Chapter Text
Verso is exhausted.
This is his common state for as long as he can remember, but this evening happened to be particularly tedious. Seated on the ground overlooking the dark arena, he watches the ongoing battle with dull eyes. Nobody is looking at him and is neither happy nor upset about it. He just wants to sleep, preferably forever.
Monoco took one look at him earlier, handed him an energy tint and lowered himself onto the ground nearby, a show of silent support, which is enough to make up for having abandoned him at the start. He, at least, looks like he could have kept fighting for a whole lot longer, but it’s not fair to hold either of these things against him. It’s not Monoco’s battle, he wouldn’t be here in the first place if it wasn’t for Verso.
He watches the battle like one would watch running water, simply lets his eyes fixate on movement without taking it in, and allows his thoughts to drift.
Their story was accepted without too much of a fight, and instead of relief all Verso felt was dull despair and old regret. He reminded himself that it wasn’t the same. If any of them had trouble believing their explanation, Maelle’s reaction would have torn their doubts to shreds.
It did nothing to help.
Surprisingly, Maelle took the reveal well, apart from the initial blank expression that made everyone panic and relocate to a nearby empty building, luckily Nevron-free. When the blankness faded, she was calm, even cheerful, which Verso could tell freaked everyone out even more. Gustave barely left her side all evening.
Verso wasn’t surprised at all. He was creeped out that she kept looking at both him and his father in turn, still tense, still a rift between them, but no longer overly mistrustful or hostile. He didn’t trust her to separate this world from reality, suspected that she didn’t see them for the stand-ins that they were. He shuddered, remembering the head on his shoulder and the disgust that filled him, the overwhelming need to get away.
Thankfully, she didn’t try to get closer or even speak to him directly. She remained on the side of the room where Gustave, Lune and Sciel kept her company, her hair still fiery red, but the change in her unmistakable. The confidence wasn’t new, but now it was fortified by something else, a missing piece of herself that made her whole.
Verso wondered what it was like.
It was very telling that it wasn’t Lune with her lips pierced in worry who insisted that they should continue.
“Are you sure?” Gustave asked, holding Alicia’s, Maelle’s, hands, crouched in front the chair she was sitting in. His legs must have been numb by then. “There’s no rush.”
“Gustave is right,” Sciel said, her voice gentle. “It’s a lot to take in one go, all of us should rest.”
“Papa is at camp,” Maelle reminded them. “We should be on the same page before we speak to him.”
This, Verso realized with a sinking feeling, was another problem, her undying faith that her father was a good person who could still be reasoned with. With newfound determination, he described the real Renoir’s crimes in as many details as he could, empathizing that he would have killed everyone in Lumiere at once if he could have, even children.
The word choice hit him too, like self-inflicted shrapnel, and he reminded himself that he wasn’t that person anymore. He would have deflected, used something more neutral, like erased, if he had been.
The past him… well.
By the way Lune paled he could tell that his words got through to her. Sciel’s jaw tightened, but only for a moment, and then she was back to her serene self again. She always had an easier time accepting death.
He couldn’t see Gustave’s face.
There was a waver on Maelle’s, a flicker of doubt in the way her eyelashes fluttered. However, it finally settled into that stubborn, familiar expression, and before she even spoke he knew she wasn’t convinced.
“You are exaggerating,” she stated with that peacemaker tone, as if he was the unreasonable one. “You don’t even know him.”
She stopped there out of politeness, even though he could guess what she was going to say. All the eyes in the room turned towards Verso’s father regardless.
She wouldn’t be moved, unless presented with indefinite proof, and that was exactly the situation he had hoped to avoid, especially now when they depended on the Curator to get inside the Monolith…
“In the beginning,” Renoir said, his voice somber, “Aline didn’t stay inside the Canvas the entire time. We spent weeks, months, years together, and then she’d leave for the same period or longer. We didn’t know the truth back then. The Continent was vast and mostly safe, so all of us traveled, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups. It was a far more peaceful time.” He made sure to look exactly at Maelle when he said the next part. “The only reason Aline had to stay indefinitely and began to lose herself is because she feared that once she left, your papa would destroy the Canvas entirely along with everyone inside it. Even then, he wouldn’t settle for a compromise. Even then, he refused to wait. Do you think that he would listen now, having waged this war for more than half a century?”
