[ There is a gilded 45 on the Monolith, and Sciel is 20 years old.
The Crooked Tower is a new find, and one she's especially grateful for today. Today, with the suffocating blizzard of petals in the harbor, the Tower offers a respite from-...everything.
Her legs dangle over the edge of the platform: the drop beneath is dizzying. ]
- I know they're up there, Dad, but...can't really see the stars at the moment. [ There's a weak, lopsided smile as she cranes her neck, gazing up at the clouds above the Dome. Those distant specks of light would show eventually, but she finds herself desperately, painfully, wishing they could peek out...just for a moment. The need to talk to someone about anything, to fill the silence of loss of another Gommage with anything, is intense. ]
Maybe...they can still hear me? [ Sciel tilts her head the other way, sighing slowly into the quiet. ] Bonjour up there! It's me. Are you taking good care of everyone? ...I won't ask if you're watching out for the rest of us, but I hope you're at least giving all our loved ones the best you've got.
[ Or, if not that, then she lets herself hope they're at least comfortably nonexistent.
There's a stretch of silence, then an abrupt noise of realization: ]
Ah, merde. Left the bottle at the bottom...
[ So much for drinking herself into oblivion up here tonight. Not without a hike back down, anyway. ]
[Lune had thought... she'd really thought... Foolish, she knows now, to think her parents' expedition had succeeded and this year the Paintress wouldn't wake. Her parents are dead. She'll never see them again. But that doesn't mean their work is finished, only that she's the one who'll have to finish it.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she'll get back to work. Tonight she just wants to sit with her thoughts up in the Tower, where no one will find her.
She realises as soon as she arrives at the Tower's base that someone might have gotten here first. There's a bottle sitting forgotten at the bottom of the stairs, which she picks up curiously before peering upwards, as though she could see who might have left it. There's no one visible from the ground, but as she climbs, nearing her little hiding spot, she can hear someone speaking. And once she reaches the place, she peers in to see a girl about her own age, seemingly talking to no one.]
[ Sciel inhales sharply, surprised, but turns with an easy smile that blooms into something larger as she realizes -- ]
You saved me! Merci beaucoup. [ She sticks out an expectant hand, but quickly reconsiders, curling her fingers into the palm, withdrawing the arm as she continues to hold the stranger's gaze. ] ...S'only fair that you get at it first, since you brought it up with you.
[ Besides, she can wait. Sciel realizes she already feels a little better, considering her unspoken wish for someone to talk to had materialized so quickly.
To further invite the girl to stay, she shifts where she sits, making room at the edge. ]
If you were looking to mourn privately, I hope my company won't be too disappointing.
[The smile surprises Lune. There doesn't seem to be much worth smiling about tonight, but something about this girl catches her off guard, charms her. There's something easy about it. Something that makes her almost want to smile in return.
She sits in the offered spot, opens the bottle, and sniffs. Oh, that's strong. She takes a sip and offers it to the other girl, trying – not quite succeeding – to smile back.]
My... parents.
[She tries to think of them, to recall their faces and not just the piles of books and charts and notes they left behind, but her mind rebels, starting to whir away of its own volition rather than face the feelings Lune was hoping to sit with tonight. She's had an idea about following Expedition Zero's trajectory, so she'll need to find any records she can on them, study what's known of the landscape of the Continent and how it may have changed, calculate their landing point...]
They were part of Expedition 46.
[The unspoken conclusion: and now I'm certain they're dead. And the unasked question: Who are you mourning?]
[ Sciel nods, averting her gaze so the other girl can have a little time, at least, to share her loss without such direct scrutiny. ]
Mine, too. ...It was my Dad, I mean: not that my parents were Expeditioners. They're both gone now...
[ Her voice is like a sigh on the wind: wistful, but fleeting. Sciel has space carved out in her heart for those she's lost, and she fits her father in there next to the place she'd already made for her mother. ]
They must have been really brave, [ She continues, now glancing back. ] to have gone out like that.
[ Sciel herself doesn't have a lot of thoughts to spare for the Expeditioners. When she does, they're positive, but...there's so much else to do and worry about day to day, what with the delicate chaos of farming. So...thinking too much about the group that regularly ships off for the Continent, never to return, doesn't get a lot of room.
There's a thoughtful sip or two before she offers it again to her companion. ]
[Lune accepts the bottle and takes another sip. Her eyes dart across the city laid out beneath them, her thoughts too tangled to really process what the other girl's said.
She'll need to talk to that boy, the one whose sister Sol is dating. Gérard? Gustave? Grégoire? Something like that. He's an engineer, and about her age she thinks. He might have some good ideas on how to maximise the efficiency of pictos, and if he's planning on joining an Expedition, like she is, maybe— ]
I...
[Right, her parents.]
They were brilliant researchers. Now that they're gone, I'll have to pick up where they left off. There's still so much we don't know about the Continent, the Nevrons, the Paintress and the Gommage, what happened during the Fracture, what caused it in the first place...
[So many questions, and now they fall to her to answer.
She passes the bottle back, and finally properly looks at the girl sitting next to her. Pretty, with a lively spark in her eyes – her eyes look kind – and the tanned glow of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. And pretty.
Not that she should be noticing that sort of thing. It's a distraction from what she needs to be focusing on.]
It wouldn’t have needed so long to make his way back, except that he took a detour into the Dessendre manor after all; he might have made noises about its locked doors and inaccessible corners, except that he knows the twists and turns of that house like the back of his hand. The hidden passageways that he and Alicia used to run around in, the sliding panel behind a particular bookcase, a false wall at the back of the kitchen pantry: a puzzle-box and playground for two rich Lumièran children (or Parisian ones) alike.
And so he’d taken the secret back passageway into the cellar, extricated a dusty bottle of red wine, and rummaged around for more provisions. Some raspberry preserves and aged cheese, long-sealed. Some stale crackers, but far better than the ossified bread in the cupboards, and hopefully a nice change of pace from their expedition rations. A fresh-baked baguette or pastry is a lost cause, they’re far from any boulangeries or patisseries out here, but —
He wants it to be nice for her.
So Verso searched for a checkered picnic blanket in a few closets, hadn’t found one, and eventually settled for one of the regular camp blankets. After returning to the camp outskirts, he shakes out the blanket in a forest clearing; a little ways from the main camp proper, far enough for privacy but not enough that they could get get eaten by a Nevron without the rest of the party knowing about it.
A blanket on the grass under the stars, his best haphazard approximation of a charcuterie board, and some handkerchiefs pilfered from the kitchen drawers. He’s still standing there surveying his handiwork when he hears the sound of Sciel approaching; he turns, flashing the woman his best winning smile. Holds up the bottle of wine with a theatrical flourish. ]
Voilà, [ he says, beaming, terribly proud of himself. ]
[ Sciel's experience with romance is...limited. Before Pierre, there had been a small smattering of boys and girls in her teens that had been short-lived flings: the stolen, breathless kisses of youth. Then the moment of Lune at the Crooked Tower, of course, which the mage had successfully defused. And then she'd met and wed her husband, and then he'd had his accident, and...she'd not done much in the years between then and the 33's departure.
