Chapter Text
They say it always appears when you least expect it. A white thread of chroma that only the people connected by it can see clearly, wrapped around their body, sometimes a finger, sometimes a wrist. Others, especially those sensitive to it, can see their blurry outlines, and Maelle has the dubious honour of seeing all of them. When she walks through the streets of Lumière, it looks like she's inside a spiderweb, to the point those thing lines are a bit of a bother. Whoever a stranger on the street is destined to should be none of her business.
Some people don't have them. Most of them because they've lost their soulmates to the Gommage, after which the thread breaks and disappears in white petals. Some never get theirs, such as Emma, who doesn't seem to care that much for such things.
Gustave cares, though. He cares so much that Maelle has watched him be paralysed by it for as long as she's known him, always staring at it when she catches him off guard. Regret over letting Sophie go when the world itself mandates they're together, while that very same world caused the drift between them. It was quite absurd, that some people didn't stay together despite being made for each other.
The thread on his right arm, wrapped around his wrist and buried into his skin, and he's sipping on some coffee before going back to tinkering with his mechanical arm. Despite his apprentices best efforts, it still needs regular maintenance.
Maelle isn't doing anything special: Emma brought a basket of pastries and other sweets from the last reunion, and had left them all on the dining table, which meant it was a free for all. She munched on them, ranking them by flavour in her head, and arguing with him about the morals of dipping cookies in milk. 'It's a travesty,' she tells him, with the certainty of a fifteen year old that is a self-made expert in breakfast etiquette. 'The point is the crunchiness.'
'To some, maybe. But I like them better when they're a bit…'
'Soggy?'
Gustave clears his throat. 'Softer.'
Maelle rolls her eyes. 'So soggy, then.' She brings the pastry to her mouth, and Gustave huffs with a half-smile on his face.
And then it happens. She hears the crackling of chroma, and knows it doesn't come from Gustave's thread. It's too loud and clear to be his or anyone else's. It appears gently, wraps around her finger like a small friendly hand, and Maelle watches, eyes widening in shock.
'Maelle?' Gustave's smile has disappeared, and he leans closer to her. 'Is something wrong?'
She swallows the pastry as the thread of chroma seems to solidify around her ring finger, reassuring her that it's real. 'It appeared,' she murmurs, too afraid it's going to vanish if she is too loud. 'It's the— the thread.'
Gustave's expression changes as what Maelle said sinks in: His shoulders relax, he smiles, and there's a small shine to his eyes. 'Really? That's wonderful.'
'I-I guess, I'm just…'
'Surprised?'
'Yeah.' She smiles too, feeling her heart beating a little faster. The person on the other side… Have they noticed by now? Do they want to go outside and follow the thread as soon as possible, like she does?
Will they… like her, when they meet? They're supposed to, right?
He hears Gustave laugh, and she feels his mechanical hand on her shoulder. 'Come on, Maelle, there's no reason to be so surprised.'
She shrugs. 'It's not… that.' Not just that, more like. It's…' She keeps looking at it, as if that would solve the mystery on it's own. 'It's not white.' She sees Gustave frown. 'Are they usually gold? I thought they were white.'
Gustave hums, and Maelle just knows the gears in his brain are already turning as he reviews all his accumulated knowledge on the subject. 'I've never heard of a golden thread before. Does it feel strange?'
'Not really.' It's there, and it feels like chroma, nothing else. 'It doesn't hurt, or anything. It's just… there. And it's yellow.'
Honestly, it isn't that odd that it was her getting the odd looking thread. Too many things about her had always been out of place in Lumière in inoffensive, yet bothersome ways.
Gustave nods, deep in thought. 'I could ask Lune, but…'
Maelle looks away from her finger and follows the thread with her eyes, the vibrant chroma floating away through a window. She expects it to dip, chasing whoever is destined to her, but if keeps going up. She stands up from the chair rather abruptly, startling Gustave. 'I— I have to check something.'
The chroma thread follows her as she rushes out of the apartment and up the stairs of their building. She crosses paths with a neighbour, hurriedly greeting her before getting to the last floor, and reaches the access to the roof, which should've been locked, but never is. She climbs up and manages to stand on the tiles, breathing heavily as she notices just how high up she is.
Her heart seems to stop on the brief second the realisation hits her. For that little moment, even her fear of heights doesn't matter that much. Any giddiness she was feeling before evaporates, leaving behind nothing but confusion.
And dread, dread most of all.
The thread snakes over every single one of Lumière's buildings, floats between the statues of expeditioners, and it goes further than the harbour. She not only sees, but senses it go over everything she's ever known and then delve into the unknown.
The other side of her thread lands in the middle of the Continent.
Alicia is sketching when it happens.
She's leaning against her lion Glacis, it's fluffy mane a comfortable mass of static chroma. Her pencil moves indecisively on the paper, wondering if a specific part needs more shadow or not, if she's put too much somewhere else, if she should just give up on this specific sketch. It sounded like a simple and relaxing idea when she had it, to go to Frozen Hearts and sketch the scenery, but now…
She huffs through her nose, and gives the lion a little caress, to which the animal purrs. Maman would've never accepted this sketch as something worth looking at, and papa would've said it was a learning experience. Clea would've told her it was a waste of time where there were other things she ought to get better at first. Verso would just say it was a good drawing.
None of them are here, though, so it isn't as bothersome. Her disappointment in herself is like a blade that has grown dull from cutting into her too many times.
She doesn't hear the crackle at first, the sound mixing with Glacis' own chroma, but she feels it vibrate around her. It's inherently different from the energy used to form the lion, and it sneaks through the fabric of her gloves, etching itself on her grey skin. It undulates before her eyes, a golden thread dancing to the rhythm of the danseuses, either in celebration, or taunting her.
It takes Alicia a few seconds to understand, to process what this thread truly is. So similar to the one her father and brother have, that her sister once had before vanishing without a trace… And yet so different in the way it glowed like sunlight.
A soulmate. For her? This could only ever spell disaster, it must be an error in the tapestry of the Canvas. She was created unloved and she was left unfinished, tossed into this world to carry the sins of another girl on her shoulders. She wasn't meant to have this. The fact she has this… it must've been a mistake. That would explain the colour, too, as this sun-like gold doesn't belong to maman, or to the man trapped under the Monolith. Another Painter, then—
She stands up. Glacis does so as well and lets out a big yawn, blissfully unaware of Alicia's inner turmoil. A memory of her brother flashes before her eye — a Painter has been reborn into this world — and she tries desperately to remember when that was. Ten, twenty years ago? It must've been less than twenty. She can't see the Monolith from here, but it was on it's way down to 30. 35? 34?
Her quick breaths feel like nails scratching on her scorched throat. What is she supposed to make of this?
The golden thread offers no answer, floating away from the cave, all the way back to New Lumière.