Work Text:
It was a rare, peaceful day in Arzach when you couldn’t hear the distant sound of gunfire.
Everybody was involved in the war to some degree. Children learned how to use weapons at school, the working class supplied ammunition and Pictos for each type of soldier, and the wealthy elite were expected to fund squadrons to patrol past the city limits. Beyond there, the sky of the wasteland was filled with words in languages nobody could speak. The scholars wished for a little more funding to research those words, but they were consistently ignored.
Celine hoped to find a couple of scholars at today’s gala, and she was fairly sure this gentleman in the white coat and monocle was such an educated man. Amid the warm lights of the chandeliers and golden decor of the marble walls, he looked like he’d walked right out of the cold, grey streets outside. “Not being very subtle, are you?” she teased, hoping to make a strong first impression.
The man turned, and was startled by Celine’s abnormal face. The young noblelady was severely injured as a child, which left her face hideously scarred beyond adulthood. She was amazed her right eye still worked after all this time. “Uh, y-yes,” said the man, composing himself. “I find subtlety undercuts our goal here. If we’re to truly strike back against the Nevrons, we must allow ourselves to be curious.”
Celine smirked. That was all she needed to hear. “I hear they’re conscripting Gestrals to join us next month,” she said, unsure if that was just a rumour.
“Gestrals?” the man laughed, his shoulders sagging. “Are we losing that badly?”
“It seems to me like we’re fighting without any real goal,” said Celine, hoping to appeal to the man’s biases. “Many times I suggested great opportunities to strike against Nevron groups, and all were ignored.” She sighed, staring despondently at the dancers beneath the chandeliers. “Anything to keep the war economy going, right?”
The man gave a little nod. “Sylvain,” he said, offering his hand. “And you are?”
“Celine,” she replied, shaking it. “Independent governor. You looking for any support?”
Sylvain laughed dryly. “My colleagues are currently working on a device that can sneak us into Nevron territory to research the words safely.” He took a sip of his champagne. “I don’t suppose your council could support that?”
“I can try my best,” Celine said with a warm smile. “Where can I meet you to discuss this?”
Sylvain smiled and drew a small card from his breastpocket. It gave her an address to the Wordsmiths’ Institute. “Assuming we’re not evicted by year’s end,” he half-joked. “I look forward to meeting you there, Celine.”
“Same with you,” said Celine, seeing him off with another handshake. As she watched him go, she felt something brush against the toe of her boot. Glancing down, she noticed a slip of paper. Was it in her pocket? She swiped it and gave it a read.
‘Vous êtes Alicia Dessendre.
Vous n'êtes pas d'ici.
Ne me faites pas regretter de vous avoir amenée ici.’
All of a sudden, everything came rushing back to her. She wasn’t the young niece of a rebellious governor. She wasn’t from Arzach, or any part of this world. She was Alicia Dessendre; a young Painter simply visiting the world of this Canvas. And yet again, she had been suckered into its world before she even knew what she was doing.
She reflexively slapped her forehead in a mix of irritation and despair. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered.
*
“Not bad for a week’s work, don’t you think?”
Alicia took in Clea’s painting. As with most of her sister’s work, it was desaturated, depicting a small city overlooking a derelict wasteland. She swore she could see words filling the sky, but the letters were so garbled it was hard to make out what they were saying. Still, it was nice to see a new painting after Verso’s funeral, so she replied with a nod. Her throat still hurt to talk, and that probably wasn’t going to change anytime soon.
“Now,” said Clea, twirling the paintbrush in her hand, “you can get your old face back inside, or your old voice.” She glared straight at Alicia’s remaining eye. “But you can’t do both.”
Alicia frowned in confusion. “Why?” she rasped.
“Because I don’t want you to live in the past again,” she said. “If you’re going to become someone else in this Canvas, at least keep one of your scars. It’s a brutal place, so I’m sure your scars will fit right in.”
“You…” Alicia whispered, “you don’t know?”
“Of course not!” Clea said. “You know how hard it is creating a Canvas without Maman or Papa knowing? I’ve barely had time to check it out.”
Alicia raised her palms to calm her sister down. “I’ll take the voice,” she said.
“Thought so,” Clea muttered. “Though it won’t be your old voice. Got that?”
Alicia nodded.
“Okay.” Clea went for a nearby stool, swiped a scrap of paper and drew a small note with Chroma. “Rule no. 1,” she said, “don’t get too swept up in the fantasy. You’re just a tourist, not a resident.”
Alicia nodded. “What’s rule 2?”
“Rule 2,” said Clea, “we’re only going inside for an hour. Dunno how long that’ll be in Canvas time, so I’m bringing a stopwatch. When it rings, we’re out. No matter what we’re in the middle of.”