When their new-ish companion reaches out with a proposition, though, she finds she's...pleased. After all, she's had her own idle thoughts about the man: his undeniable attractiveness, the way they've clicked in conversations so far, whether or not he's good with his hands outside of wielding blades. Sciel has thought about asking, had nearly done so once or twice as they'd spoken at camp, but the moments had come and gone. It would be nice, but it wasn't necessarily a priority.
(Truthfully, she'd also half-expected he and Lune to go off on their own, considering how attractive they both were, and how the other woman seemed intent on understanding everything about him. And she would've been happy for them, probably.)
And then -- the message. A nice surprise. More than that: in the hour between his last note and their meeting, she finds herself actively looking forward to it. Sciel has no real expectations, but merely coasts through the time with a little twinkle in her eye and a budding curiosity as to what this 'picnic' with Verso might actually entail.
Fortunately, there isn't long to wait to find out. At the appointed time, she wanders off a bit from camp to where she can hear some busied rustling, emerging onto the scene with a lopsided, intrigued smile.
...And it's a proper picnic. Somehow this is another surprise, and the smile broadens into a grin as she walks up, tilting her head as she speaks: ]
Oh, well done. I wasn't expecting... [ Well, any of this. Her eyes drop to survey the scene: an actual blanket, and food, and more wine that he'd somehow managed to scavenge in the last hour.
She does a slow circle around the setup and the smile only grows as she returns her gaze to him. ]
Did the gestrals have a secret supply after all? [ She teases, inclining her head toward the bottle. ]
Mm. I ought to keep some of my secrets, don’t you think? [ International man of mystery, that’s him. But Verso can’t help that incorrigible smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling; sometimes one catches glimpses of the mischievous young boy, still, behind the face of the tired old immortal.
Despite himself, he’s been slowly peeling away his layers with this group. Offering a story for a story most nights with Sciel; equivalent exchange, or at least as close as he can get to it, carving off the pieces of himself that are safe to hear even when they’re bleak and depressing. He appreciates their morbid bonding, even if he’s not looking for commitment. Hasn’t been since—
Well. None of them have the time for commitment.
But oh, a pleasant distraction. The idle thought had been knocking around in the back of his skull for a while. He’s indulged with expeditioners before, the sort of we’re all going to die memento mori that drives people into each others’ arms more often than not, but it’s been a while since the last time. And yet there’s an easy warmth and humour and comfortable flirtatiousness to Sciel that he’s found himself unconsciously drifting towards; like coming in from the cold, wanting to sit by the fire a while.
Standing on the edge of the picnic blanket, with the night sky above brilliant with stars (ever so much brighter outside of Lumière, city of light), he considers. ]
We’re usually covered in blood and dirt and running for our lives, [ he explains, ] so I thought— might as well treat ourselves a bit. Some civilisation, even out here.
Hmm... [ She wonders aloud, smile half-cocked as she studies him and his handiwork. ] The "dark and mysterious" angle does work well for you.
[ One of the myriad reasons she'd asked for those sorts of stories, in past conversations.
There's a brief silence as she studies his face, then drops her gaze to the blanket and its contents. ]
This is...really nice. I'm a little surprised. [ She doesn't mean it as a slight, particularly as a woman who almost always says what she means. No: this had just genuinely been something that she wouldn't have guessed might happen when they'd both indirectly indicated their interest in something...a little simpler.
(He had meant that, right? It'd been innuendo? What had his words been, exactly? ...Ah, well. It's probably fine.) ] And all of the food...
[ Lune would be suspicious, she knows. Some might find it strange that Verso has managed to produce the kinds of staples they hadn't had access to since leaving the city. But, then again, he's been around a long time. Enough time to find an amount of wine to fill their demigod friend. It isn't impossible he also has a stash of non-perishables somewhere for...special occasions.
Sciel tells herself she won't even go looking for the cache, as a bare minimum show of gratitude. ]
I'm all for treating ourselves. [ Her voice is light as she settles down on the blanket, expression shifting a little back into flirtatious territory. ] But I can't promise I've got no blood or dirt on me.
[ One can only do so much cleaning up in these conditions, with the nearest 'bath' being the river, and...yeah, that's about it.
She lays a hand out nearby and pats, inviting him to join. ]
So. What are you most excited for?
[ Her head moves to indicate the spread of food and drink he'd procured for them, but...the phrasing had been carefully crafted to allow room for other interpretation, should he be so inclined. ]
[ There’s a refreshing directness to Sciel, particularly considering how frustratingly vague and evasive Verso can be; whenever she cuts right through the bullshit, it reminds him that perhaps he ought to do the same. At the hint about blood and dirt, he arches an eyebrow even as he settles down beside her. ]
Are we doing this in the wrong order, then? Should we go skinny-dipping instead to clean off?
[ But he’s on the blanket, rearranging his limbs and making himself comfortable with a little oof. Despite the immortality, his muscles are still sore from all the battle; they’ve been pushing themselves hard in their journey north. They deserve a breather in more ways than one.
And the snacks aren’t as many as he’d have liked (there should be baked brie and grapes at the very least!!), but Verso scans the humble spread as if thinking it over, trying to make up his mind. Before his gaze drifts back to Sciel’s instead, watching that impish questioning spark in her eyes. It’s— fun. This part is fun. He’d almost forgotten what this felt like: the playfulness, the metaphorical chase, sprinkling a little heat into the conversation. It adds some delightful variety to the day. In the end: ]
The company, [ he answers, frankly. ] I can forage old scraps by myself any day, but someone beautiful and witty to share them with? That’s, ah, irreplaceable.
[ Sciel tries to not let the alarm show in her face or voice, though she doesn't manage to completely keep the reticence away, when he mentions swimming. She never can, when it comes to water. Not completely. ]
I'm not confident we'd make it past the skinny-dipping, and I'd hate for your efforts to go to waste.
[ There's another flirty reply, at least, to make up for any uncertainty she may have shown in her face. It isn't long before she's completely at ease again, relaxed in the knowledge that no part of this will involve her being in the water.
Ideally, though, she'll still get wet. ]
I'm flattered that my company is the best part, considering you have it so often, and I suspect you generally have to go to less trouble to get it than all this. [ She wastes no time in reaching out for the bottle, working the cork off and away before setting it carefully back down to give it a moment to breathe. ] And if these are "old scraps," then I hate to think what our usual provisions are by comparison.
[ "Beautiful and witty," though? Her smile deepens. ]
You've got a bit of a silver tongue, mon ami. I wonder what else you can do with it.
[ With the air of a person whistling innocently, she reaches again for the bottle, deliberately pouring them both generous glasses. ]
— sciel can find jasnah in the appointed place at the appointed time with a half-finished plate of food fully-abandoned on a desk cramped with rolled parchment and old books. the reserve library isn't an official library by any stretch of the concept; rather, it's a pile of poorly sorted texts and resources crammed into a room because there was no where else to put them. middling texts. none of them foundational or ground-breaking but all of them relevant and contributive to a grander rosharan canon.
jasnah weaves between stacks and stacks of these books. she'll pick one up, flip through its front pages, and either commit it back to a stack or assign it to a shelf. indeed, when sciel walks in, she's grousing over one book in particular. a bad translation of an under-served topic. littered with inaccuracies, but nevertheless home to a few pearls.
without looking up: ] Good. I was starting to wonder if your busy schedule was going to drag past dinner.