Verso stopped breathing. He hadn’t known that before. Had he known, would that have changed his prospective? Would he have done anything differently?
Maelle’s mouth fell open, then twisted unhappily. Hastily, Lune interjected: “We should come up with a plan, just in case it goes poorly.”
Sciel was already nodding. “This is a sound idea. What do you think, Gustave?”
“I think,” Gustave answered, glancing back at Renoir, “that we may just have something in mind.”
Monoco nudges him out of his recollection, gesturing wordlessly at the tint, and Verso doesn’t trust his friend to not literally force the issue. He obliges and downs the vial.
Lune has barely looked at him after expressing her displeasure. This is to be expected, especially at this moment when she is too busy to be distracted, but it stung a bit before having faded into indifferent numbness of the current moment. It hasn’t been long and he still has a few tricks up his sleeve, but a hopeless part of him is beginning to accept failure where gaining her trust was concerned, not managing to keep the balance between moving too fast and then not fast enough.
He’s losing his touch. He used to be much better at this. Apparently trying to be more direct and sincere took away a lot of his charm since it wasn’t nearly as practiced as careful dismissals and redirections.
At least Sciel still talks to him. She didn’t interfere when Lune unleashed her ire, but she did divert her friend’s attention elsewhere as tension hit the boiling point. Verso really likes Sciel. She has never known that other, real, version of him and that removes the layer of ever present doubt that is always there even when he’s with the closest of his friends, Monoco and Esquie. She doesn’t have any additional expectations of him other than being honest, which he is trying to get better at. She knows her inner darkness and is far less judgmental of others’.
Not to mention that fighting alongside her is always a blast, their elements complimenting each other perfectly and making them unstoppable.
Maelle is… complicated. Family usually is. She hasn’t been the same since the Forgotten Battlefield, which was to be expected, but the way it manifested wasn’t.
There were no tears. When the four of them emerged, victorious, from the area under the ruined bridge, they took in the scene in front of them in silence. It was in silence that they gathered what they could find and moved on. Not even Maelle suggested a search.
She hugged the metal arm to her chest the entire way to the exit and left it under the tree with no prompting from anyone, with a single whispered ‘I’m sorry’ and a gentle pat. There were no farewell speeches or goodbyes.
“Thank you,” she said later in camp when Verso found her on the landing. Instead of throwing stones or writing in the journal she had a needle in her hand. Her movements were clumsy, fingers prickled and a little bloody, but she worked on the strap with focused determination. “For trying to save him.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work,” Verso admitted.
“Yeah,” she responded, eyes still disturbingly dry. “Me too.”
“I will be able to augment your defenses if you bring me some eternal ice,” the Grandis trader said.
“Do you know where to get it?” Maelle asked before anyone could speak, pinning Verso with a look that would have tolerated no objections.
He hasn’t talked to her after the revelation yet and the thought of doing so makes him… uneasy. He isn’t scared of her. Just cautious, very reasonably. This is uncharted territory and he needs to remain oh his guard.
Gustave… It’s not like he’s purposefully trying to avoid the man, he just isn’t sure where they stand and he’d rather not make things worse. Verso’s position in the group is precarious as it is.
His father, the traitor, lured Lune to his side by gifting her with a picto that she was very interested in and then showing her this place. It was as if they forgot the man wiped their Expedition and very nearly ended the life of their teammate. Of course he saved the said teammate later, but it didn’t seem fair how much easier his words were accepted compared to Verso’s own (maybe it also had something to do with Renoir not spending a lifetime lying, he had to admit to himself). Also maybe Verso was somewhat miffed at the intrusion (guiding this Expedition is his job, damn it). So he immediately pointed out the feature of that particular enemy that Renoir couldn’t be aware of, having never fought it before.