“But what if-” Alicia protested.
“No matter what,” Clea insisted. “Keep your distance, and don’t get too involved.”
Alicia sighed. Her sister was a stubborn artist at the best of times. When she actually had a point, she could be insufferable. “Any other rules?” she asked.
“Not off the top of my head,” Clea admitted, tapping the point of her paintbrush against her chin as she considered it. “I guess don’t tell Papa, but that really goes without saying.” She checked the tip, making sure it had enough Chroma built up.
Papa Renoir. The Painter who risked sixty-seven years in Verso’s old Canvas to bring both Maman and Alicia out of their escapist delusions. As cathartic as the funeral had been, he forbade Alicia from even discussing the notion of painting. “Is this really worth it?” she asked softly.
Clea scoffed at the question. “Of course it is,” she said. “We’ve all said our goodbyes, now we need to move forward. Maman’s returned to the Painters’ Council, Papa’s discussing how to address the Writers’ attack, so you need to keep moving too.”
“By going back into a Canvas?”
“By proving to me you’ll return!” Clea snapped, startling the younger Dessendre. She stopped, holding up her palm to calm herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t bear to see you feeling sorry for yourself.”
Alicia fell silent, turning to the easier glimpse of Clea’s Canvas. It was, to her credit, less inviting than Verso’s painted wonderland, so she might not get so easily attached. “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”
Clea handed her the note she’d written. “Don’t read it,” she said. “If you need to, you’ll find it in the Canvas.” She swiped a pocketwatch from the stool, set a timer and prepared herself. “I’ll see you inside,” she said, before taking a couple of steps back. Holding her paintbrush parallel to the Canvas, a rush of Chroma shot forth, sending ripples across the landscape. It was open.
Alicia glanced at her sister. She didn’t have to go this far for her. Considering the trouble she and Maman had caused the family, she never imagined setting foot inside a Canvas ever again. There was still a lot left unsaid, a lot to unpack as the Dessendres moved forwards. And she supposed it started with risky gestures like this. She climbed inside, and felt a rush of Chroma pull her through.
*
Alicia snapped back into focus, examining herself and the world around her. “I’m not Celine,” she told herself, then realised how deep her voice was. She sounded a good twenty years older than Maelle did, and had been given a uniform that was both formal and militaristic, with sharp epaulettes and the odd medal fastened to her breast. Her uniform looked like something Papa would wear. How in god’s name did she get a role so…
“Alicia?”
Clea’s voice. Alicia turned with a relieved sigh, which cut short as she stared at a grey-skinned, golden-eyed version of her older sister. A Painted version, Chroma emanating from her eyes. While everyone else in Arzach looked as detailed and human as anyone in the real world, this version of Clea made no attempt to pass as the original. Befitting the militaristic tone, she wore a white cap, light grey sweater and a navy skirt, albeit with her sister’s characteristic bare feet on display. “Forgive me, lass,” she said with a bizarrely formal tone. “The old general never created a Painted version of you.”
“What gave me away?” Alicia asked, pointing at her face to offer an answer.
The Painted Clea laughed. “Basically, yes,” she said, dropping her formal dialect.
Alicia couldn’t share in the Painted sister’s humour. “Where’s the real Clea?” she asked.
“Oh, she got sidetracked,” she explained. “Turns out there were parts of this Canvas she hadn’t finished. Old biases she’d unconsciously laid bare and wanted to amend.”
“Biases?” asked Alicia, glancing up at the sky. Words of some unknown language gazed down at her and the rest of the city, mocking them with their unintelligible nature. At once, their meaning became clear. “Writers…” Clea still had not forgiven them for the manor’s fire. How could she? That familiar pain she’d felt in her chest started to burn once more.
“Give her a chance, will you?” said the Painted Clea, patting Alicia on the shoulder. “Conflict is all your sister knows. She’s at her happiest when she has a good enemy.”
Alicia scoffed. “Well, she’s got one right here.” She looked away, her one remaining eye losing focus. “Still don’t get why she’s being so chummy with me.”
“Oh, come now,” said the Painted sister, her voice filled with concern. “I thought you’d moved past that.” She watched Alicia pace about, casting the odd gaze at the words above, and she realised. “You’re not talking about Verso, are you?”
Alicia shook her head. She felt her voice choke up. The fake voice she’d been given in this world. “It’s because I’m a…” She hesitated. I’m a Writer. Could she trust the Painted Clea with that? Her sister and Papa were the only two people who really knew. Papa had hoped it could lead to peace with the Writers, and that clearly wasn’t going to happen. Clea couldn’t even wrap her head around it. How could anyone find more meaning in such textureless, dry words?