[ — the wry implication is perhaps unwarranted. but jasnah is as jasnah does. she uses the book in her hand to gesture at a particular path through the stacks and piles. walk here; not here.
and, yep, there's a slightly oppressive chill hanging over the whole room. ]
[ Upon arrival, Sciel is directed to the reserve library and then, when she responds to the directions with a pleasant smile and little else, guided more or less the whole way by a somewhat put-out ardent.
To be fair, she hasn’t actually been here before, and it’s honestly a bit of a labyrinth, now that she’s seen it with her own eyes.
Thankfully it isn’t too much longer, thanks to her coerced company, that she finds herself in the right place, as indicate by the presence of a strikingly beautiful and famously imposing woman who doesn’t turn at the sound of their approach.
Jasnah does chide her, though. Nothing new there. ]
Wouldn’t dream of keeping you waiting, Brightness. [ Sciel replies, eternally unbothered, and also around fifteen minutes late. As the ardent departs, the woman he’d delivered steps further within, producing the promised scarf with a flash of a smile.
Notably, but perhaps unsurprisingly, Sciel is dressed no differently than her usual: unsuited for any amount of cold. ]
Here you go! Hope this helps in your forgiving me for the delay.
[ her frown persists. briefly, uncharitably, she considers whether this edition is worth keeping — at best, it should be re-copied and annotated so future readers aren't misled by its inaccuracies. only she doesn't yet have shelf-space yet for filings things that need work.
— it's laughable that jasnah kholin is spearheading this action herself. likely even a terrible use of her time. except for the way it helps ease the pedal note turmoil of her thoughts. she devotes her conscious brain to this effort, hoping that her subconscious will begin to process the things it needs to process. ]
Hm. Thank you, I... [ she lifts her attention, reaching for the scarf and — oh. how does she feel about the fact that now she's the only one of the pair of them that's about to be wrapped up against the cold? jasnah measures the feeling in her stomach against her ego, taking the scarf with her freehand and snaking it around her shoulders.
the problem book has been forgotten, set aside. here is a different conundrum to unpack. ]
[ Sciel watches Jasnah with her easy green gaze, thinking (not for the first time) that this woman and Lune have a lot in common. And...that they'd either get along famously or be completely unable to stand each other with nothing in between.
When the other's attention seems to finally tear from the books and the (doubtless) web of thoughts associated with the stacks, Sciel meets her eyes with a little raise of her eyebrows as if it'd only just occurred to her that it might be cold. ]
Mm, no, not really. I run warm. [ She shrugs, unbothered. ] Besides, I thought there was a decent chance whatever you're going to tell me gets me fired up. "Smile more..." [ And here she scoffs, still smiling, but with an accompanying disdain for the man Jasnah had begun to tell her about. ] Very irritating.
[ There is, sadly, no shortage of people (read: men) like that in the world. ]
[ jasnah glances over the stacks. some organized, some not. she's looking for one she can comfortably assign to the other woman. one that's already been subjected to a once-over.
— a tremendous eye roll steals across her expression, as if sciel's reminder brings the irritation once more sharply into focus. a vicious, heated grumble: ] No one tells a king his edicts will be better received if he simply smiled more.
[ this opinion is not peer reviewed, no, but jasnah has a confident feeling about it. ]
[ Le Festival des Lumière is, in many ways, a joke, though it hadn't always been. Nobody has ever felt like celebrating the new year explicitly, given the...obviously grim annual implications, but there'd always at least been a vague winter event to celebrate the season. Decades ago, it was probably an extraordinary sight: countless twinkling lights, waves of conversations and laughter, live music.
Now, though...well. They'd see what the Council has managed to scrape together this year when they get there. For the moment, Sciel is posted up just outside Lune's front door, leaning against the wall with her hands behind her back, eyes idly sweeping the streets. Not many people pass by (though those that do, she greets with a smile and a nod), though that could be because they're nearly a half-hour late.
This doesn't bother Sciel, who is so rarely bothered, though she does wonder curiously what could be holding up the generally-punctual Lune, still assumedly upstairs. ...Unless she'd left already and Sciel had somehow missed her, in spite of their plans to travel over to the party together. ]
Hmm. [ The teacher-turned-Expeditioner hums, casting her glance upward to where she knows Lune's flat to be. It couldn't be a matter of what to wear, she assumes, given they'd been provided guidelines on how the Expeditions should present themselves at the event. And while it isn't a uniform per se, the 'suggestions' had also made use of a tailor loyal to the cause who'd volunteered her time in suiting the group up.
Some probably argued it'd been a waste of resources, but the commanders had insisted that maintaing a certain image was key to morale, to presenting the mission as something still worthwhile. And Sciel, adhering to the "dress code" herself (with some...modifications), has no more qualms with the decision than she does the fact that they're fashionably late.
It isn't often she has opportunity to dress up, and while it isn't something she really concerns herself with...well, it's a nice change of pace. ]
If you can hear me, I'm going to break down the door in ten minutes to make sure you're alive up there.
Un moment, s’il vous plait! [ Lune calls out; slightly panicked, frantic, extremely aware of how late they’re running. She loves to be punctual. All of this is not ideal.
The window to the flat is open immediately above Sciel, so they could hear their shouting back-and-forth. There’s a grudging pause and then Lune’s face pops out, only one gold hoop earring affixed, peering down at the front stoop of the building. ]
The door is unlocked. Come inside, please.
[ And then she ducks back in.
When Sciel makes her way indoors, she’ll walk past the shuttered family lab/office on the ground floor. The small flat immediately above it is tidy, minimalist (all of Lune’s messier sides tend to be carefully hidden away, sequestered in closets and bedroom), but there’s a whirlwind of fresh chaos in the living room tonight: a few different shoes and abandoned tights scattered across the floor, showing a riot of indecision.
Lune’s dressed in the same Expedition-issued dress — slit up the thigh, gold accent necklace, starry gold-flecked pattern, bared midriff and plunging back — but she’s still barefoot, and her hair is… not ready, falling in loose waves. She looks frazzled, but when she whirls around and sees Sciel— they’re wearing the same thing, and yet the sight still draws her short. ]
You look very nice, [ she blurts out, flustered anew, and then: ] Um. Stella used to do my hair for things like this. I usually just tie it up in a ponytail, out of the way, but tonight calls for a proper updo. Do you think…
[ She trails off and the words falter, reluctant to say it out loud quite so plaintively. Could you do it. Could you help me.
(Once upon a time, this apartment would have been crowded with two older siblings encouraging her to cut loose, tear herself away from work, and enjoy the winter solstice party for once: Lune stealing some of her older sister’s clothes and makeup, Sol raiding the fridge and snacking, laughing while the girls got ready, his own tie dangling undone.
[ The window pops open and Sciel turns skyward, lopsided smile on her face at just the voice that drifts down (to say nothing of the way it blooms when Lune's face appears). ]
Be right there. [ She says to herself, since the other woman has disappeared again, lips parting in an endeared grin. Sciel is quick to acquiesce, of course, slipping through the door and ascending to the site of chaos in no time.
There's a raise of both eyebrows as she surveys the room, leaning against the door frame with crossed arms and a quirk of the lips. ]
Well, well. Never thought I'd see the day. [ She's not one to miss an opportunity to lovingly rib all her friends, and so she prods at a discarded shoe near the door with her own, sending it toppling over. ] If you're trying to clean everything up before we go: don't. We're not-...