They’ve been here for almost an hour. It’s Verso’s fault, really.
At a stab of almost childish irritation, he glares at his father, standing nearby, clean, unruffled and as put together as always. While he is grateful for Renoir’s timely interference, wants him to survive and is grudgingly willing to accept him as an ally, even if they don’t fully agree on their goals yet, Verso never expected him to stick around. He shouldn’t be here. These are not his Expeditioners.
“I see you’re feeling better,” Monoco notes.
“This is a waste of time,” Verso grumbles, turning away to stare at the fight again. The tint doesn’t fix the lack of sleep, but it does take away the edge off the exhaustion. If he absolutely had to, he could probably switch places with the current team again, but it doesn’t mean he is eager. They should have returned later, when the task would have been easier.
“It will pay off,” Monoco says. “If it keeps them from dying.”
Verso knows that, because he knew what the picto was before he even laid eyes on it, but he can’t help a guilty flinch. He had more or less given up on this particular timeline and was determined to weather it until he could try again, which resulted in him being more reckless than usual and taking the Expedition to Frozen Hearts much earlier than he normally would, a risky, foolish move that he can’t justify even to himself. Surprisingly, all of them survived the region unscathed. As a side effect, they have more or less demolished anything they have come across, the Nevrons weak in comparison.
They also know the Danseuse attack pattern by heart, which is coming handy.
Verso wonders if they retained some of the earlier memories since they seem to adapt a lot quicker, but it could be that he also became a better teacher with practice. He didn’t bother with a lot of explanations in the beginning.
“They are doing well,” Monoco observes, almost proud.
Indeed, Maelle, Lune and Sciel are a force to be reckoned with. They move seamlessly, gracefully around each other, Maelle and Sciel focused on destroying the clones, Lune maintaining the fine balance between retaliating against the Danseuse to keep any hits from landing and allowing the Nevron to absorb attacks from corresponding elements to avoid fully killing her, the task that previously fell on Monoco.
“We should wrap this up,” Verso says. “Before they make a mistake and get hurt.”
And before the real Renoir gets suspicious and decides to check on his daughter.
In the corner of his vision Gustave flinches slightly, just a miniscule movement. Both him and Noco have been sidelined for this, informed on no uncertain terms that if they wanted to fight, they were only allowed to challenge each other. Noco was very displeased to be kept at a distance from the action, but Gustave agreed surprisingly easily, subdued on verge of defeated.
If it were up to Verso, he’d keep both of them away indefinitely. He doesn’t think he can bear to lose either of them again. Maybe he can finally convince Monoco to send Noco back to the Gestral Village before they enter the Monolith (or Renoir’s drafts, they haven’t settled on their destination yet), he is making progress on that front. Once Gustave’s arm is retrieved, fixed and attached back in place, however, there will no longer be an excuse to bench him.
Pensively, he thrums his forearm with his fingers, the two of Esquie’s stones they found in Old Lumiere heavy in his pocket. Perhaps if the arm got displaced by some unknown Nevron…
“They look like they could keep going for a while yet,” Monoco observes, dubious.
Verso’s fingers clench into a forceful pinch. What in the world is he thinking? “We have enough. I’d rather not test our luck.”
“Your mood swings are disturbing,” Monoco informs him. Then he adds, “unfortunately, you may be right.”
“I have to agree,” Renoir says, speaking for the first time since the battle started. Despite his silence it was frustratingly easy to fight alongside him previously, their team of three sinking into synchronicity almost instantly, and Verso is stubbornly resentful about it. It doesn’t help that Renoir, in contrast, appears content bordering on elated with their arrangement, though he hides it well.
In front of them Maelle disposes of both of the clones with what would, to untrained eyes, seem like impossible speed, dozens of blades emerging from the ground in her wake. Sciel’s cards are scattered all over the battlefield, glittering like shards of a dark gem. Their chaotic movement is reminiscent of a flock of particularly vicious birds. The onslaught of elements has yet to slow down. In the midst of the storm Lune looks almost manic, motivated with a new sense of purpose.
