softly, suddenly. “She’s never heard a scream. Never seen the dead. Never killed a Nevron.”
There’s a long pause.
“Let’s…not think too hard about that,” Lune says quietly.
* * *
By lunch time, Maelle discovers her toes.
She spends two hours trying to catch them with both hands and squealing with delight every time she succeeds. Sciel sets her down on a blanket and watches her like she’s the most important theater performance in the world.
Lune takes notes. “Cognitive regression complete. No sense of spatial awareness. Severe oral fixation.”
Maelle responds by sucking on her own fist and screaming.
Sciel cheers. “She’s perfect.”
Gustave is…less enthusiastic.
He’s barely slept. His hair is a mess. His shirt has spit-up on it.
And every time Maelle looks at him with big, watery blue eyes, he melts, which only makes it worse.
“She knows, ” he mutters darkly. “She knows what she’s doing.”
“She’s eight months old.”
“She’s doing it on purpose. She wants me weakened.”
“Right,” Lune says, taking Maelle’s tiny hands and making her dance. “That’s why she was cuddling you during breakfast. Tactical sabotage.”
“Exactly.”
Sciel and Lune exchange amused looks.
“Grown man learns about fatherhood and is shocked,” Sciel muses. “Welcome to the world of being a woman, Goose.”
“Wh— huh—” Gustave blusters. “I have NOTHING but the UTMOST respect for women and mothers! I never doubted that they had it hard!”
Sciel cackles at his floundering. Lune snorts into her sleeve. Maelle sees everyone making funny noises and screams, clapping. Gustave groans.
“I swear, I’m usually better at this,” Gustave says. “Keeping my composure. I’m a very composed man. But this— this—”
Maelle makes eye contact with Gustave and lets out a high-pitched, “Buhhhhhh.”
He puts his head in his hands.
* * *
Sciel invents a game called “Can Baby Maelle Lift It?”
(The answer is almost always “no.” She gets mad every time.)
“She’s so determined,” Sciel coos, watching Maelle try to crawl over a stump and instead roll sideways into a pile of leaves.
“She was like this at sixteen,” Gustave says, catching her before she dives headfirst into a puddle. “Just louder.”
“Don’t be rude,” Lune says, wiping Maelle’s face with a rag. “She’s being very brave.”
“I think she’s eating dirt.”
“She’s being brave about it.”
* * *
During dinner, they discover she loves music.
Lune starts to strum at her guitar, and Maelle lights up. Starts wiggling her hands. Kicks her feet like she’s dancing. Her face splits into a gummy smile so radiant it could power an airship.
“Play it again!” Gustave barks, grabbing Lune by the shoulders and shaking her. “Do it again!”
“I am not your performing monkey—”
“I saw her smile, Lune. She smiled! So do it AGAIN.”
Lune sighs and relents.
Sings again.
Maelle squeals and babbles her own lyrics.
The adults collectively melt into puddles of emotion.
* * *
That night, Maelle sleep on Sciel’s chest, arms sprawled, nose buried in the collar of her coat. Sciel holds her like she’s made of porcelain. She doesn’t speak much anymore—just strokes her hair, humming under her breath.
Gustave notices the tears dried on her cheeks.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just pulls a second blanket over them and kisses both of their heads.
He stands up and looks across the fire.
Lune, still awake, raises an eyebrow. “Me next?”
He starts to walk over.
“STAY BACK—”
Sciel wakes up to a weight on her chest.
It’s warm and soft and heavy in that comforting baby way. The fire’s long burned out, and the sky is still streaked with blue-pink, but Maelle—tiny, ginger, wriggly Maelle—is pressed right against her sternum, one chubby fist tangled in Sciel’s hair, her drooly cheek mushed against Sciel’s neck.
Sciel doesn’t move for a long time.
She just lays there, wide awake, one hand cradling Maelle’s back, the other resting against the blanket that covers them both. She listens to the shallow baby breathing. The occasional hiccup. The heartbeat that isn’t hers.
It’s been six years since her miscarriage. It was inevitable when she plunged under the salty waves of the sea. It wasn’t her fault, she didn’t know—but her body had felt like a grave for months after. An empty nursery. A weightless kind of pain.
And now…
Maelle shifts in her sleep and makes a noise like a sleepy kitten.
Sciel swallows hard.
She doesn’t cry. Not again.
She just smooths a hand down Maelle’s soft back and closes her eyes.