[ Her voice trails off once Lune comes fully into view and the two lock eyes. Sciel blinks, brows still lifted, mouth still parted in mid-speech. It isn't too long, though, before she remembers herself, though her expression isn't at all bashful at having been...well, staring. Just a bit! ]
...'Course. [ Sciel says finally, trying not to look overly pleased as she approaches. ] But, you know, you'd look just as 'nice' in a ponytail.
[ Or with her hair down, or...half-back, or whatever. Even fresh from the lab, frazzled by the day and the work and the everything, Lune somehow manages to be disarmingly beautiful.
There's no rush, as she begins. Lune will be antsy about their tardiness, she knows, but it's much more important to be precise, considering the woman whose hair she's gathering between her fingers. And...well, if part of her enjoys the little flutter that the proximity brings and wants to draw it out a bit, who could blame her? Certainly nobody at this party, where Sciel can confidently bet there will be dozens of eyes on the woman, and at least half of them trying to entice her into a dance. ]
Just let me know if I pull your hair. [ Sciel murmurs. She's got some experience in this area, though was usually braiding the hair of her students, and that didn't have quite the same feeling to it. ]
Ponytails are for the lab and so you don’t set your hair on fire, they’re not good enough for the Festival, [ Lune despairs. Prominent as her parents were, they’d always merited invitations to this gala; but they’d always declined, citing that it was a waste of time, and so she didn’t have much experience with parties. But Sol and Stella had always made a point of going. Saying that it was important to have fun, to connect with other Lumièrans. That if they forgot how to live, they lost sight of what they were fighting for to begin with.
Lune pivots and angles herself so Sciel can work on pulling her hair into place. The other woman often wears her hair up, so she likely knows how to do this — Lune’s sure Gustave would have been useless — but the press of Sciel’s fingers through Lune’s hair and against her scalp sends an inadvertent shiver rippling down her exposed back. A ripple through her shoulders, as she doesn’t manage to stay quite still. A flutter in her chest. ]
It tickles, [ she says, quietly, more to herself than Sciel. Her hands flatten themselves against this finely-made dress, the silken fabric. It’s more chic than she’s used to: at home, she’s usually in trousers and a disheveled white shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She finds herself staring at a blackboard at the back of the room, covered with various diagrams and scribbles and equations; it probably belonged downstairs, but she’d taken her work home, like always. ]
Do you know, I find myself oddly nervous? I wasn’t sure if I should go. I almost stayed home.
[ But she owed it to her siblings’ memory to force herself out of the lab, to go and have fun. Also, she’d promised Sciel— ]
[ Sciel chuckles, short and breathy, at Lune's disparaging of ponytails, shaking her head as she gently works on her task. ]
Says who? And what if they've changed the schedule of events to include a practical exam? [ She can't help but grin at her own ridiculous, imagined scenario, though she's also quick to revise: ] Ah, but the dress is hardly proper lab wear. You'd be safe from having your hair set on fire, but the rest of you...
[ Well. These outfits leave a lot to be desired as far as PPE goes. ...They leave little else to be desired in other ways, though.
Sciel finds herself aware, all at once, that she's never done anything this: run her fingers through Lune's hair, gingerly threading the silky threads together in what will eventually (hopefully) be an updo to the other's liking. It feels...nice. And though this realization alone doesn't quite bring colour to her cheeks, she does feel her pulse flutter.
Hmm. This will maybe be something for her to examine within herself later, once she's had a glass of wine and some air. ]
Nervous? [ Sciel repeats in a tone that's almost soothing, though a touch of incredulous. ] ...Well, I'm glad you're coming. Wouldn't be the same without you. [ As if reading Lune's mind, she adds: ] And you did promise!
[ If Lune had opted not to go, Sciel never would have been able to see her like this: particularly luminous, like the kind of figure someone would cut out of marble. ]
[ The shadows at the edges of their-...her flat are suffocating. Sciel sees them out of the corner of her unfocused eyes and feels as though they're pressing gradually down on her, like she's being gently smothered by a blanket of her own grief. And there's no excising it from her home, from her life.
Pierre is dead, never to walk back into the life they'd shared. He'll never return to her, his body won't even return to her because of what happened. She has nothing of the man he was to fill the hollows of herself that he'd carved out of her without her even noticing. There have been desperate attempts to fill those empty spaces, though, but...all of the distractions seem only to run through her, to move easily through those vacancies and come out the other side with her none the better. Still languishing in an apartment that sits exactly the same as the dead man had left it save for a lot of broken glass, spilt wine, and more and more dust by the day.
Sciel is sitting in a chair that used to be his chair facing away from the windows with their drawn curtains and instead into the dim interior. Most of her days have been like this, since she'd stopped putting in time at the farm and instead devoted herself full-time to being a widow. Work is an unthinkable concept right now, particularly to someone who'd recently had no wherewithal to do anything, including to go on living. Because although her ill-intended swim had ended with her still breathing, it had introduced even more death into her broken pantomime of a life.
A shaking hand brushes across the fresh scar on her navel, though she immediately snaps it away on contact as if burned. Doubles over, curling in onto herself with her arms wrapped around her middle, letting a fresh wave of wracking sobs consume her. The tears run down well-tread paths across her cheeks, fall hot onto stale clothes.
I don't want to die, she thinks, rocking herself back and forth in the chair, pressing short, broken nails into her upper arms. But, god, I want the hurt to stop.
Outside, assumedly, the world goes on turning. The people travel Lumiére's beautiful streets, the farmers farm, the outdome teams gather samples. The Paintress hugs her knees and cries, mourning a child gone too soon. ]
It used to be that her presence filled the whole market square; people felt her coming like a flood of warming sunshine even before she'd greet them with a cheery bonjour! She could be found haggling with the chefs who needed her fresh produce for their dishes that night or playing with the children down by the harbor or — everywhere, she was always out and about, with a smile for everyone.
But not anymore. Not since the storm, not since Pierre...
She'd been found washed up on Lumiere's rocky shores. He'd helped get her home, the whole morning a haze of fear and grief. But that had been days ago, and ever since then the shades on her windows haven't been lifted, her door hasn't opened.
He'd been lost in a fog of his own grief, but death is too familiar a companion in Lumiere, even a death so stupid and unfair as this one, years before his time was meant to run out. It's Emma who shakes him out of his stupor and sets his feet on the pavement, but Gustave is the one who stops by the market stalls (still bustling, still cheerful, even now that it feels like a constant veil of clouds has been drawn over the sun). When he arrives at Sciel's closed door, it's with a basket in hand, laden with simple things: some fresh fruit and a loaf of bread still warm from the boulangerie... and a bottle of wine.
Maybe a bad idea, but he's not sure he's really had a good one in the last few weeks.
Gustave gives the door a long, solemn glance, then ducks his head as he leans close, lifting a knuckle to rap gently on the wood. ]
Sciel? It's...
[ A grimace. She knows his voice, but — everything feels so off-balance. ]
[ In the heavy fog of her mind, Sciel doesn't hear footfalls beyond her door. Doesn't even hear the delicate knock. It's only with the familiar voice that the sound manages to pierce her awareness.
