Chapter Text
Rivulets of chroma dripped like blood from Lune’s body as she staggered through the dim hall, one hand braced against a wall keeping her upright. She was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, and nude. She wasn’t sure if she had escaped the barren dark manor she had clawed her way into from the dying, now dead Canvas that been her whole world, and finally made it past the final veil – or if she had given into the hallucinations that had plagued her in the pitch blackness.
Her question was partially answered when she met another ghost wandering the halls. Telltale red hair, face a mask of healed burns, and one bright silvery blue eye wide with shock as it stared at her.
“Maelle?” Said Lune. Her hand’s grip slipped, her legs gave out and she dropped to her knees. Maelle let the book she had been holding fall to the carpeted floor, and she dashed to Lune’s side. Her hands hovered inches away from the other woman’s chroma covered body, as if she was afraid one touch would dissolve her. She wavered on the precipice of doubt as Lune watched her, similarly uncertain. “It’s really you, isn’t it. The real you.” Lune murmured. Maelle locked eyes with her, still as a statue, rigid as if caught. She then nodded, her brows knitted together more in sorrow, perhaps shame, than any worry that had gripped her a moment before. She felt an impulse to comb her fingers through her own hair and draw it over her face...
Maelle fought that urge and instead raised a hand again and with a flourish she drew the chroma away from Lune’s skin until it coalesced on the tips of her similarly scarred fingers. She slowly closed her hand into a weak fist, feeling the magical ichor flow through the creases of her skin. Maelle rubbed her fingers together in thought before she glanced over Lune’s shoulder at the trail of shimmering paint the other woman had left on the floor. She would have to act fast before anyone noticed.
She ducked under Lune’s arm and helped her back to her feet, and half guided half dragged her through the hall and up the stairs. She furtively checked behind her and around the odd corner for any of the house staff until they arrived at her room, and she deposited Lune onto her bed and threw the blanket over her, to which the former expeditioner did not protest. Malle rested her hand lightly on Lune’s arm in reassurance before slouching out of the room and locking the door behind her.
While Lune drifted in and out of consciousness in her bed, Maelle hunted down the trail of chroma she left behind, following it until she found its source – the remains of her old painting. It was the one that she had hidden Verso’s Canvas inside of, the one she was so certain her mother would never spare a glance, the hiding spot Clea had called “clever.” But she had not realized until too late that Aline would dig for her beloved son’s soul even in the heart of her discarded daughter. The small painting of the manor was a tattered mess of torn linen and a splintered frame. It had been stashed in a spare storage room, nestled in between other old and discarded Canvases that were waiting to be repainted. Maelle could not bring herself to keep it up on the wall with the others next to the fireplace, but she also could not bring herself to destroy it outright, even if it held more painful memories than before. No one noticed its absence in the end, and that proved to be for the best. Maelle drew up the puddle of chroma into her hand until the floor was bare. She picked up the remains of her old art piece and cleaned up the trail that Lune had left behind and retrieved her dropped book.
When she returned to her room Lune’s half lidded eyes snapped open and she stared with the intensity of a cornered animal before recognition and calm settled over her – as much as was possible. Maelle deposited the remains of her painting onto the floor with a clatter, her book onto her nightstand, and herself to her knees in front of her bed. She took Lune’s hand in hers, feeling its warmth, reassuring herself again that it was real, just as real as the weight of Lune’s body against hers when she had led her to her room. Lune continued to watch her closely, tiredly. She looked so rung out, as if she had suffered weeks without food or water; which she about had.
The most obvious question swirled behind Maelle’s lips and she set it free with the silent shaping of her scarred lips. “How?”
It had been daring, which was not something Lune was inclined towards, but there was nothing else to be done. She had sat down and watched with fury and hatred and sorrow roiling in her heart towards her former fellow expeditioner, guide, friend, as he took away the only thing that would keep her and what was left of her wounded world alive. When he had turned his back on her and lead the fading boy into the shifting chaos of that other deadly world, she tore off the long glove she wore on her right arm where she had hidden a partially finished picto.
She had etched the mad creation into her body between their travels across the continent to gather the sculpted dead, executing what was left of Verso’s family, and preparing for their final fight for the sake of the world. When Maelle had told them about the true world outside, the one that they would never see, Lune could not put the thought down. The girl had promised her she would paint her a canvas within their own, a copy of the true Lumière that Lune would be able to explore, but Lune knew that would not be enough for her. She was sure there could be another way. She had watched closely the way the young Paintress worked. The way chroma flowed through her fingers was not dissimilar to how Lune conjured the elements. She watched even closer to catch the differences.
