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8 Years Old
There were many things Lune knew about her parents. They had high expectations, but it was always in the interest of ensuring their family's future. They were studious, and firm, but knew how to give in small ways that kept Lune or her siblings from crumbling entirely. Her mother made the best hot chocolate, and the smell of her father's tobacco clung to his coat just enough to be distinguishable when Lune hugged him hello, and they both enjoyed very specific sections in the research hall.
They were well defined in their space. Moving in tandem, but they were so clearly separate. There was nothing that tied one to the other save shared goals and those unspoken ties that defined a family. Sometimes, those ties were one of Lune's hands in each of theirs, one single line painted different shades of black and tan and gold. Sometimes, it looked as though they could drift in opposite directions, and perhaps they would be happier for it.
It all served to make Lune wonder why she was different.
She sat in her father's study, patient in a way most eight-year-olds couldn't dream of managing, and played with the string around her pinky finger. In all her years of life – and if you asked her she was old and wise at this point – she had never really been able to figure out where it started. It was thin, and gold, and wrapped gently around her right pinky. From there it stretched out and through the center of her father's study door, as if it wasn't there at all. She tugged until there was enough slack to weave it through her fingers; it felt smooth like the silk her parents saved only for special occasions, and light enough she could almost forget about it, sometimes.
"Lune, pay attention." Her father chided, and Lune abandoned the small string in favor of sitting bolt upright in her chair. It unraveled and pulled taut through the doorway again, leaving a faint dusting of gold on her fingers that slowly seemed to sink into her skin.
"Yes, Papa." She settled her hands on the desktop, one folded over the other, and swallowed past the sudden tightness in her chest. Her father eyed her for a moment, a curious furrow in his brow, before he turned back around to the chalkboard he'd set up. It was scuffed with old chalk marks, a testament to previous lessons both of her older siblings had already endured.
"What was I talking about?" With one hand, he smeared the chalklines across the board.
"The structure of a journal pictos, and how its design specifically lends to longevity." She repeated dilligently, but the increased furrow in his brow was enough to make the band around her chest squeeze the smallest bit tighter.
"That was five minutes ago, Lune. Where is your mind, today?" A well-timed tug on her pinky answered for him, but he gave no indication he'd noticed. Lune's gaze fell to her hands, and his with it. She stared for a moment until his hand fell gently over hers. "You can go practice guitar after this lesson. For now, you have to focus."
"I know." There was a note of petulance in her voice. She did know. It was most of what she'd known for most of her life. Sit down, learn, defend their future. There wasn't a child in Lumiere who wasn't intimately familiar with the spectre of loss on their collective horizons.
Her father sighed, "Okay. You have two minutes. Tell me what's on your mind, so we can move past it, and focus on what matters."
At first, Lune brightened. Two entire minutes! But ten seconds past, then twenty. Suddenly, the prospect of actually asking about this thing that had been a part of all eight years of her life felt too big, too much, too uncertain. She worked her way around various sentences and questions, how to posit them in a way that didn't sound like she was asking something that should be obvious.
"Do you and Maman–" She paused, twisted her fingers together beneath her father's warm palm. "Are you…connected?"
"In what way?" The curiosity in his voice gave Lune the bravery to push forward.
"Literally." She tucked her pinky in her palm. "A thread or a string or…something that connects you."
"Lune…" He seemed to search her, then, something like concern written across his face. His fingers flexed over hers before he pushed himself up. Her father always looked so stern, when he was working through something. His features set hard into contemplation, the line of his shoulders set straight and still. "I know we have been spending some time apart, but your mother and I love each other very much. We're just busy. You know that, you don't have to worry."
Lune's fingers curled tighter into her palms. Of couse she knew that. She was eight, she was quite certain she knew a great many things, and was always determined to know more. That wasn't what she meant.
"If it makes you feel better–" He patted himself down, making a show of it. He brightened, and grasped his hands around nothing at all. "Aha! There, the ties that bind."
His hand dropped to her shoulder, and she fought back tears. "Are you ready to focus now, little one?"
It didn't make her feel better. "Yes, Papa, I'm ready to focus."
Later, she would sneak away to the library. Later, she would find that there wasn't a section or a book that talked about strings around fingers, or the girl on the playground to which those strings led. Later, much later, Lune would determine she was very much alone, and lingering on it was nothing more than a distraction.