Gustave. It'd be better if he left, she thinks immediately. Sciel has no wherewithal for anything even approaching her normal left of vibrancy, has no ability to mask the way she truly feels even if she wanted to. ...Distantly it occurs to her that he, and maybe others, could perhaps have already attempted this visit sometime in the last few days. She has no idea, considering how often she's either been deep in a troubled sleep, or otherwise drowning in the recesses of her own mind. And either way, she hadn't heard a knock at the door.
Maybe she could ignore him, just...do nothing until he gives up and leaves. He's got his own life, his own grief, to deal with. Pierre...had been his friend.
Her stomach twists sickeningly as she's brought back to some of the best times: the four of them (Sophie included) sitting around a table, talking and laughing and drinking late into the night. It'd felt like those days would never end, even knowing that their years were very much numbered. And now...
Putain de merde. He's grieving, too. She can't...abandon him. Not him. So, as if sleepwalking, Sciel stumbles to her feet and moves unsteadily across the floor. Sways in front of the door and stares hard at the knob, eyes heavy and dry and burning with her still not having found the limit of how many tears she can produce. Still silent, she lifts a shaking hand and lays it on the knob, not twisting it yet, finding each step to be an exhausting trial to her spent, broken body.
(Every breath still reminds her of drawing in water, of it filling her lungs and choking her. So, every so often, the simple act of breathing has her trembling violently as fear and a chimera of other dark, primal emotions threaten to drive her to insanity. )
The door opens a crack. Sciel is visible in that slight opening, her usually-bright eyes dull and shadowed. Even for Gustave...this is all she can do. ]
...Hi. [ Her voice is raw. It hurts more to speak than it does to cry, given the strain of the near-drowning on her body, and...all of the screaming she'd done since. ] I...don't know. I'm not-...
[ "Fit for company." Several similar jokes die on her tongue. There is no humour left within her. There's barely anything left within her anymore. ]
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for attheendofthegame
The Crooked Tower is a new find, and one she's especially grateful for today. Today, with the suffocating blizzard of petals in the harbor, the Tower offers a respite from-...everything.
Her legs dangle over the edge of the platform: the drop beneath is dizzying. ]
- I know they're up there, Dad, but...can't really see the stars at the moment. [ There's a weak, lopsided smile as she cranes her neck, gazing up at the clouds above the Dome. Those distant specks of light would show eventually, but she finds herself desperately, painfully, wishing they could peek out...just for a moment. The need to talk to someone about anything, to fill the silence of loss of another Gommage with anything, is intense. ]
Maybe...they can still hear me? [ Sciel tilts her head the other way, sighing slowly into the quiet. ] Bonjour up there! It's me. Are you taking good care of everyone? ...I won't ask if you're watching out for the rest of us, but I hope you're at least giving all our loved ones the best you've got.
[ Or, if not that, then she lets herself hope they're at least comfortably nonexistent.
There's a stretch of silence, then an abrupt noise of realization: ]
Ah, merde. Left the bottle at the bottom...
[ So much for drinking herself into oblivion up here tonight. Not without a hike back down, anyway. ]
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Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she'll get back to work. Tonight she just wants to sit with her thoughts up in the Tower, where no one will find her.
She realises as soon as she arrives at the Tower's base that someone might have gotten here first. There's a bottle sitting forgotten at the bottom of the stairs, which she picks up curiously before peering upwards, as though she could see who might have left it. There's no one visible from the ground, but as she climbs, nearing her little hiding spot, she can hear someone speaking. And once she reaches the place, she peers in to see a girl about her own age, seemingly talking to no one.]
Do you mean this bottle?
[She holds it up.]
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You saved me! Merci beaucoup. [ She sticks out an expectant hand, but quickly reconsiders, curling her fingers into the palm, withdrawing the arm as she continues to hold the stranger's gaze. ] ...S'only fair that you get at it first, since you brought it up with you.
[ Besides, she can wait. Sciel realizes she already feels a little better, considering her unspoken wish for someone to talk to had materialized so quickly.
To further invite the girl to stay, she shifts where she sits, making room at the edge. ]
If you were looking to mourn privately, I hope my company won't be too disappointing.
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She sits in the offered spot, opens the bottle, and sniffs. Oh, that's strong. She takes a sip and offers it to the other girl, trying – not quite succeeding – to smile back.]
My... parents.
[She tries to think of them, to recall their faces and not just the piles of books and charts and notes they left behind, but her mind rebels, starting to whir away of its own volition rather than face the feelings Lune was hoping to sit with tonight. She's had an idea about following Expedition Zero's trajectory, so she'll need to find any records she can on them, study what's known of the landscape of the Continent and how it may have changed, calculate their landing point...]
They were part of Expedition 46.
[The unspoken conclusion: and now I'm certain they're dead. And the unasked question: Who are you mourning?]
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Mine, too. ...It was my Dad, I mean: not that my parents were Expeditioners. They're both gone now...
[ Her voice is like a sigh on the wind: wistful, but fleeting. Sciel has space carved out in her heart for those she's lost, and she fits her father in there next to the place she'd already made for her mother. ]
They must have been really brave, [ She continues, now glancing back. ] to have gone out like that.
[ Sciel herself doesn't have a lot of thoughts to spare for the Expeditioners. When she does, they're positive, but...there's so much else to do and worry about day to day, what with the delicate chaos of farming. So...thinking too much about the group that regularly ships off for the Continent, never to return, doesn't get a lot of room.
There's a thoughtful sip or two before she offers it again to her companion. ]
Do you want to talk about them?
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She'll need to talk to that boy, the one whose sister Sol is dating. Gérard? Gustave? Grégoire? Something like that. He's an engineer, and about her age she thinks. He might have some good ideas on how to maximise the efficiency of pictos, and if he's planning on joining an Expedition, like she is, maybe— ]
I...
[Right, her parents.]
They were brilliant researchers. Now that they're gone, I'll have to pick up where they left off. There's still so much we don't know about the Continent, the Nevrons, the Paintress and the Gommage, what happened during the Fracture, what caused it in the first place...
[So many questions, and now they fall to her to answer.
She passes the bottle back, and finally properly looks at the girl sitting next to her. Pretty, with a lively spark in her eyes – her eyes look kind – and the tanned glow of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. And pretty.
Not that she should be noticing that sort of thing. It's a distraction from what she needs to be focusing on.]
Do you want to talk about yours?
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★ the star. hope, renewed power, and strength to carry on with life.
It wouldn’t have needed so long to make his way back, except that he took a detour into the Dessendre manor after all; he might have made noises about its locked doors and inaccessible corners, except that he knows the twists and turns of that house like the back of his hand. The hidden passageways that he and Alicia used to run around in, the sliding panel behind a particular bookcase, a false wall at the back of the kitchen pantry: a puzzle-box and playground for two rich Lumièran children (or Parisian ones) alike.
And so he’d taken the secret back passageway into the cellar, extricated a dusty bottle of red wine, and rummaged around for more provisions. Some raspberry preserves and aged cheese, long-sealed. Some stale crackers, but far better than the ossified bread in the cupboards, and hopefully a nice change of pace from their expedition rations. A fresh-baked baguette or pastry is a lost cause, they’re far from any boulangeries or patisseries out here, but —
He wants it to be nice for her.