“They won’t be happy about it,” Monoco says.
Verso swallows. Life forces difficult choices.
Gustave shifts from foot to foot. “Could we break her without killing her?” he says, sounding unsure. “We can gather our loot and run. Maybe return here later?”
Guilt hits him like a train. Of course Gustave would suggest the tactic that he can’t currently implement due to his missing arm, unaware that Verso contemplated robbing him of it for good. And why does he have to sound so damn embarrassed about it too, like he’s the one inconveniencing everyone when…
“Sounds good,” Monoco says, unburdened by Verso’s turmoil.
“Yeah,” Verso manages, voice choked. He clears his throat and gets to his feet. Monoco copies him, cracking his knuckles.
He can combine his light skills with Monoco’s Stalact punches. It’s an ice attack, which means they’ll need to time it carefully. He waits until the Danseuse’s affinity shifts into fire and she absorbs the flames to restore some of her health. Then he holds his hands in front of his mouth like a loudspeaker and, before he can reconsider, yells: “Lune! Disengage in five!”
“No, wait!” Lune yells back, just as Monoco shifts into a Stalact and leaps into action. Verso summons his sword and focuses the chroma, unleashing the light attack just before the giant icy beast slams the Danseuse into the ground. Without pause, Verso does the same with both of the clones, putting more force behind the strike and finishing them from a distance.
The Danseuse doesn’t move, but she also doesn’t dissipate. Success.
“Start running!” Verso commands and doesn’t lead by example until he’s certain that they listen.
Sciel is the first, seizing Maelle’s arm and tugging her along. Lune follows, just as Monoco shifts back and catches up to her. Gustave grabs Noco under an armpit and sprints up the stairs as the Patate loudly announces his displeasure at being manhandled.
A light barrier spreads over the arena, covering their escape. Verso is the last to follow.
They run, turning corners until they end up back in the empty building they started from. For a few moments, nobody speaks. Then, breathlessly, Sciel starts laughing, and one by one, they join her.
Then, a previously nonexistent manor door on the wall opens to let in Renoir, and they all stare at him in sudden silence.
“You could have done this the entire time,” Maelle says, and it isn’t a question.
“Far be it from me to ruin your fun,” Renoir responds, deadpan.
They don’t laugh again, nobody as much as smiles, but the previous tension doesn’t return either.
This, Verso could have reminded them, is a man who cut your captain’s head clean off his shoulders without a word or a shred of remorse. He says nothing, because he’s a coward, because he doesn’t want this moment to end, because there’s still a part of him that they are not familiar with and he wishes it stays this way.
But beyond that, shamefully, acutely, he realizes that he has missed his father. He has missed him, and he has no right to.
All too quickly, the moment fades and Lune pulls out the Converter. It hangs delicately from her fingers as she holds it out to Maelle, her eyes both excited and anxious.
Wordlessly, Maelle nods and accepts it. She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, pulls from the heap of Lumina stored in their pictos. The first one, she spends on herself. Then, relieved certainty replaces the hesitation, and she gets to work much faster, spreading the amount they have between the six.
She ignores Renoir as if he doesn’t exist and his father calmly ignores her back, seemingly accepting that he would need to do more to gain her trust and a way to her good graces. If he is angry or insulted at all, he doesn’t let any of it show.
She doesn’t ignore Verso, which is a surprise. Lune purses her lips, her aura radiating mistrust and discontent, but holds her peace. Verso will count a win wherever he can.
When the majority of their Lumina is spent, but there’s a decent amount left, Gustave stops Maelle by putting a hand on her arm. “Wait.” And then he turns to look at Noco.
Maelle’s face lights up and she grasps Gustave’s hand back. “Of course, you’re right!”
The Curator never offered. He never cared about any of them beyond their immediate use, tools to be discarded at a later date. This was their reality and Verso accepted it, desensitized to the point that the idea never even occurred to him.