20 Years Old
The petals that year cut particularly deep.
Lune had stood in the flurry of them until she couldn't stand the feather soft feel of them against her skin, and then she'd calmly turned and walked away from the harbor. And walked, and walked, until the Crooked Tower stretched endlessly above her, and the petals were so far behind her even the sickly-sweet smell of them had faded. Here, the breeze lacked its typical bite of salt and brine, and she could almost pretend she was somewhere else.
They failed. Her parents had failed.
Her entire life was built on their research, on the steadfast belief that with enough determination and enough know-how, they could actually, honestly end this. She'd been so convinced. All those hours spent in libraries, in labs, painting pictos on skin and charting courses. There had never been another expedition so prepared. It had to be them, they had to be the ones. But they weren't. It was another year later, and the harbor was covered in flower petals, and her parents had failed.
Lune's hand gripped the old, rusted railing as she climbed. Her chest ached, and there was something deeper to it. More than just the failure, and the nag of hopelessness she refused to acknowledge, and the weight of what her parents' failure meant for her. It felt stronger and heavier the higher she climbed. But that was okay, maybe the Crooked Tower could be the one place she allowed herself to feel, before she had to dive back in to the expectations that would follow in the wake of this year's Gommage.
It didn't occur to Lune she was following something until that ache coalesced into a shape.
She was dark, and quiet, with one arm laid across her stomach and the other over her eyes. It couldn't have been comfortable, laying there on the wooden planks, head pressed against the floor, shoulders flat. Warm afternoon was giving way to chill evening, and the breeze off the coast was enough to raise gooseflesh across her arms. Her chest rose and fell in uneven, restrained bursts.
Thread tangled on the ground between them, soft gold and translucent in the moonlight. Lune tried to trace its progress between one finger and the next.
"I can…hear you, you know." For a moment, Lune thought she was going to say something else. For a moment, she swore the woman's eyes dove to the floor before lifting to meet her own. "Are you going to stand there in the doorway all night, or are you going to join me?"
The moment passed.
It was inevitable, the way Lune's feet acted of their own accord, gently moving her towards the open platform where the woman lay. She lowered herself to the ground beside her, and she was right, there was nothing comfortable about it.
"I'm usually up here alone." Lune tipped her head to the side. She'd never been this close before. Her eyes were green, and bright, and echoed the ache Lune had felt as she'd climbed the tower.
"Yeah, well." Green eyes turned away. "I couldn't be there. At the harbor."
"Hm." What could she say? Her parents failed. I'm sorry. In twelve years, it would be her turn, and she wouldn't. But that didn't fix what was already lost. A bouquet, once picked apart petal by petal, could not be reassembled. Once turpentine mixed with paint, the color was gone. The woman's breath hitched again, and Lune could feel it. What bouquet had unraveled? What paint was left but the remnants, but the soft, clear blue of an ache with nowhere to go?
Lune shifted until she was laying on her side facing the woman. She reached out with one hand to lace their fingers together, and she could feel the soft satin of thread woven between each finger, gathered against their palms.
"I don't even know why I'm crying, it's–" Her breath caught, and she draped her arm over her eyes again, burying whatever tears gathered in them in the crook of her elbow. "I thought maybe–"
"I know." Lune wasn't use to gentle, but somehow she found it, anyway. Her thumb traced lightly where their hands met, "I thought maybe, too."
"At least we were wrong together, hm?" The woman sounded choked, grasping at something light when everything felt so heavy. It must have worked to some extent, because the hitch in her breath slowly settled and evened into soft but short puffs. Their fingers remained laced together. There was a warmth there Lune couldn't quite place, something big and unknown, the kind of something that would have her tied up for hours in a library. "I'm Sciel."
I know. The words came to mind unbidden, and Lune buried them. She did know. She had known for years, since the moment she'd discovered the thread wrapped around her pinky led to the bright girl at the harbor and she'd had to ask the nearest person who might have an answer. She'd known the shape of that name since before she knew letters. Her lineart was a ghost in every formative memory.
Aha! There they are, the ties that bind. Her father's voice echoed, and Lune squeezed Sciel's hand against the memory of it.
"I'm Lune." She said instead, and she wondered if Sciel knew, too. If she did, there was no acknowledgement of it. Only an answering smile shaped around the echo of grief before she looked back up to the stars. If there was a moment to ask, it wasn't this one.