So Verso searched for a checkered picnic blanket in a few closets, hadn’t found one, and eventually settled for one of the regular camp blankets. After returning to the camp outskirts, he shakes out the blanket in a forest clearing; a little ways from the main camp proper, far enough for privacy but not enough that they could get get eaten by a Nevron without the rest of the party knowing about it.
A blanket on the grass under the stars, his best haphazard approximation of a charcuterie board, and some handkerchiefs pilfered from the kitchen drawers. He’s still standing there surveying his handiwork when he hears the sound of Sciel approaching; he turns, flashing the woman his best winning smile. Holds up the bottle of wine with a theatrical flourish. ]
Voilà, [ he says, beaming, terribly proud of himself. ]
♥♥♥
When their new-ish companion reaches out with a proposition, though, she finds she's...pleased. After all, she's had her own idle thoughts about the man: his undeniable attractiveness, the way they've clicked in conversations so far, whether or not he's good with his hands outside of wielding blades. Sciel has thought about asking, had nearly done so once or twice as they'd spoken at camp, but the moments had come and gone. It would be nice, but it wasn't necessarily a priority.
(Truthfully, she'd also half-expected he and Lune to go off on their own, considering how attractive they both were, and how the other woman seemed intent on understanding everything about him. And she would've been happy for them, probably.)
And then -- the message. A nice surprise. More than that: in the hour between his last note and their meeting, she finds herself actively looking forward to it. Sciel has no real expectations, but merely coasts through the time with a little twinkle in her eye and a budding curiosity as to what this 'picnic' with Verso might actually entail.
Fortunately, there isn't long to wait to find out. At the appointed time, she wanders off a bit from camp to where she can hear some busied rustling, emerging onto the scene with a lopsided, intrigued smile.
...And it's a proper picnic. Somehow this is another surprise, and the smile broadens into a grin as she walks up, tilting her head as she speaks: ]
Oh, well done. I wasn't expecting... [ Well, any of this. Her eyes drop to survey the scene: an actual blanket, and food, and more wine that he'd somehow managed to scavenge in the last hour.
She does a slow circle around the setup and the smile only grows as she returns her gaze to him. ]
Did the gestrals have a secret supply after all? [ She teases, inclining her head toward the bottle. ]
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Despite himself, he’s been slowly peeling away his layers with this group. Offering a story for a story most nights with Sciel; equivalent exchange, or at least as close as he can get to it, carving off the pieces of himself that are safe to hear even when they’re bleak and depressing. He appreciates their morbid bonding, even if he’s not looking for commitment. Hasn’t been since—
Well. None of them have the time for commitment.
But oh, a pleasant distraction. The idle thought had been knocking around in the back of his skull for a while. He’s indulged with expeditioners before, the sort of we’re all going to die memento mori that drives people into each others’ arms more often than not, but it’s been a while since the last time. And yet there’s an easy warmth and humour and comfortable flirtatiousness to Sciel that he’s found himself unconsciously drifting towards; like coming in from the cold, wanting to sit by the fire a while.
Standing on the edge of the picnic blanket, with the night sky above brilliant with stars (ever so much brighter outside of Lumière, city of light), he considers. ]
We’re usually covered in blood and dirt and running for our lives, [ he explains, ] so I thought— might as well treat ourselves a bit. Some civilisation, even out here.
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[ One of the myriad reasons she'd asked for those sorts of stories, in past conversations.
There's a brief silence as she studies his face, then drops her gaze to the blanket and its contents. ]
This is...really nice. I'm a little surprised. [ She doesn't mean it as a slight, particularly as a woman who almost always says what she means. No: this had just genuinely been something that she wouldn't have guessed might happen when they'd both indirectly indicated their interest in something...a little simpler.
(He had meant that, right? It'd been innuendo? What had his words been, exactly? ...Ah, well. It's probably fine.) ] And all of the food...
[ Lune would be suspicious, she knows. Some might find it strange that Verso has managed to produce the kinds of staples they hadn't had access to since leaving the city. But, then again, he's been around a long time. Enough time to find an amount of wine to fill their demigod friend. It isn't impossible he also has a stash of non-perishables somewhere for...special occasions.
Sciel tells herself she won't even go looking for the cache, as a bare minimum show of gratitude. ]
I'm all for treating ourselves. [ Her voice is light as she settles down on the blanket, expression shifting a little back into flirtatious territory. ] But I can't promise I've got no blood or dirt on me.
[ One can only do so much cleaning up in these conditions, with the nearest 'bath' being the river, and...yeah, that's about it.
She lays a hand out nearby and pats, inviting him to join. ]
So. What are you most excited for?
[ Her head moves to indicate the spread of food and drink he'd procured for them, but...the phrasing had been carefully crafted to allow room for other interpretation, should he be so inclined. ]
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Are we doing this in the wrong order, then? Should we go skinny-dipping instead to clean off?
[ But he’s on the blanket, rearranging his limbs and making himself comfortable with a little oof. Despite the immortality, his muscles are still sore from all the battle; they’ve been pushing themselves hard in their journey north. They deserve a breather in more ways than one.
And the snacks aren’t as many as he’d have liked (there should be baked brie and grapes at the very least!!), but Verso scans the humble spread as if thinking it over, trying to make up his mind. Before his gaze drifts back to Sciel’s instead, watching that impish questioning spark in her eyes. It’s— fun. This part is fun. He’d almost forgotten what this felt like: the playfulness, the metaphorical chase, sprinkling a little heat into the conversation. It adds some delightful variety to the day. In the end: ]
The company, [ he answers, frankly. ] I can forage old scraps by myself any day, but someone beautiful and witty to share them with? That’s, ah, irreplaceable.
[ Was that too much? God, he’s out-of-practice. ]
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I'm not confident we'd make it past the skinny-dipping, and I'd hate for your efforts to go to waste.
[ There's another flirty reply, at least, to make up for any uncertainty she may have shown in her face. It isn't long before she's completely at ease again, relaxed in the knowledge that no part of this will involve her being in the water.
Ideally, though, she'll still get wet. ]
I'm flattered that my company is the best part, considering you have it so often, and I suspect you generally have to go to less trouble to get it than all this. [ She wastes no time in reaching out for the bottle, working the cork off and away before setting it carefully back down to give it a moment to breathe. ] And if these are "old scraps," then I hate to think what our usual provisions are by comparison.
[ "Beautiful and witty," though? Her smile deepens. ]
You've got a bit of a silver tongue, mon ami. I wonder what else you can do with it.
[ With the air of a person whistling innocently, she reaches again for the bottle, deliberately pouring them both generous glasses. ]
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[ a la hulk hogan ] hell yeah brother
congrats 2 them
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LMAO delighted at that pun
pls it was eggregious
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ahhh sry i forgot how to write smut
♥
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yours to 🎀?
salutes
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— sciel can find jasnah in the appointed place at the appointed time with a half-finished plate of food fully-abandoned on a desk cramped with rolled parchment and old books. the reserve library isn't an official library by any stretch of the concept; rather, it's a pile of poorly sorted texts and resources crammed into a room because there was no where else to put them. middling texts. none of them foundational or ground-breaking but all of them relevant and contributive to a grander rosharan canon.
jasnah weaves between stacks and stacks of these books. she'll pick one up, flip through its front pages, and either commit it back to a stack or assign it to a shelf. indeed, when sciel walks in, she's grousing over one book in particular. a bad translation of an under-served topic. littered with inaccuracies, but nevertheless home to a few pearls.
without looking up: ] Good. I was starting to wonder if your busy schedule was going to drag past dinner.