* * *
Maelle figures out how to crawl fast.
It’s terrifying.
She escapes the perimeter of the camp in a blur of motion, and for a horrifying minute, they all genuinely lose her.
“MAELLE?!”
“BABY GIRL, WHERE DID YOU GO—”
She’s found trying to eat a beetle the size of her head.
Gustave grabs her and pulls it out of her mouth. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.”
She screeches like a banshee.
Sciel scoops her up and whispers, “It’s okay, sweetheart, your mean ol’ brother doesn’t understand the value of exotic protein.”
“I heard that.”
“Then maybe don’t shame a growing girl for her dietary interests.”
Maelle headbutts Gustave’s jaw when he leans in.
“OW—YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE—”
Lune writes calmly in her notebook: “Displays alarming cognitive control. Headbutt was clearly aimed. Possible retained personality? Investigate later.”
* * *
Lune catches Maelle trying to eat a rock.
“I knew that was going to happen,” she mutters, gently fishing it out of her mouth.
Maelle frowns so hard her entire face squishes into itself.
She then slaps Lune on the arm.
It makes a pathetic sound.
“…Ow,” Lune says flatly.
Maelle stares at her.
And then throws herself to the ground, screaming.
* * *
It starts to rain around midday, so they stop early, making camp in a cave.
Gustave sits a little apart, his back against the wall, Maelle cradled in his arms beneath the makeshift cloak-blanket. She’s warm now, fed as best they could manage, and curled against his chest with her thumb tucked in her mouth, breath soft and even. One of her little fists grips the edge of his shirt. Even asleep, she doesn’t let go.
He brushes a thumb over her downy curls and sighs.
“You know,” he says softly, not looking up, “I’ve always wondered what she looked like as a baby.”
Sciel glances over at him. She sits down beside him. “Yeah?”
“She was twelve when we got her,” he says. “Already halfway feral. Wouldn’t talk to us at first. Hid food under the bed, flinched if anyone got too close.” He chuckles faintly. “I think she bit Emma within the first week.”
Sciel smiles, quiet and knowing. “Sounds like her.”
Gustave gazes down at the bundle in his arms. “And now look at her. Tiny fists. Curly hair. Little pink nose.” His voice catches, and he has to clear his throat before continuing. “She looks…peaceful. Not angry. Not guarded. Just…soft.”
The fire pops, sending a spray of sparks into the air. Maelle stirs slightly, wriggling in her sleep, and then settles again, still pressed close.
“She always acted like she never needed anyone,” he says. “Tried so hard to be sharp and stubborn. Like that would keep her safe. But she’s always been this little, hurting thing underneath all the bark.”
Sciel is silent for a moment. Then, softly, “And you’ve always seen it.”
Gustave nods.
There’s a pause. Maelle snuffles in her sleep.
“I used to wonder if she remembered what it felt like to be small,” Gustave murmurs. “To be held. I think maybe…maybe she didn’t.”
He pulls the blanket a little tighter around her, more protective than warm.
“But she will now.”
* * *
Gustave has set Maelle down in a nest of blankets for one second to stretch his legs when a shimmer passes through the air.
And just like that—
With a pop, a yelp, and a burst of steam—
Baby Maelle is gone.
And in her place: a very confused, very nude, fully teenage Maelle, blinking blearily on the cave floor.
“…Whuh—?”
Sciel immediately shrieks and tosses her a cloak. “OH MY GOD, SHE’S BACK— GUSTAVE, AVERT YOUR EYES—”
“I’M NOT LOOKING!”
“I’M NAKED!” Maelle screeches.
“YES! WE KNOW!!”
* * *
They explain everything to Maelle.
She’s horrified.
“If any of you tell Emma about this—”
“You’ll what?” Sciel teases. “Buhhh at us again?”
Maelle throws a pinecone at her.
Lune, for her part, starts drafting an entire appendix: “Phenomenon #42: Involuntary Temporal Regression and Its Psychological Effects on Party Cohesion.”
They all sleep well for the first time in days.
Maelle curls up beside Gustave, still mortified, muttering about how she better not have done anything embarrassing.
He doesn’t answer.
He just smooths her hair and smiles into the dark.
She’s back.
His girl. His pain-in-the-ass. His danger with a heartbeat.
Everything is right again.
(And the next morning, when she wakes up with a flower crown tangled in her hair and Sciel calling her “Widdle Danger”…she screams.)