The lack of Pictos was one. Of course a Paintress could do what she did without them. The chroma flowed through her veins, her breath, and her movements naturally. Maelle was a swift silvery fish flitting through the water that Lune clumsily splashed against. But she would not be deterred. The new tattoo was not rigid like the others she had built up over the years on her other arm and her legs. It was nothing like the solid hard lines that mimicked the architecture of her lost beloved Lumière.
It was a like a tongue of fire, a tree, a river; like the blood flowing through her veins. She had gathered enough knowledge of physic from taking up the role of healer in their group to understand the workings of the human body. The final piece had been the Lumina Converter. She had been to carry it since Gustave's death, she would not let anyone get near it, especially not Verso. If she were to take control of a large amount of chroma she would need the converter to soften the blow. This final gambit could destroy the converter. It could also kill her, but as she drew the last connecting line of chroma on her arm and clutched the converter in her fist Lune figured if she was going to die anyways...
That was also unlike her.
She was not one to make peace with her own death. That mentality belonged to someone else. She would rather fight to preserve her life.
But if death was all that waited for her if she did nothing she would rather take that one slim percent of a chance of life, even if it sped her annihilation.
At least it was all in her own hands.
Maelle’s grip on Lune’s hand tightened as several more questions swarmed in the back of her ravaged throat, but they waited patiently as Lune posed her own. “Do you have any water?” She asked, and a dry cough punctuated her need. Maelle nodded. She let Lune’s hand go and left her behind in her room again, door locked, and made her way down to the kitchens for not only water but food. The kitchen staff were used to her showing up unannounced to scrounge for a light meal to eat alone in her room, sometimes silently handing her a fresh demi-baguette they had set aside, some dried meats, cheese, an apple. “A ploughman’s lunch.” Clea had called it with her telltale teasing smirk.
Maelle was thankful the rest of her family were out for the evening. It had been a busy couple of weeks for them. The work dragged on as talks about the conflict with the Writers persisted, as well as Aline’s petition to return as head of the Painters’ Council at Renoir and Clea’s insistence. Maelle had been present for the start of the discussions, mainly to be put on display as a grim reminder of the pain and suffering the Writers had inflicted on the Dessendre family. But once her usefulness had ebbed she was permitted to stay home; so she did. Everything went back to as it was. She, sequestered in her room, the rest of them together talking, dining, fighting. The only difference was the experience they had all shared in Verso’s Canvas and refused to talk about between themselves. Just like how things weren’t that much different after the fire, save for the absence of his voice.
Maelle gathered together enough food for two, since it was just about time for her to sup as well. She bound the fruit, cheese, meat, pickles, and bread up in a clean linen cloth along with a few biscuits, and grabbed a carafe of cool water that one of the maids filled for her from the scullery. She would forego her usual evening glass of wine, since she wanted to keep her wits about her, despite how much a drink would help her nerves. Her hands trembled more than usual as she took two cups out of a cupboard and hurried back to her room, and she held her package of food, water, and the cups steady against her chest as she scuttled across the main foyer towards the stairs.
“Alicia.” Clea’s sharp voice cut through the silence, holding fast to her like a snare. “Finally out of bed, I see.” Her sister’s steps were slow and easy, boots clipping against the tiled floor as she closed the distance between them, the sound cut only by the similarly sharp snap of the closing front door. “And already scampering back towards solitude.” Maelle steeled herself, taking as steady a breath as she could to stay her hammering heart, before she turned to greet her sister. She tilted her head to the side in a silent question. Clea was back earlier than expected. Why was that?
“I’ve already said my piece to the Council.” Clea said, irritation tugging at the side of her mouth. “At least for now.” A sharp sigh. “Renoir suggested I head home while he and Aline finish up the discussions.”
This did not surprise Maelle. For the time she was forced to be present, Clea had pressed the issue of the Writers. As much as the Council had sympathized with the loss in their family, they grew increasingly hesitant to pursue any retaliatory actions against the Guild. An all out war would do none of them good, eat away at resources, scare away patrons. It was less the war Clea made it out to be and more a laborious political debate. It was why Maelle was eventually sent away. It was why Clea was home early and stiffly plucking the gloves from her hands.
“Well?” Clea said, continuing to hold Maelle hostage. “What did you do all day? Is this your first time setting out?”
Maelle breathed out in annoyance the nodded. She would accept Clea’s scrutiny for the sake of maintaining the lie that protected the last precious piece of her old life. At the very least she was dressed in something other than her bedclothes, which would garner her some points. Clea gave her a flat look sans scoff, which proved Maelle right. She grew more agitated with each second Clea kept her and she jerked her head to the side as if to ask, “Can I go?”
“Run off then.” Clea said, dismissing her with a wave of her gloves. “I’ll be in my atelier for most of the night.” As if Maelle would ever want to visit her. She breathed a sigh of relief as she finally disengaged from the conversation and continued on her way.
“Why do you have two cups?” Clea’s said, her voice tripping Maelle up yet again.