A wind caught in the space, and loose thread settle on and around them, until it was a tangled web draped over the curled shape of them. Lune was, for once, content to let the feel of it go unquestioned. Their fingers remained laced together until evening gave to night, and night gave to the soft, orange glow of morning.
27 Years Old
It had been raining for nearly two weeks. Dark clouds sat low and heavy across the whole of Lumiere, and the wind rattled every window every hour of every day. Old books told of similar storms in the days after the Fracture. Storms that drenched the city day in and day out for weeks. No one alive could recall, but Lune had a habit of believing in her research.
It wasn't the rain or the wind or the dark press of the clouds above that had her pacing the halls of her apartment. The thread around her finger was pulled taut, and no amount of movement produced any slack. Her heart slammed against her rib cage in a sharp staccato. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't breathe. She pressed a hand against her chest and willed herself to pull a breath in against the tight band around her chest.
One week, three days. Lune had read the article in the newspaper. Death was a close companion to the residents of Lumiere, but there was a calm predictability to it. It was hardly ever old age or illness that claimed their lives. Accidents were rare, and largely industrial in nature. When it occured outside of the Gommage, it carried a particular weight. One week, three days Lune had been contending with a grief that wasn't exactly hers, but felt personal all the same.
The beat of her heart turned panicked; were her fingers going numb? Everything was so cold.
At some point, that grief had turned to void. Lune had shoved so much of herself into her research and her preparations, it was almost a relief to be free of feeling for someone else, even for just a moment. Of course there was a worry, but. What little she knew of Sciel was one night in a tower, and smiles in passing on street corners. The happy way her hands curled around Pierre's arms. The mischeif in her eyes as she drew the next tarot card. Distant, but pleasant observations. Grief was to be expected. A reckoning of some sort was to be expected.
Her fingers were numb. She couldn't feel the door handle underneath them.
She hadn't thought to prod at the feeling, or lack thereof. Sciel was entitled to handle things in her own way, and her own time, and Lune had no claim over that process. She'd all but ensured it, when she'd chosen her path towards the Expedition over whatever connection they had to each other. Sciel had clearly chosen another path, or hadn't known there was even a path to choose.
Her shoulders were wet. Oh.
Lune couldn't breathe as she stood at the edge of the dock, the ocean churning in front of her. She was so cold, so cold. For the first time since a moment in the crooked tower had allowed her some space to feel, Lune felt a sob climb up her throat. When had she gotten to the harbor? Was that saltwater on her tongue?
Her right hand stretched towards the sea, where the thread disappeared into the rain and the fog.
"No." The wind swallowed her plea, so she said it again. And again and again and again, louder and louder until even the wind couldn't take it from her. She forced slack in the thread and wrapped it around her palm, gripped it with both hands and pulled. "No, nonono."
She turned until it was over her shoulder, and she was holding her right hand to her chest, where her heart still pounded too fast, too fast. The balls of her feet dug into the wooden planks of the dock, but the rain made them slick. Her knees hit the ground, so she crawled, instead.
"Please."
The rain and the wind were her only answer. The numbness had spread from her hands up her arms, and was beginning to settle in her chest. She pressed her forehead against the planks, her hand against her heart, and curled around the thread balled in her palm. If she could keep it warm, maybe it would mean something for the both of them. She laid there, and waited for the moment the thread would finally break.
32 Years Old
The thing was, Lune knew she wasn't dead. It was an assurance Gustave didn't have of Maelle; he had all the care, none of the certainty. It was perhaps the only reason she hadn't dug her heels in harder, insisted on remaining at the rendezvous point, and letting Gustave wander off into the wildnerness alone. They could both be too damn stubborn. But Lune knew Sciel was alive, somewhere, and certainly not at the rendezvous. She could afford just a little leeway.
Perhaps it was selfish. Perhaps the definitions of such things had shifted when their commander's head had rolled across the sand at her feet. At some point, Lune had stopped trying to look. She just knew, and that was going to be enough, nor was she going to provide any more information than was directly asked of her.
Knowing didn't stop the relief, however. Sciel appeared in the Gestral arena, and Lune's heart stutter-stopped in her chest. It only restarted when Sciel spotted her. It was as though the relief doubled, folding in over itself until it was hard to breathe but for all the best reasons. It was everything she could do to stay in place, not to rush out and take Maelle's stance in the arena just to be that much closer.