Painted Clea tapped Alicia on the shoulder again. “Come,” she said. “Walk with me. Witness the world your sister made for you.”
“For me?” Alicia repeated softly, her voice still cracked. She cleared her throat and tried to refocus. “It’s not exactly pleasant, is it?”
“Well,” said her Painted sister, “define pleasant.” She skipped down the stairs of the small ballroom towards the entrance. Alicia slowly followed, passing noble ladies with flowing gowns and clattering pearl necklaces. She could swear none of them were wearing shoes, but it felt rude to check. Besides, in her current state of mind, the gala couldn’t do anything to cheer her up.
In a strange way, the cold air of the Arzach streets felt like a nice change of pace, especially with Painted Clea’s upbeat attitude. “You know,” she said, “the music there is a bit too hoity-toity for my liking.”
Alicia glanced over her shoulder. “It sounds like something written by someone who can’t stand classical music,” she said. “Even the real Clea has better taste than this.”
“Oh, does she play?”
Alicia flashed her an incredulous look. “You don’t know?” she asked, following Painted Clea down the winding road. The consistent din of gunfire and magic attacks filled the air once more, and none of the merchants or playing kids seemed to take any notice of it.
“Your sister is not the most introspective Painter in the world,” she joked. “She made this world for two reasons: to vent her frustrations with Writers, and to help you out.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” Alicia started to say as she glanced up at the omniscient words in the sky. As her focus returned to the ground, she saw a couple of Gestrals bickering in their usual gibberish. She swore they were taking a bet on which side would lose this particular battle. The tall one was confident the Nevrons would win, contrasting the small one’s hesitance. “Though I suppose some unconscious things slipped in.” She turned to Painted Clea. “You know, those biases you mentioned.”
“Hmm?” Clea’s copy muttered. “Oh, right, yes.” She chuckled. “Well, you can probably tell this city got the lion’s share of your sister’s attention.” She pointed toward a balcony overlooking the wasteland beyond the city. Though the spectacle of thousands of Nevrons battling soldiers was impressive, the land beyond it certainly didn’t look worth fighting over. “I daresay she paid more attention to those words than anything.”
“Huh,” said Alicia, unable to disagree. Two ladies passed them by, wearing desaturated dresses and matching sunhats, matching the city’s insincere attempts at high culture. Naturally, neither wore shoes either. “I take it shoes aren’t very popular here, then?”
The Painted Clea smiled gently. “If I knew me,” she said, “it’s probably because the women of Arzach have tougher soles than the men, so they don’t need shoes.” She considered this theory. “Then again, the women soldiers wear boots more often than not. Maybe it’s just your sister’s preference for high fashion.”
Alicia couldn’t help but laugh at the theory. “Tougher soles? I don’t believe it!” She shook her head, finishing with a disbelieving sigh. “She’s grown obsessed, I swear.”
“How obsessed?” asked the Painted Clea, returning her attention to the balcony overlooking the battle.
“She…” Alicia started, before her mirth returned. “She had to be talked,” she managed, “into wearing shoes to Verso’s funeral.” She doubled over in laughter. “I mean, she didn’t even have any excuses. Just this ‘Oh, I don’t want to’ attitude.”
“The real Clea doesn’t make excuses for herself that much, does she?” muttered her Painted copy.
“Nah,” said Alicia, recovering from her laughter. “She’s very sure of herself in most things. You can tell she’s a talented Painter if she could make this in a week.” She scoffed. “Not like me, really.” She felt that familiar weight of despair creep over her once more. “To be fair, she’s much older than me,” she added, trying to deflect it.
“Well,” her sister’s duplicate said with a smile, “give it a little time, and I’m sure you’ll catch up with her.”
“No, you don’t understand!” Alicia protested. Something about Clea’s reassuring words cut deeper than she expected. “I can’t be as good a Painter as my family!”
“Why not?” she asked, as if she knew less about Alicia than the real Clea.
“Because I…” Alicia started, but the answer caught in her throat once again. “I just…”
“Because you’re a Writer?”
The world fell silent. Even the noise of the battle below seemed to disappear. “How…” Alicia stuttered, her voice as hoarse as it was in the real world. “How did you…”
“Anything Clea knows,” said the Painted Clea, “I know.” She gently grabbed Alicia by the shoulder, looking her in the remaining eye. “Especially with your secrets.”
She couldn’t find the right words for that, ironically. Instead, she just looked away, tempted to slump on a nearby garden chair and just stare at the formless words in the sky.
