Chapter Text
“Can’t we throw just one more rock?” Maelle beseeches.
Gustave considers this. “Hmm… Fine! Just one more!” He then turns on his heels, nearly toppling over on the slick stone, and begins to search the cave. He clicks his tongue as he scans the floor, which is still splattered in dark Nevron blood (and a bit of their own, but they all do their best to ignore that part). “Let’s see…”
Tap, tap, tap… The rain continues to patter down.
Tap, tap, tap…
“Are you two coming or what?” Lune calls up from below the cliff, where she and Sciel are already situated on the back of the patiently-waiting Esquie.
“Hold your horses!” Gustave calls back.
“Sure, it’s not like we’re on a time crunch here…” Lune mutters, and Sciel says something to soothe her that’s drowned out by the rain. Maelle can’t help but giggle.
“Aha!” Gustave finally exclaims, holding up a rock victoriously. He comes back over to Maelle. “Watch and learn.”
He squints his eyes through the rain, aims, and then launches the rock forward. It sails through the air, plinking down into the frothing ocean a few yards away. Maelle claps, grinning.
“Wow,” Lune says in a monotone voice. “Amazing. Will you come down already?”
Gustave rolls his eyes half-heartedly, then turns his head to Maelle. “After you.”
“Oh, why thank you!” Maelle says before hopping down. She lands on the broad back of Esquie, and Lune steadies her when she almost slips.
Gustave comes down seconds after her, and he does slip, sliding off into the water with a shrill, “GAH—!!” He immediately flounders and hauls himself back onto Esquie, sputtering. Lune gives him a look with one eyebrow raised.
“That had nothing to do with the rocks,” Gustave says, brushing his hair out of his face.
“Are we all ready to depart?” Esquie asks.
“Yes,” Lune answers, and the other three agree.
“Wonderful!” Esquie says. “Hold on tight, mon amis! Here we goooooo!”
He’s fast. Faster than any of them were expecting.
Esquie swims no differently than a regular human, but he glides through the water with an easy, rolling rhythm, his massive back rising and falling beneath them like a living island. His body is warm despite the chill wind, textured and solid, and Maelle sits near the curve of his shoulder ridge with her legs tucked close, fingers curled into his tunic for grounding. Gustave is close enough for them to brush against each other when they go over waves. To her right, Sciel is tense, trying not to look at the water, but she’s still putting on a smile. Lune’s head is on a swivel, scanning the ocean.
Even with the cold and the rain, it’s almost…peaceful.
Esquie hums as he swims—a low, cheerful sound that vibrates gently up through his body. Every so often, his head tilts back just enough for one enormous eye to peek up at them.
“Everyone comfortable?” Esquie asks brightly.
“Very!” Sciel replies, patting his back fondly. “You’re doing wonderfully.”
“How are you doing?” Gustave then asks her.
Sciel tenses for a moment, then gives him an easy smile. “I’m fine, Gustave. A little nervous, but…that’s a given. I’m okay.”
They keep going.
It’s maybe thirty minutes later when things take a turn.
The wind howls now, sharp and insistent, ripping words away if they aren’t shouted. Esquie’s body rolls more noticeably as waves begin to rise around them, water slapping against his sides.
Lune’s gaze sharpens. “The pressure is dropping. Rapidly.”
“What does that mean?” Maelle asks.
“Nothing good,” Lune tells her.
“I might need everyone to hold on tighter!” Esquie calls, still upbeat but louder now.
Maelle instinctively scrambles closer to Gustave, clinging to him. He wraps one arm around her and grabs onto Esquie’s tunic tighter with the other. Sciel, too, reaches over to hold onto Maelle protectively. Her hand is shaking.
Behind them, Lune gets lower, trying to focus her center of gravity, leaning slightly into Gustave’s back for balance.
“I’m starting to miss the ship,” she says.
“Me too,” Sciel agrees.
The ocean no longer slides past. No, it surges, each swell taller than the last. Water sprays over them, icy and stinging, soaking cloaks and hair in seconds, more than they already were.
Lightning flashes, turning the world stark white for a split second. Thunder cracks immediately after, close enough to rattle Maelle’s teeth.
The waves swell higher. Much higher.
Esquie grunts as a wall of water surges against his side, forcing him to angle his body to keep them from sliding. “Oho! Big one!”
Maelle’s heart pounds. She can barely hear her own thoughts over the wind and rain. The ocean rises around them, dark and towering, blotting out the horizon entirely.