The tug on her pinky grew almost incessant, so she wrapped her hands around the railing to anchor herself. She couldn't confirm it, and she wasn't in the business of standing on facts she couldn't cite ten ways to Sunday, but she just knew Sciel was looking at her between attempts to parry Maelle's rapier.
It wasn't until they were scouting campsites that they finally found themselves within reaching distance of each other. They fell into lock step like it was rehearsed, and Lune felt warm in a way she hadn't since they'd set off from the docks in Lumiere. She wouldn't venture so far as to say the words 'whole' or 'complete,' but they were there, dancing around the back of her head like annoying gnats.
"Hey, you." Sciel bumped her shoulder against Lune's, her smile crooked. There was a skip to her step, but then, Sciel always seemed so light if you didn't bother to look beneath the surface. Lune, some how some way, always had a direct line. "How many journal entries does the Gestral Village get? Four? Five? A whole book?"
"Very funny." Lune rolled her eyes, but the smile on Sciel's lips didn't dim, in fact it seemed to get brighter.
"You've missed my humor, I know it."
I've missed you. But she bit the thought off before it could manifest into actual words. Something stuttered in Sciel's step, but she recovered with a huff of a laugh and something about the terrain.
"I'm going to take your silence as a yes, and change absolutely nothing." This time, Lune huffed a laugh. "No, this is the part where you say 'why yes, Sciel, I did miss… your humor."
"Yes, Sciel. I did miss your humor." As soon as the words were out, Lune regretted them. She could feel the smug satisfaction as much as she could see it in the grin on Sciel's face, the way her chin tipped up. It felt light and easy, and nothing on this continent should feel either of those things. Lune needed to focus; Sciel had never been good for that.
"Hm." Sciel paused, her footsteps stalling in the rough underbrush. Lune made it a few steps further before a small tug on her hand had her pausing as well. She looked first to her pinky, then turned to look at Sciel. Sciel who's hands were tucked into what counted for pockets on her Expeditioner's uniform. Sciel who was looking at Lune with a look on her face Lune, for once, couldn't quite decipher. "You're allowed to let yourself feel something other than what's expected of you, you know."
For a moment, Lune could only stare at her. There had been a time, a long time ago, when she might have entertained the thought. Years ago, in a tower, maybe.
Maelle and Gustave were almost out of ear shot, most of their Expedition was dead, and the role of Commander, though unspoken, had fallen firmly on Lune's shoulders. Lune had long since let that time pass.
"We're on a mission, Sciel, and that's what matters." In that moment, she meant every word. In that moment, Sciel seemed to believe her. She nodded, and stepped past Lune. Not without brushing their shoulders together in a way that felt almost gentle, not without a brief moment of hesitation on contact.
"Just. Think about it, yeah?" Her eyes darted down, a blink and you miss it moment, before she continued on through the underbrush to catch up with the others.
Lune stood still in the wake of her, and something ached. That chill settled back into her limbs, something she knew wasn't entirely her own. She pulled in a breath, held it, and released it slow. Aching in Sciel's stead was an old, familiar feeling. Ignoring it was just as familiar.
She waited for Sciel's footsteps to be faint ahead of her before she followed.
32 Years Old
"Stop, for a moment."
Sciel tugged at Lune's elbow, and Lune jerked it out of her reach.
"Lune."
"We'll need to scavenge. If we're going up into the hills, it is better if we have more than what we strictly need." She'd never seen snow before. All her research pointed towards too much risk, too much at stake. Did they really need another party member they didn't know tagging along? Did they need him so badly they were willing to traverse the mountain ridges to recruit him?
"Yes, yes, we're so very prepared. Lune." In reach again, Sciel tugged at Lune's shoulder this time.
"We aren't prepared, that's the point." There was an edge to her voice that played at something she hadn't felt in a long time. Sciel's hand burned a brand into her shoulder, and Lune couldn't tell if it was helping, or making things worse. She wanted to shrug it off; she wanted to hold it between both of her own; she wanted to tug it until it wasn't just her hand, but all of her. Maybe then she could get her mind to stop spinning over simple, immutable facts.
He was gone. Gustave was gone. And they were taking a detour through the mountains like they hadn't already replaced him.
