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Belle pretends.
She’s actually gotten very good at it these past few nights, whenever a certain winged thiren sneaks in through the windows that so happened to be unlocked. Like clockwork, the dainty click of heels are sharp in the silence as they near her bed, where a dip is soon felt and cool fingers ghost against her cheek. A shallow gasp escapes her, and she attempts to chase after the faint touch. It earns a laugh, the sound as soft as the feathers that cocoon her.
Somehow, in the dark, each of her senses are heightened: the slide of skin, the whisper of fabric, and the strawberry-scented exhale that glances off the tip of her ear, which is surely reddened by now. She fights to keep her own breathing even and steady in a facsimile of slumber. Arms surround her torso, and she instinctively nestles further into them, murmuring incomprehensibly.
“Belle?” a voice calls quietly, testing the waters. It is bereft of the usual drawl that accompanies its words, softened to something more tender and genuine.
The girl in question isn’t sure if her companion believes her to be truly asleep, but her head is nonetheless pressed against a hummingbird heartbeat, fingers carding gently through her hair. Silence envelopes them in a shroud, save for the signature hum of hovercrafts outside. A cold breeze finds its way into the room and causes the wings around her to tighten their embrace. In response, Belle shivers instinctively before tucking her face into a bare shoulder.
“Silly girl,” the voice chuckles, laced with fondness. A pause, then, indescribably wistful: “You remind me so much of her, you know. Every time I think I’m capable of handling things myself, or all those times I think I’ve got each possibility and risk accounted for… Somehow you’re always there to pull me back, to remind me I’m not alone. Just like she once did.”
Belle twitches, curls closer until her hands grasp the delicate lace of a nightgown. A muffled sigh escapes her as she nuzzles closer.
Remielle’s fingers still, trembling in place.
“Beli… I don’t think I could ever forget the day I lost her, even if I wanted to. And it’s not fair, Belle—to either of us—that I keep seeing traces of her in you.” Lips press to the top of the proxy’s head and ruffles her hair as their owner continues, “What’s more dangerous is how I see who I used to be in your eyes, and it scares me. Once again, there’s someone I can’t afford to lose. I… I don’t know if I’m strong enough to endure that kind of heartbreak again.”
The air has grown heavier, the beginnings of a rainstorm pattering against glass panes. All the while, Remielle remains a constant presence, comfortable and familiar as she hums a fractured lullaby. Whether to soothe herself or the both of them, Belle cannot tell, but it at least helps ground her, lest memories spiral to the moment her dance partner was prepared to leave her behind again.
Still, the fear lingers despite her best efforts, and perhaps the late hour is affecting Belle more than she would care to admit, but her hold grows desperate, clutching onto the winged thiren like a lifeline. In lieu of words, she opts to tangle their limbs together and burrow further into the other girl’s neck. Please don’t go. Don’t go where I can’t follow.
Much to her chagrin, tears bead at the corner of her eyes. She is suddenly so very tired of their fragile choreography, composed of nebulous questions and equally tenuous answers. It’s been the same song and dance ad nauseam, and she wishes Remielle could be comfortable enough to be straightforward with her thoughts. No more riddles, not when the ex-Void Hunter has caged herself in isolation, trapped only with anecdotes and experiences from a bygone era.
I’m here, Belle had wanted to say that night, mindful of her plumage as she painstakingly toweled it dry. Remielle’s feathers were beautiful—iridescent under certain lighting—and though the lanterns around her room were nothing compared to the sun, they were still able to catch the lustrous hues, scattering small rainbows across every surface. The moment between them was like a dream: the words exchanged, the quiet understanding, the implicit trust. It had been in part due to this confidence that Remielle spoke of Colonel Vike, her voice so achingly soft that Belle felt the pain echo in her own chest. Hearing the stories from then, the proxy wondered how the winged thiren could ever possibly compare her oldest and dearest partner to her partner of today.
Colonel Vike, one of the first Void Hunters to be honored, setting the precedent for lauded warriors to come.
Colonel Vike, responsible for pushing the Dark Wall back thirty-seven kilometers and enabling civilizations like New Eridu to thrive decades later.