At the next flash of lightning, she notices something.
Way off in the distance, the huge, huddled figure of the Paintress at the bottom of the Monolith is looking up.
In her sixteen years, Maelle has never seen the Paintress move unless it’s on a Gommage day.
Yet, here she is, with her head raised.
And Maelle can’t help but feel like she’s looking directly at her.
The Paintress raises a long white arm skyward, but Maelle doesn’t have time to see what she’s going to do, as her gaze is drawn forward again at Lune’s startled hiss.
“Oh shit—”
A wave—massive, unnatural, rearing up like a moving mountain—has risen up right in front of them, seemingly out of nowhere. It’s larger than Maelle has ever seen before, a solid wall of black water. Its crest curls, frothing white, blotting out the sky.
Gustave’s grip tightens painfully around Maelle, and her nails dig into him. “MAELLE—”
Esquie bellows, bracing himself. “HOLD ON—!”
The wave crashes down onto them with cataclysmic force.
The world flips.
Maelle feels weightless for one terrible heartbeat before she’s torn from Gustave and Sciel’s grip. The sky vanishes. Water slams into her like a fist, knocking the air from her lungs in a burst of pain.
Cold.
So cold it burns.
She tumbles end over end, disoriented, limbs flailing uselessly as the sea drags her down. Her ears ring. Salt sears her eyes. She tries to scream and only swallows water instead.
Sciel—
Lune—
GUSTAVE—
Something massive passes above her—Esquie’s body, twisting in the chaos—but she can’t reach him. Can’t reach anyone.
Her chest feels like it’s on fire. Her vision darkens at the edges.
She surfaces just once. And when she does, she’s sure the giant figure of the Paintress is looking at her.
And then, another wave hits, driving her deeper.
Her thoughts scatter, dissolving into panic and static.
Then—nothing.
The storm leaves the world raw.
The beach stretches wide and empty, sand churned and gouged by the sea’s violence. Broken driftwood from other destroyed vessels lies scattered like bones. The water still heaves and retreats in heavy, exhausted breaths, foam staining the shoreline white before being dragged back into the dark.
Above it all, the sky bleeds.
The sun sinks low behind torn stormclouds, its light a deep, violent red that soaks everything it touches—sand, sea, sky—like fresh-spilled paint. The air smells of salt and iron.
Five bodies lie strewn along the shore.
Esquie is sprawled flat on his belly, face in the sand. Gustave is half on his side, half face-down, one arm twisted beneath him. Lune lies farther up the beach, hair plastered to her face, chest rising shallowly. Sciel is curled protectively around nothing at all, one hand still clutching empty air.
Maelle lies closest to the waterline. Each wave creeps toward her boots before slipping away again. Her hair has been torn free from its ponytail and gathers around her head like a pool of blood.
None of them stir.
The world is quiet in the way it only is after devastation—no birds, no wind, just the slow, awful breathing of the sea.
And then, the air changes.
It thickens, heavy and expectant, as if time itself is holding its breath.
Footsteps sound where there should be none.
She emerges from nothing at all like a crack forming in reality itself.
The Paintress.
Beside her, there is a smaller, duller figure. One that stands with her hands folded tightly in front of her, posture hesitant, as if she expects to be struck for existing.
Alicia.
The Paintress gestures toward the shore with one long, cracked hand.
“There she is,” she says calmly. “My mistake.”
Alicia’s gaze drifts to the recipient of such a callous comment: Maelle.
She stiffens.
Her fingers curl tighter.
The Paintress glides closer to Maelle, looming without urgency, like something inevitable. “So fragile, so weak,” she says, disappointment heavy in her voice, and it’s almost a miracle that she has no face so it can’t be visible on her expression. “Just like out there. It’s almost more pitiful, as she isn’t even…” She glances at the thick scarring twisting Alicia’s features. “…impeded in here. It’s…sad.”
She straightens up. “I’m going to take her back to the Monolith,” she says casually, as if discussing a walk. “I have…things to discuss with her.”
The red light glints along the cracks in her skin.
“But the others?” She hums thoughtfully. “They would notice her absence. They would interfere.”
The Paintress turns fully to Alicia now.
“So you will stay.”
Alicia blinks in shock.
“You will be her.”
Alicia’s eye goes wide. She shakes her head hard, taking a small step back.
But the Paintress catches her wrists.
Her grip is cool. Tight. Unyielding.
“You can do this,” she says, her voice unnaturally gentle. “For me.”