"Lune, just–"
"We can't just–"
"Lune, stop." A sudden jerk on her right hand pulled Lune up short. All movement stopped, the breath stalled in her chest. A part of her almost didn't want to turn around, didn't want to be disappointed in a coincidence, but something small and traitorous like hope had her looking back.
Sciel stood with both feet planted. Her eyes were wide, and there was something uncertain about them. It wasn't an expression Lune was accustomed to seeing on her face. She was easy confidence, a willingness to accept whatever came next that told of something deeper and devastating. Lune's eyes dropped from Sciel's expression to her hands.
They were wrapped in gold string. It was balled up in her hands, wound around her wrists. Her fingers held tight, and she was slightly leaned back against the pull from Lune's own hand. She was pulling. She had gathered the string in her hands, and physically tugged Lune to a stop.
Purposeful.
"You–" Lune started, stopped, stepped forward to allow just enough slack she could wrap a loop of gold string around her palm and feel the gentle warmth of it. "How long?"
"Breathe, Lune."
"How long, Sciel?" There was something tightening around her chest. It was shaped like her father's disapproving stare every time she spent too long staring at her hands, like I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone for years on end, like a storm at the harbor and the taste of copper on her tongue after screaming herself hoarse. It tightened and tightened until Lune couldn't tell if she was relieved or angry or just suffocating.
"Always."
A noise escaped past Lune's lips, then. Something guttural and entirely without her permission. The word burrowed itself in her mind, bracketing memories upon memories of burying herself in libraries, of watching Sciel wrapped in someone else's arms, of turning away and choosing to move on rather than let herself be buried by delusions. Always. The thought was so big Lune could choke on it.
"Hey." Lune felt the warmth of Sciel's fingers as they wrapped gently around her wrist. Some anchors would hold a boat steady, and others would drag it under as the tides rolled ever higher. Her eyes found Sciel's, and she couldn't tell if she was anchored, or drowning. "Hey. Take a breath for me."
Breathe in.
"There you go."
Breathe out.
Sciel released her wrist, only to rotate her hand and run those same fingers against her palm, lace them through Lune's. Lune thought, suddenly, of the Crooked Tower. Of that quiet space where all of her questions, all of that endless need to know, had settled. Where it was just the two of them, hand in hand, learning how to breathe in the wake of newfound absence.
But this wasn't the tower, and it had been a long time since Lune had let herself stop asking. Everything, always, until her breath ran out and her insatiable curiosity hit bedrock.
"Why?" Lune broke the silence, but not their connection. Something familiar thrummed through her in response, something so unmistakably hers but not hers all at once. Sciel's grip on her hand tightened, a subtle movement. But then, Sciel had always been good at only betraying how she ached in small ways. Lune realized perhaps she'd always had an unfair advantage. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Sciel leaned back, and when had she gotten so close? When had she pressed so near the warmth of her was noticeable only once it was gone?
"You are the smartest person I know." There was something matter-of-fact in Sciel's tone, a soft teasing in the faint smile at the corner of her lips. Always smiling. Always smiling, even when she hurt. "Lune. You know the entire history of Lumiere. You know the pictos used by each Expedition, the chroma it takes to maintain the barrier.
"You've spent most of your life studying our world and what we need to do next." Sciel lightly traced a line of pictos up Lune's arm, trailing warmth in her wake. "If this–"
Her hand in Lune's held tight, until the warmth of the golden connection between them felt almost too much. "If this was something you had studied, and deemed fit for little but longing–"
Oh.
"Then I figured I could wait until you decided it was fit for something more."
And had Lune ever heard Sciel's voice like that? Soft, almost hopeful but still aching around the edges. What would Lune have done with her life, had it not been laid out for her by her parents? Had she not been redirected at eight years old, told to focus, there were more important things than childish daydreams about golden strings and fated connections. Would she have found Sciel, then? Would this, whatever this was, have been a priority?
If their world wasn't falling apart. If they didn't live their lives on a timer. If they weren't divided between those who do, and those who dream?
"I thought I was alone." She was eight years old. Her father was lecturing her on pictos, and she dared to ask him a question about the little gold string wrapped around her finger. He made up an answer, because such things didn't exist; she was alone.
Sciel pressed her forehead to Lune's. She felt warm, warm, warm. Golden thread spooled around their feet.
Aha.
Gustave was gone. Their expedition was in shambles. They were heading into the mountains entirely unprepared for the cold. Lune had never felt more unmoored.