Mentally combing through every protective picto they have, Verso takes a moment to wonder if Gustave knows that he just earned himself a lifetime ally in Monoco. Of course, he thinks with a wince, it doesn’t mean much with the average life expectancy of an Expeditioner.
It will be different this time, he recites mentally, and tries to convince himself he believes it.
Maelle improves their weapons next, significantly boosting their damage. Renoir’s cane is overlooked again, for obvious reasons, though he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he presents with her a pile of pink catalysts, wordlessly, like Lune did with the Converter.
Maelle’s eyebrows climb up, but she doesn’t question it or thank him. Verso remembers the Noirs on the Dark Shores and his father’s favorite method of letting out steam, and doesn’t question it either.
“You need to leave,” Maelle informs Renoir on no uncertain terms after she goes through the pile. “There is something we need to do. We will meet you on Visages Island when we are ready.”
Handing all that pure chroma to the Curator is out of question now, but they are still going to need it. Whether they will be able to stop the Painter from taking what he wants by force, however, is another question that fills Verso with dread.
This, all of this, is new. He is stumbling blindly and hitting every corner, but at least there’s hope that this time, he might actually get somewhere.
“Until we meet again then,” Renoir agrees easily, a deal closed. He is trying to appear unbothered, but to Verso’s eyes it’s obvious how relieved he is.
Verso is the opposite. He tenses, expecting the suggestion to extend to him.
Renoir leaves, the door shutting behind him and vanishing into nothing, and nobody looks in Verso’s direction. Subtly, he exhales. This isn’t an invitation, but it’s not rejection either. He can work with that.
Esquie is happy to have both of his rocks back and Verso’s heart pounds under a wave of anxiety. He isn’t in control anymore. He can try and argue, but other than that he has no means of dictating where they go from here.
In the previous timeline he made sure to get the last rock from Francois right before confronting his mother because he knew where they needed to go straight after, that there would be no time for detours. He could withhold that information and hope Esquie doesn’t remember in time. This would bar them from entering the drafts for certain, not until they are strong enough to do so. They would have no choice but to go to the Monolith first.
He grits his teeth. No, he is trying the honest route this time. He’s trying to be open and informative and letting other people to weigh in on the plan, like Lune wanted him to. Who could have predicted that trusting others to make good choices could be so nerve-wracking?
They could choose wrong and ruin everything. In fact, they almost did so in this very timeline.
Night is falling and Forgotten Battlefield is off the cards for today. They have to make camp and confront the Curator.
“Stay. In the back,” he almost snaps at poor Gustave, ignoring the warning glances shot his way. “Keep an eye on Noco. This could get very ugly very quickly.”
Historically neither Noco nor Gustave are a good combination with Canvas Renoir. He doesn’t want to try his chances with the real one.
“Papa wouldn’t,” Maelle objects, but even she sounds uncertain.
Verso just stares at her. He doesn’t know what his expression is, but Maelle swallows and doesn’t say anything for quite a while.
“Perhaps all of you should stay back,” she says eventually. “I’ll speak to papa alone.”
“He might lie to you,” Verso warns. “He isn’t strong enough to get what he wants by force yet, but I wouldn’t trust him to keep his word when he is.”
“Funny to hear that from you,” Lune says, voice bitter.
Verso looks at her. He wonders if there is more to her anger, if she, at some level, remembers all the times she ended up dead because of him, because of what he did or chose not to do.
“I know,” he says. “This is why I am the best person for the job. He also won’t be able to erase me. Not without help.”
He doesn’t know if it would be possible with anyone else. Mother is protecting them, yes, but it’s unclear if the protection would hold in the direct vicinity of a Painter, even if he is, technically, trapped elsewhere in the Canvas.
“It’s decided then,” Maelle states. “The rest of you, stay with Esquie. Verso and I will speak to papa. Don’t worry, he won’t hurt me.”
Verso wishes he could share her certainty. Questioning everything, he makes a conscious choice not to summon his weapons and leaves Old Lumiere behind.