Alicia’s throat strains with words that won’t come out.
“I know you’ll feel guilty,” the Paintress continues, words as smooth as oil. “But think of what you gain.”
She leans closer, the black void of her face swallowing the sunset’s glow.
“My attention. My pride. My love.”
That makes Alicia freeze. She swallows hard.
She can practically hear the smile in the Paintress’ voice as she says, “Intrigued by such a reward, hm? You’ve always wanted that.”
Alicia gestures between her and Maelle, questioning.
“Alicia, I do not understand your flailing,” the Paintress says. “Use your words, dear.”
Alicia’s neck pulses, charred vocal cords grinding painfully as she forces out, “H-how…?”
“Ah,” the Paintress says. “I see. It’s quite simple.”
She raises her other hand. Paint gathers at her fingertips—thick, luminous, alive. It pulses faintly, like a heart.
“You will look like her,” the Paintress says. “Sound like her. Act like her. Be held the way she is held.”
Alicia hates how much that last part snags in her brain. How bad she wants that.
“I’ll show you,” the Paintress says. “Come. Let me fix you.”
The Paintress presses her paint-slick fingers to Alicia’s face.
And the color pours.
It crawls across Alicia’s skin, seeping into scars, smoothing them away. Her monochrome flesh warms, gaining color and life. Hair darkens, lengthens. An eyeball regrows in an empty socket. Features shift, bones subtly rearranging with wet, sickening sounds until—
Maelle looks back from Alicia’s reflection in the Paintress’ cracked skin.
The transformation finishes with a sharp intake of breath.
Alicia gasps.
Sound.
She claps a hand—one that isn’t veined in painful scar tissue—over her mouth, eyes wide in shock. She swallows—and when she speaks, the voice that comes out is not her own.
“…I—”
It isn’t rough, smoke-thick, and painful.
It’s Maelle’s voice. Soft. Familiar.
Alicia’s eyes fill again, horror and awe tangling in her chest.
She’s really her. Maelle.
“There,” the Paintress says, pleased. “Better.”
Alicia looks over herself several times. Same clothes. Same red hair. Same eyes, she’s sure. But despite her new appearance, she can still feel the scarring pulling tight across her entire body. The constant pain that infects her entire existence is still present. She can’t see out of one eye.
The Paintress must have noticed her realize this because she says, “It doesn’t fully fix you. Consider the Paint more of a…glamor. It’s hiding your flaws. Making you look better. But they’re still there, underneath, so be sure not to make it too obvious.”
Alicia’s throat aches in the same way it always does when she tries to speak, but this time, full sentences come out with ease, “Maman, this isn’t right. I can’t—”
The Paintress sneers, and a slicing blast of form knocks Alicia backward into the surf. She lands with a splash and a small whimper.
Around her, color bleeds off of her into the water. She lifts her shaking hands to see them white again.
“Perhaps I was being too nice to you, Alicia, when I gave you the illusion of choice,” the Paintress hisses, drawing close to Alicia. “You will do this. You don’t get to say no.”
Alicia rasps in response, but when the Paintress lifts her hand sharply, she shuts up immediately, lowering her head.
“Obedience. Good. I taught you as such,” the Paintress says. “And don’t you think about telling them the truth once I depart. You will play this part for as long as I need you to. Failure is not an option.”
Her head then inclines to look at the color bleeding off of Alicia. “Ah. Paint is Paint. If you get wet, it will begin to wash off. Then you’ll have to stain yourself anew. If that happens, you should be able to salvage the residue to cover yourself again. But you’ve never been the most talented…in anything…so I worry how well you’ll be able to pull that off. So do well to not let that happen.”
Alicia gets out of the water, shivering. The Paintress Paints over her again, and the color of warm life embraces her scarred skin like a blanket.
She hates that she finds it comforting.
The Paintress removes her mask slowly. “Do not disappoint me, Alicia. There will be hellfire if you do.”
“Yes, Maman,” Alicia murmurs with a voice that is not her own. Not really.
The Paintress turns away.
She lifts Maelle effortlessly, cradling her broken body like a doll. In a flash and whirl of black smoke, the two of them are gone.
Behind her, Alicia—now wearing Maelle’s face—stands shaking in the red light.
The waves roll in.
Gustave stirs faintly in the sand.
And Alicia steels herself, wiping her eyes with Maelle’s hands, preparing to play her part, just like her mother wants.
Because that’s what puppets do.