Colonel Vike, always too perceptive for her own good and ever duty-bound to the last of her breath.
Belle had wondered why the colonel was left out of Remielle’s earlier recounting of the original Void Hunters and their true personalities, but she realized then that there had simply been too much to say. And so, she remained silently drying as the winged thiren continued on.
Beliora Vike, who would claim to be the voice of reason but always acquiesced to Remielle’s requests, no matter how inane.
Beliora Vike, who would return to damp bedsheets and take time to carefully dry a set of feathers amidst her verbal disapproval.
Beliora Vike, who preferred to keep to the sidelines until she no longer did and paid the price for it.
(Beliora, who never once denied her closest companion a dance in all their time together.)
The remainder of their time spent was a quiet one. For some reason, Belle had been reluctant to part ways, despite Remielle’s patient reassurances. It might have been how the space lingered with things left unspoken, too much to address in the span of a single night, but it ultimately took her an additional hour to settle down for sleep. When she closed her eyes, she could not forget how her partner’s countenance had been gentled by gratitude and—dare she say—affection.
Back in the present, Belle sighs and stirs, eyelashes fluttering against Remielle’s skin. She knows better than to discredit Phaethon’s own contributions, but their name felt moreso a footnote in the annals of history compared to the original seven, whose achievements were featured in high regard and whispered as legends. Sometimes, it was still difficult for her to reconcile her partner-in-crime with the lieutenant colonel in the Guard of Staves, to run her fingers over Remielle’s calloused palms the same way she once had over old textbook pages depicting the former Void Hunter as steadfast and solemn.
Disparity of time aside, Remielle was an enigma that Belle was still slowly learning to fathom, regardless of their deep-seated bond. It mattered little that their memories had been shared; the exchange had consisted of slivers far too small to fully comprehend in such a short amount of time, hence their stories divulged over lantern-light. That Belle heard the voices of a cherished past had been privilege enough, and to know that her partner-in-crime did not mind in the least raised many inexplicable emotions within her.
All this to say: she could not—cannot—understand what Remielle saw in her.
So whenever the former Void Hunter in question casts her gaze to a past she was not fully privy to, she stays.
She pretends. She’s gotten very good at it, after all.
She will always take Remielle’s hand and sit with her quietly until the storm passes, until she can recognize the girl beside her as Belle and not Beli.
By now, the moon has reached its peak, casting milky beams throughout the room. Though phantoms cling to the projected starlight overhead, the warmth of the winged thiren above her is very much real, as are the feathers that grace her cheek. Belle readjusts herself so that her arms wind firmly around the other girl’s neck, and in return, Remielle shudders before sinking deeper into the embrace. Her voice is especially fragile when she resumes speaking.
“Grief is a funny thing, isn’t it? It takes and takes, and yet… it also somehow gave me you.”
Belle’s breath hitches.
“Maybe I’m the silly one.” Remielle’s thumb smoothes gently beneath the proxy’s eyes, catching teardrops along their paths. “My story’s already over for the most part, but I’m still here, wanting to continue it with you. It’s selfish, I know, and I do sometimes wonder… what the others would say, if they could.”
They would want you to be happy, Belle thinks, perhaps audaciously. And if the time ever comes for us to say goodbye, however long, I think I would want you to be happy, too.
The storm outside thunders on. Remielle, at last succumbing to the throes of slumber, deposits her full weight atop Belle, complacent. Her wings fluff outward and act as a second blanket, enveloping them in additional softness as she snuggles closer. It’s Belle’s turn to brush her lips against Remielle’s forehead, earning a contented hum.
“Sweet dreams, Belle,” are the last murmured words before her partner’s breaths slowly even out.
Soon, morning will come, and with it, a different dance that is new as it is familiar. Remielle will kiss her sweetly before she departs as silently as she came, a ghost with permanence in the form of stray plumage. Belle will rouse, tongue tingling with remnants of strawberry, and stare at the ceiling until her brother calls her down for breakfast. If she decides to tuck a few feathers behind her ear, that is her own open secret, heedless to the bewilderment of her companions.
But for now, when Belle follows Remielle shortly thereafter in rest, there is no pretense, only their heartbeats pattering against the rain.