“Look,” said Clea, guiding her to her seat. “The real Clea wasn’t sure how to talk to you about that. That’s why she created me.” When Alicia found the strength to look at her, she was met with a smile warmer than she’d ever seen from her sister. “She can talk art and strategy to your Papa all day long, but holding conversations with you or Maman? Allowing herself to cry during Verso’s funeral?” She shook her head. “She just couldn’t figure it out.”
Hearing his name still stung, but the pain had begun to fade. “She didn’t have to come.” The day before, she and Papa had argued about confronting the Writers, going to war with them in revenge. Yet in the end, she came to the funeral, even if she stayed silent for most of it.
“Clea had her own way of grieving,” said the Painted sister. “In fact, somewhere in Arzach is a little mural in Verso’s name.” She glanced at the city around them, then summoned a paintbrush in her hand. “Because she finds it easier to express herself through her art and her actions, not her words.”
Alicia nodded softly. “I noticed.”
“She made me, because she knew I could tell you what she meant better than she could,” said Clea. “And she really does want you to come out of this stronger.” With her other hand, she pulled out a book, handing it to Alicia. “If that means encouraging your Writing talent, she can accept that.”
Alicia stared at the book, impulsively snatching it from Clea’s hands to leaf through it. Each page was blank. Of course it was. She couldn’t take it back to the real world. Back there, she still had a shelf of books waiting to be read. Books that had survived the fire. Books she’d bought since. Tears rolled down her eyes. Even the burnt-out one. “Thank you,” she said, choosing to speak with her damaged, strained voice. “Thank you, Clea.”
It’s my pleasure,” said Clea, standing up. “Now, this war outside the city is fun and all, but I think we need to give our allies a little helping hand.”
Alicia nodded, drawing from her own Chroma to summon a paintbrush. “I may not be the Dessendre’s best Painter,” she said, “but I still fought both Papa and Maman out of Verso’s canvas.”
Clea grinned, hopping on the balcony rail. “Shall we go give the Wordsmiths an opportunity, Miss Celine?”
Alicia nodded, twirling her paintbrush between her fingers. “For those who come after,” she said with her new voice, leaping over the rail. Brush in hand, she glided towards the battlefield, and her Painted sister followed.
Clea never entered the Canvas.
She considered it. Imbuing her soul to give the Canvas life wouldn’t stop a Painter from entering their own world. And yet, she stayed behind, her body a steady supply of Chroma to keep the world of Arzach going. She watched from afar as Alicia spent time with her Painted copy, before battling swathes of Nevrons and turning the tide of the battle.
Then, before she knew it, Alicia was climbing out of the Canvas, dusting blobs of Chroma off her blouse. “Hey,” she rasped cheerfully. “It’s not so bad in there now.”
Clea withdrew her paintbrush. The Canvas seemed to freeze in time. “That was fast,” she said, checking her stopwatch. “Wow, only half an hour.”
“Really?” asked Alicia. “We were in there for days.” She glanced at Clea. “Were you ever going to come in yourself?”
Clea pondered for a moment. “I honestly don’t know,” she said. “That other me was there to ease you in, but you two got on so well I didn’t see the point.” She wouldn’t make eye contact with Alicia. Typical of her, avoiding uncomfortable emotions as normal.
Still, she did cheer Alicia up. “Thank you for this,” she repeated. “It’s been nice losing myself in a fantasy again.”
Clea found herself smiling. “I have a third rule,” she said. “Come back at will.” She looked at Alicia. “And you didn’t even need me to tell you that.”
“Can I give you a hug?” asked Alicia. “Or is that your fourth rule still?”
Clea rolled her eyes and held out her arms. “Just this once.”
Alicia came at her almost like a tackle, knocking Clea back a step, but she embraced her sister, stroking her hair for the first time in years. “Come,” she said, glancing at the Canvas. “Let’s hide this before Papa and Maman find out what we did.”
The two grabbed the Canvas from opposite ends and lifted it off its easel. Slowly, the two carried it out of the hidey-hole and across the rebuilt Dessendre Manor. Their dog Monoco barked excitedly and followed the two into the foyer. “Down, Noco!” Clea ordered. The dog wouldn’t listen.
“Serious question,” grunted Alicia, reaching for the front door. “While we were in Verso’s Canvas, did you attend any Painter conferences?”
“A couple, yes,” said Clea. “Why?”
Alicia glanced down at her sister’s bare feet as the door opened. Between the two of them, it was hard to tell who would stand out more in the streets of Paris. “What the hell is an Arzach?”
“Oh, just a story idea I had,” Clea replied, closing the door behind them. “You should make a book of it.”
FIN