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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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. ]