Chapter Text
Paris, 1906
When the grief came it did not taste bitter. It did not taste sharp. It tasted ashen and dull, as though he had taken all the colour, all the life, all the joy with him in the fire.
When the funeral came, she almost did not attend. There was a war to fight outside their gates, you see. Funerals are a vulnerable environment. And if she had been in their shoes, she would have struck when they when and where they were weakest, depraved and cruel though it may have been. But she did attend, watched the garden walls, watched the influx of guests, watched her little sister, who was, like all of them, inconsolable. She watched her mother, too, once the picture of authority, commanding every room with her intelligent wit reduced to a palid shell of her former self. Something bitter twisted in her chest and it felt a lot like shame. And when she watched her father, still charming and warm, she only saw the dark circles beneath his eyes and the weight of his footsteps.
When people came to offer their condolences she merely nodded curtly or muttered a neutral 'merci' and nothing more. 'Sorry' would not bring her little brother back. 'Sorry' would not bring the retribution she craved. 'Sorry' would not dress her little sister's wounds and ensure she no longer felt pain, nor would it shake her mother and father from their listless bereavement. And as for her loss? This wasn't losing her prized sable hair brushes or her father's old pocket watch. The piano would not be played again. Their beloved family dogs would sit at her brother's closed bedroom door patiently, loyally, never for it to open. Her little sister would likely never laugh her delightful, infectious laugh the same way. Their mother would remain hollow. And their father... would eventually dive into hell to bring her back while she would be the one to pick up the pieces of this...loss.
When the sorrow came after she heard her little sister crying alone in her room, she would hurry past, fighting her own rage, her own tears, the urge to let herself breakdown but also to comfort her only remaining sibling. Her heart ached. She wanted to tell her it would be alright, that the pain in her throat and face would heal and ease with time. But how could she make such promises when she was still so furious with her? How could she when her mother had shirked all responsibility for one more lifetime with her dead son? How could she, when her father was solely focused on trying to find a way to reach his despondent wife? Worse still, how could she when she felt partially responsible? They should have been more prepared, she should have kept a closer eye on her sister; should have spoken to her brother about keeping her safe without stifling her creativity. Perhaps she should have simply been a better sister.
When the rage refused to subside she channelled it into what little work she felt inspired to do: find a way to make the Writers pay for what they had done. Her artistry became warfare, the little atelier adjoined to her bedroom became her forge, her talent for sculpting was moulded into an affinity for weaponry, and that was only during her fleeting moments at home. The majority of her days were spent gathering allies and attending council meetings in her mother's stead. Those meetings, that oppprtunity for leadership, had once been a prize she had been reaching for. Now they felt a great deal like pity and failure.
When she came home one evening to a note on the sideboard in the hallway addressed to her with only the words "Pardonne-moi, je t'en prie" written in her father's messy scrawl she understood immediately what he had done. So, she truly was alone. She spent a week making necessary preparations with allies, took drafts and sketches of the creatures she had worked on with her brother years ago and made her way into her father's atelier. She briefly considered telling her sister what she was doing, but told herself it was better this way. For her or herself she wasn't sure.
When she entered the canvas for the first time, she had no idea what to expect. She had not set foot inside it since she and her brother were teenagers. So when she opened her eyes and saw the desolation, all of her carefully compartmentalised grief came tumbling out all at once.