"You're not alone."
There they are. The ties that bind.
32 Years Old
Maelle was painted sad around the edges. It was something Sciel had noticed long before they'd ever left on their expedition. It was something Lune had taken note of in an almost clinical, this is who she is fashion. No one was shocked, when the young teen had signed up for the same expedition as Gustave. No one was shocked when she didn't flinch at the "you may die" speech.
No one was shocked when, after the world ended for a second time and only a few of them remained, Maelle's steadfast determination was still bracketed by the soft brush strokes of grief.
Lune had been so full of questions, since she'd been repainted on that cliff side, since Sciel had reappeared next to her. She could barely breathe around the stampede of them, all sitting at the tip of her tongue, vying for attention. When Verso proved either evasive or tired or simply not knowledgeable enough, it was Sciel who stopped her from bombarding Maelle.
"Gentle." She'd said, and Lune almost asked why, until she caught sight of their resident Paintress. There was a literal world at her fingertips, she could shape it into something where she fit, and yet she still looked just off-center. A few shades out of place, a half-measure off tempo.
Maelle sat with her legs crossed, a small rock slowly turning over in her hands. Her eyes were fixed on the empty monolith. There was something about her, then, that felt…Lune couldn't place it. Empty? Like the ache of something missing.
"We should go sit with her." Lune hadn't realized she'd been staring, hands hovering over her journal idly, until Sciel broke her out of her thoughts.
"Hm." She turned her attention back to the journal, and weighed whether or not her desire to go sit at the cliff's edge with Maelle was her own, Sciel's, or something that belonged to the both of them (as so many things did). Sciel waited patiently for a moment before declaring she was going to go, and Lune could follow, if she wanted.
Maybe it was better, if it was just Sciel. Lune watched her settle in beside Maelle, watched the gentle way she rocked their shoulders against each other until Maelle couldn't help but smile just around the edges. Sciel was gentle to Lune's sharper edges. She had the experience, when Lune had only practicality. It didn't stop her from feeling, though. It didn't stop her from wanting to dig into every little thing that brought a frown to Maelle's face until she could break it down to its bare parts, and find a way to make it better.
Right. She was getting nowhere. There was a knowing twinge in her chest that definitely wasn't hers, when she finally closed her journal, hid the pictos away, and made her way to the cliff side.
"I'm not sure I could." Maelle was saying, pausing a moment when Lune settled on the opposite side of her from Sciel. "Hi, Lune."
"Hey, you." She met eyes with Sciel over Maelle's head. There was something distant about her voice. Something small. The rock in her hand was smooth and warm and had clearly been turned over for the better part of the last thirty minutes, since Maelle had taken up her vigil by the cliff. Something about the look in Sciel's eyes told her that cautionary gentle from earlier was still in effect. "Not sure you could what?"
Maelle hesitated, so Sciel filled in the blanks. "We were talking about Gustave."
"Mhm." Maelle's gaze turned to the rock in her hands. She'd stopped rotating it, and it sat still in her palms. In one, almost coordinated motion, Sciel and Lune both pressed closer on either side of her. Bracketing her grief with what little support they could offer. Not a single one of them was unfamiliar with great loss. It was an accepted part of their lives, but it didn't make it hurt less. "Sciel asked if I could repaint him."
Oh. Why couldn't she?
"I asked why you hadn't." Sciel corrected gently, and there was something crushing in Maelle's expression. Sciel's faith in Maelle's abilities had been steadfast since the moment they'd learned of their reality, and Lune couldn't blame her. They'd both watched Maelle grow up, they'd seen how her determination could make reality of anything she set her mind to. So, then, why was she still grieving on a cliff side for someone she could bring back to life with some chroma and that same determination?
"And I'm not sure I could." There was some bite around the edges, and Sciel leaned forward to meet her eyes.
"You did it with us." She gestured between herself and Lune.
"Yeah, but you two were right there." Maelle shrugged her shoulders, that bite still there. Good. It was good to hear some life in her, from time to time. "Your chroma hadn't dissipated, and the two of you are. Well."
"…Well?" Sciel broke the confused silence that had fallen in the wake of Maelle's declaration. Maelle was observant, Lune knew that much. She could recognize a similar curiosity to her own, if not directed in different ways. But if love were enough to make paint permanent, then Maelle had it in spades, and they wouldn't be having this conversation. If love were enough, Gustave would be sitting with her at this cliff side, instead.