[ — the wry implication is perhaps unwarranted. but jasnah is as jasnah does. she uses the book in her hand to gesture at a particular path through the stacks and piles. walk here; not here.
and, yep, there's a slightly oppressive chill hanging over the whole room. ]
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To be fair, she hasn’t actually been here before, and it’s honestly a bit of a labyrinth, now that she’s seen it with her own eyes.
Thankfully it isn’t too much longer, thanks to her coerced company, that she finds herself in the right place, as indicate by the presence of a strikingly beautiful and famously imposing woman who doesn’t turn at the sound of their approach.
Jasnah does chide her, though. Nothing new there. ]
Wouldn’t dream of keeping you waiting, Brightness. [ Sciel replies, eternally unbothered, and also around fifteen minutes late. As the ardent departs, the woman he’d delivered steps further within, producing the promised scarf with a flash of a smile.
Notably, but perhaps unsurprisingly, Sciel is dressed no differently than her usual: unsuited for any amount of cold. ]
Here you go! Hope this helps in your forgiving me for the delay.
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— it's laughable that jasnah kholin is spearheading this action herself. likely even a terrible use of her time. except for the way it helps ease the pedal note turmoil of her thoughts. she devotes her conscious brain to this effort, hoping that her subconscious will begin to process the things it needs to process. ]
Hm. Thank you, I... [ she lifts her attention, reaching for the scarf and — oh. how does she feel about the fact that now she's the only one of the pair of them that's about to be wrapped up against the cold? jasnah measures the feeling in her stomach against her ego, taking the scarf with her freehand and snaking it around her shoulders.
the problem book has been forgotten, set aside. here is a different conundrum to unpack. ]
— You don't find it cold?
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When the other's attention seems to finally tear from the books and the (doubtless) web of thoughts associated with the stacks, Sciel meets her eyes with a little raise of her eyebrows as if it'd only just occurred to her that it might be cold. ]
Mm, no, not really. I run warm. [ She shrugs, unbothered. ] Besides, I thought there was a decent chance whatever you're going to tell me gets me fired up. "Smile more..." [ And here she scoffs, still smiling, but with an accompanying disdain for the man Jasnah had begun to tell her about. ] Very irritating.
[ There is, sadly, no shortage of people (read: men) like that in the world. ]
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— a tremendous eye roll steals across her expression, as if sciel's reminder brings the irritation once more sharply into focus. a vicious, heated grumble: ] No one tells a king his edicts will be better received if he simply smiled more.
[ this opinion is not peer reviewed, no, but jasnah has a confident feeling about it. ]
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shamelessly cribs this subplot from rhythm of war.
i actually just started RoW so you are free to crib the whole plot lD
you're in for a treat! all i'll say is watch out for: "harsher, wit"
eyes emoji...
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for savante
Now, though...well. They'd see what the Council has managed to scrape together this year when they get there. For the moment, Sciel is posted up just outside Lune's front door, leaning against the wall with her hands behind her back, eyes idly sweeping the streets. Not many people pass by (though those that do, she greets with a smile and a nod), though that could be because they're nearly a half-hour late.
This doesn't bother Sciel, who is so rarely bothered, though she does wonder curiously what could be holding up the generally-punctual Lune, still assumedly upstairs. ...Unless she'd left already and Sciel had somehow missed her, in spite of their plans to travel over to the party together. ]
Hmm. [ The teacher-turned-Expeditioner hums, casting her glance upward to where she knows Lune's flat to be. It couldn't be a matter of what to wear, she assumes, given they'd been provided guidelines on how the Expeditions should present themselves at the event. And while it isn't a uniform per se, the 'suggestions' had also made use of a tailor loyal to the cause who'd volunteered her time in suiting the group up.
Some probably argued it'd been a waste of resources, but the commanders had insisted that maintaing a certain image was key to morale, to presenting the mission as something still worthwhile. And Sciel, adhering to the "dress code" herself (with some...modifications), has no more qualms with the decision than she does the fact that they're fashionably late.
It isn't often she has opportunity to dress up, and while it isn't something she really concerns herself with...well, it's a nice change of pace. ]
If you can hear me, I'm going to break down the door in ten minutes to make sure you're alive up there.
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The window to the flat is open immediately above Sciel, so they could hear their shouting back-and-forth. There’s a grudging pause and then Lune’s face pops out, only one gold hoop earring affixed, peering down at the front stoop of the building. ]
The door is unlocked. Come inside, please.
[ And then she ducks back in.
When Sciel makes her way indoors, she’ll walk past the shuttered family lab/office on the ground floor. The small flat immediately above it is tidy, minimalist (all of Lune’s messier sides tend to be carefully hidden away, sequestered in closets and bedroom), but there’s a whirlwind of fresh chaos in the living room tonight: a few different shoes and abandoned tights scattered across the floor, showing a riot of indecision.
Lune’s dressed in the same Expedition-issued dress — slit up the thigh, gold accent necklace, starry gold-flecked pattern, bared midriff and plunging back — but she’s still barefoot, and her hair is… not ready, falling in loose waves. She looks frazzled, but when she whirls around and sees Sciel— they’re wearing the same thing, and yet the sight still draws her short. ]
You look very nice, [ she blurts out, flustered anew, and then: ] Um. Stella used to do my hair for things like this. I usually just tie it up in a ponytail, out of the way, but tonight calls for a proper updo. Do you think…
[ She trails off and the words falter, reluctant to say it out loud quite so plaintively. Could you do it. Could you help me.
(Once upon a time, this apartment would have been crowded with two older siblings encouraging her to cut loose, tear herself away from work, and enjoy the winter solstice party for once: Lune stealing some of her older sister’s clothes and makeup, Sol raiding the fridge and snacking, laughing while the girls got ready, his own tie dangling undone.
It’s empty now.) ]
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Be right there. [ She says to herself, since the other woman has disappeared again, lips parting in an endeared grin. Sciel is quick to acquiesce, of course, slipping through the door and ascending to the site of chaos in no time.
There's a raise of both eyebrows as she surveys the room, leaning against the door frame with crossed arms and a quirk of the lips. ]
Well, well. Never thought I'd see the day. [ She's not one to miss an opportunity to lovingly rib all her friends, and so she prods at a discarded shoe near the door with her own, sending it toppling over. ] If you're trying to clean everything up before we go: don't. We're not-...
[ Her voice trails off once Lune comes fully into view and the two lock eyes. Sciel blinks, brows still lifted, mouth still parted in mid-speech. It isn't too long, though, before she remembers herself, though her expression isn't at all bashful at having been...well, staring. Just a bit! ]
...'Course. [ Sciel says finally, trying not to look overly pleased as she approaches. ] But, you know, you'd look just as 'nice' in a ponytail.
[ Or with her hair down, or...half-back, or whatever. Even fresh from the lab, frazzled by the day and the work and the everything, Lune somehow manages to be disarmingly beautiful.