"Really, you two." Maelle dropped the rock into her lap in favor of grabbing their hands on either side of her. Lune's right, Sciel's left, each wrapped in golden thread. Lune bit her tongue until she tasted copper waiting for Maelle to finish. "Once I had Lune, of course I had both of you."
"Maelle, explain." Lune asked, and Sciel made a noise. "No, I've been good. I haven't been asking too many questions. Have I?"
"No. Go ahead." Maelle nearly laughed, a sound that felt like warmth and relief all at once. Almost enough to derail the oncoming storm. Almost.
"You know what this is?" She shook her hand in Maelle's.
"Yeah, I…yeah. I mean I didn't know before but–" Lune bit her tongue harder. Maelle could see it before? Her shock reverberated two fold, but there was a patience for which she could only thank Sciel buried in it. "My mother is a very talented paintress. She doesn't make mistakes, everything in her canvas has a place, and if she leaves something as-is, it's because she liked how it turned out."
Maelle pulled their hands into her lap. There was something gentle yet desperate about the way she clung to them. Lune squeezed her hand in return, and she knew Sciel was doing the same.
"Most of the time, there are defined subjects. The background can blur together a little bit, indistinct, but the foreground has more hard lines. You define space with the line art, and fill it in from there. I think…when Maman painted the two of you, she didn't pick up the brush all the way. Or there was too much paint, just a little pigment that trailed from one subject to the next."
Lune sat with the thought as Maelle continued. A mistake, then?
"She must have liked the way it looked. It must have been meant to be."
And suddenly there was a warmth not entirely her own at first, but easily accepted and adopted. If it was a mistake, it was a happy one.
"Once I had Lune, I had both of you. You're the same. Two people, one painting."
Lune hummed, soft, looking down at the grouping of hands in Maelle's lap. The two of them and their Paintress. "Thank you. For explaining."
Maelle nodded. Beneath their clasped hands was the rock, still warm, still alone. Sciel leaned in and pressed a kiss to Maelle's temple, and Lune pressed her shoulder closer. For once, all remaining questions died away.
"You'll find him, too, Maelle." Lune assured. Maelle huffed a breath, nodded again, and pressed her face into Sciel's shoulder.
The three of them wouldn't let go until Maelle's breathing deepened, and Verso was enlisted to carry her gently to her sleeping mat.
The End
When she was twenty-seven years old, Lune learned what cold was. Fingers numb, shivering, lips blue. She wouldn't know what warmth was again until days and days later, when Sciel was released from the infirmary and learning how to cover with a smile so people wouldn't ask questions. Lune swore she never wanted to feel cold like that again.
But then.
But then. She noticed it before Sciel even stepped through the strange fissure in the canvas. Something was wrong, something was so so wrong. Her mind filed through every book, every journal, every eventuality and could only compare it to just before Maelle had brought them back. After they'd gommaged. And oh, oh maybe that was it.
The cold settled first into her fingertips, then began spreading up her arm. Lune followed her golden thread through the fissure without hesitation then, and found Sciel's eyes almost immediately. Maelle was gone, Verso stood with apologetic eyes, and it was over.
Everything was over.
She was eight years old, telling her father they had failed. She was twenty years old, crying to the stars with the woman she'd loved since before she knew what love was. She was twenty-seven years old, pulling at a thread like a lifeline, but it was hopeless, wasn't it?
She was thirty-two years old, and it was the end.
Sciel offered the ghost of a smile. She'd always been so good at that. Finding a smile, finding that smallest bit of gentle, soft, hopeful even when she'd decided there was nothing left for which to hold out hope. She tipped her head, and Lune ached as the flower petals began to peel away. It started with her eyes, her mouth, down her shoulders and arms.
Lune sat on the dark ground as the thread began to unravel. The numbness had reached her chest, then. She gathered what was left of the golden string in her hands, pulled it into a loose pile in her lap.
She could've been eight years old, chasing Sciel around the playground. She could've asked for her name. She could've been twenty-years old, and they could've climbed that tower together.
They could've kissed long before it was something desperate, and too late too late too late.
Lune balled the thread against her chest, and watched as it unraveled, unraveled, unraveled. Until her own hand turned to flower petals.
She let out a breath, and closed her eyes.
Aha. There they go. The ties that bind.