There's no rush, as she begins. Lune will be antsy about their tardiness, she knows, but it's much more important to be precise, considering the woman whose hair she's gathering between her fingers. And...well, if part of her enjoys the little flutter that the proximity brings and wants to draw it out a bit, who could blame her? Certainly nobody at this party, where Sciel can confidently bet there will be dozens of eyes on the woman, and at least half of them trying to entice her into a dance. ]
Just let me know if I pull your hair. [ Sciel murmurs. She's got some experience in this area, though was usually braiding the hair of her students, and that didn't have quite the same feeling to it. ]
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Lune pivots and angles herself so Sciel can work on pulling her hair into place. The other woman often wears her hair up, so she likely knows how to do this — Lune’s sure Gustave would have been useless — but the press of Sciel’s fingers through Lune’s hair and against her scalp sends an inadvertent shiver rippling down her exposed back. A ripple through her shoulders, as she doesn’t manage to stay quite still. A flutter in her chest. ]
It tickles, [ she says, quietly, more to herself than Sciel. Her hands flatten themselves against this finely-made dress, the silken fabric. It’s more chic than she’s used to: at home, she’s usually in trousers and a disheveled white shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She finds herself staring at a blackboard at the back of the room, covered with various diagrams and scribbles and equations; it probably belonged downstairs, but she’d taken her work home, like always. ]
Do you know, I find myself oddly nervous? I wasn’t sure if I should go. I almost stayed home.
[ But she owed it to her siblings’ memory to force herself out of the lab, to go and have fun. Also, she’d promised Sciel— ]
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Says who? And what if they've changed the schedule of events to include a practical exam? [ She can't help but grin at her own ridiculous, imagined scenario, though she's also quick to revise: ] Ah, but the dress is hardly proper lab wear. You'd be safe from having your hair set on fire, but the rest of you...
[ Well. These outfits leave a lot to be desired as far as PPE goes. ...They leave little else to be desired in other ways, though.
Sciel finds herself aware, all at once, that she's never done anything this: run her fingers through Lune's hair, gingerly threading the silky threads together in what will eventually (hopefully) be an updo to the other's liking. It feels...nice. And though this realization alone doesn't quite bring colour to her cheeks, she does feel her pulse flutter.
Hmm. This will maybe be something for her to examine within herself later, once she's had a glass of wine and some air. ]
Nervous? [ Sciel repeats in a tone that's almost soothing, though a touch of incredulous. ] ...Well, I'm glad you're coming. Wouldn't be the same without you. [ As if reading Lune's mind, she adds: ] And you did promise!
[ If Lune had opted not to go, Sciel never would have been able to see her like this: particularly luminous, like the kind of figure someone would cut out of marble. ]
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for demainvient
Pierre is dead, never to walk back into the life they'd shared. He'll never return to her, his body won't even return to her because of what happened. She has nothing of the man he was to fill the hollows of herself that he'd carved out of her without her even noticing. There have been desperate attempts to fill those empty spaces, though, but...all of the distractions seem only to run through her, to move easily through those vacancies and come out the other side with her none the better. Still languishing in an apartment that sits exactly the same as the dead man had left it save for a lot of broken glass, spilt wine, and more and more dust by the day.
Sciel is sitting in a chair that used to be his chair facing away from the windows with their drawn curtains and instead into the dim interior. Most of her days have been like this, since she'd stopped putting in time at the farm and instead devoted herself full-time to being a widow. Work is an unthinkable concept right now, particularly to someone who'd recently had no wherewithal to do anything, including to go on living. Because although her ill-intended swim had ended with her still breathing, it had introduced even more death into her broken pantomime of a life.
A shaking hand brushes across the fresh scar on her navel, though she immediately snaps it away on contact as if burned. Doubles over, curling in onto herself with her arms wrapped around her middle, letting a fresh wave of wracking sobs consume her. The tears run down well-tread paths across her cheeks, fall hot onto stale clothes.
I don't want to die, she thinks, rocking herself back and forth in the chair, pressing short, broken nails into her upper arms. But, god, I want the hurt to stop.
Outside, assumedly, the world goes on turning. The people travel Lumiére's beautiful streets, the farmers farm, the outdome teams gather samples. The Paintress hugs her knees and cries, mourning a child gone too soon. ]
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It used to be that her presence filled the whole market square; people felt her coming like a flood of warming sunshine even before she'd greet them with a cheery bonjour! She could be found haggling with the chefs who needed her fresh produce for their dishes that night or playing with the children down by the harbor or — everywhere, she was always out and about, with a smile for everyone.
But not anymore. Not since the storm, not since Pierre...
She'd been found washed up on Lumiere's rocky shores. He'd helped get her home, the whole morning a haze of fear and grief. But that had been days ago, and ever since then the shades on her windows haven't been lifted, her door hasn't opened.
He'd been lost in a fog of his own grief, but death is too familiar a companion in Lumiere, even a death so stupid and unfair as this one, years before his time was meant to run out. It's Emma who shakes him out of his stupor and sets his feet on the pavement, but Gustave is the one who stops by the market stalls (still bustling, still cheerful, even now that it feels like a constant veil of clouds has been drawn over the sun). When he arrives at Sciel's closed door, it's with a basket in hand, laden with simple things: some fresh fruit and a loaf of bread still warm from the boulangerie... and a bottle of wine.
Maybe a bad idea, but he's not sure he's really had a good one in the last few weeks.
Gustave gives the door a long, solemn glance, then ducks his head as he leans close, lifting a knuckle to rap gently on the wood. ]
Sciel? It's...
[ A grimace. She knows his voice, but — everything feels so off-balance. ]
It's Gustave. Can I come in?
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Gustave. It'd be better if he left, she thinks immediately. Sciel has no wherewithal for anything even approaching her normal left of vibrancy, has no ability to mask the way she truly feels even if she wanted to. ...Distantly it occurs to her that he, and maybe others, could perhaps have already attempted this visit sometime in the last few days. She has no idea, considering how often she's either been deep in a troubled sleep, or otherwise drowning in the recesses of her own mind. And either way, she hadn't heard a knock at the door.
Maybe she could ignore him, just...do nothing until he gives up and leaves. He's got his own life, his own grief, to deal with. Pierre...had been his friend.
Her stomach twists sickeningly as she's brought back to some of the best times: the four of them (Sophie included) sitting around a table, talking and laughing and drinking late into the night. It'd felt like those days would never end, even knowing that their years were very much numbered. And now...
Putain de merde. He's grieving, too. She can't...abandon him. Not him. So, as if sleepwalking, Sciel stumbles to her feet and moves unsteadily across the floor. Sways in front of the door and stares hard at the knob, eyes heavy and dry and burning with her still not having found the limit of how many tears she can produce. Still silent, she lifts a shaking hand and lays it on the knob, not twisting it yet, finding each step to be an exhausting trial to her spent, broken body.
(Every breath still reminds her of drawing in water, of it filling her lungs and choking her. So, every so often, the simple act of breathing has her trembling violently as fear and a chimera of other dark, primal emotions threaten to drive her to insanity. )
The door opens a crack. Sciel is visible in that slight opening, her usually-bright eyes dull and shadowed. Even for Gustave...this is all she can do. ]
...Hi. [ Her voice is raw. It hurts more to speak than it does to cry, given the strain of the near-drowning on her body, and...all of the screaming she'd done since. ] I...don't know. I'm not-...
[ "Fit for company." Several similar jokes die on her tongue. There is no humour left within her. There's barely anything left within her anymore. ]