Maelle stopped halfway up the steps, then made a show of throwing her head back in annoyance, eye pointed towards the ceiling, hiding the way the inquiry renewed her heart’s hammering.
“Fine, forget I asked.” Clea said. “Go on then.” Her voice faded as she walked in the opposite direction towards the kitchens to secure her own dinner and Maelle breathed out a sigh of relief.
When Maelle returned to her room Lune was seated upright in her bed. Her gaze was drawn towards the window, which framed the Eiffel Tower that was lit up for the evening. She turned distractedly towards Maelle and the sound of the door opening and then closing shut behind her. Her expression was dazed, a bit perplexed, like she had been spun in place several times for a party game and then set loose. Maelle turned the lock again, hoping that it would be the last time she’d have to venture out of her room for the evening, and she settled into bed across from Lune and placed the food and drink between them.
Lune drank down half the carafe, filling her cup as rapidly as she tossed it back. She restrained herself long enough to let Maelle get a drink in before she gulped down another quarter. The food went almost as quickly and Maelle wondered how long she had been without a meal as she slowly chewed on her own food and observed the other woman.
Lune had said she had used a Picto to break free and built her body, which would be the stuff of miracles. Art cannot make itself corporeal. Art cannot make itself.
Though, was Lune art? Maelle had known her for a year as a person in a world that felt real to her. She was sapient, a taboo by the Painters Council’s rules. Does art stop being art when it can think? When it can speak back to its creator? Fight them even? Win? Maelle watched as Lune brushed a hand across her mouth, then brushed her hair away from her face. The blanket shifted and Maelle was reminded of the fact that the other very real woman was still naked, and she swiftly averted her eye as a soft tongue of heat traced its way across her cheeks. She would need to find Lune some clothes soon.
“Thank you for the food, Maelle.” Lune said. She was watching her now. Her gaze was steady, analytical, as she sought the girl she knew in what was left behind from the fire. She knew of Maelle’s condition before, was told about it, but it was different seeing it in person. But then she caught that small smile, a head tilt, a nod, and there she was hidden in those painful creases. The only other Lumerian. Lune reached out her, now bereft of chroma tattoos, and took Maelle’s, held it, not much smaller than her own, felt its weight, squeezed it. “Thank you.” She said again.
When Lune had torn her way out of her dying world she was greeted with darkness, and for a panicked moment she thought she had actually died herself. The cold floor beneath her hands and knees said otherwise, and Lune knew what death felt like. It was true oblivion, a loss of time between living and not... and then living again...
And...
She shook her head to clear her thoughts, and she gave herself a momentary sense of vertigo without sight to right her sense of direction. She dared not stand for fear of falling and she dared not speak because she didn’t know what might be waiting for her in the darkness. But there was sound; of her own breathing, of her hands brushing against tile, of her heart hammering in her chest, and the odd soft creak of wood.
If she were to situate herself and protect herself from any threats, Lune knew she would need access to chroma. She reached out, and-
It did not heed her.
No light, no sight. Not even the Lumina Converter gave off its faint glow. It's weight rested dead in her palm. Lune sat on her knees, uncertain of how to continue. She tried futilely to reach for the chroma again and again and again and nothing. She eventually accepted that she couldn’t stay sitting repeating the same failed motions over and over. She got to her feet unsteadily and took a step forward with her hands stretched out at her sides for balance and to reach for anything that could help, or harm her. Her heart continued its steady pulse then rose to a rapid drumming when her foot brushed against something supple. She bit back a cry. The offending object did not move and Lune slowly, tentatively, crouched down and felt fabric... a sheet? Cotton? She followed its train and tugged at it until it came away with a scattering of other objects that slammed against the floor with such a cacophony it was as if a bomb had gone off.
Lune held her breath for any retort from the sightless ink, and when nothing lunged at her out from the darkness she bent down again and touched the fallen things. Linen stretched taught against a wooden frame, a few of them...
She heard a noise at the far side of the room, the creak of a door and the rustling of wind. Lune froze. Her eyes stared blindly in the direction of the fading noise while her hands continued to search along the ground until she nicked her thumb on a palette knife. She picked it up and held it tight, ready for whatever came at her.
Nothing did.
Nothing troubled her as she continued to fumble about the room full of canvases and stools and easels. Nothing troubled her as she reached the doors and ran her fingers along the wood and recognized them as belonging to the grand atelier of the manor. Nothing troubled her as her heart sank and her mind reeled as she puzzled over how she was trapped in this familiar place despite escaping the world that had held it.
Nothing troubled her as she wandered the halls, bruised her thigh against the dining room table with a curse, found the stairs – and the bannister just in time before she took a painful fall. Nothing troubled her as she reacquainted herself with the house and became familiar with the darkness. Nothing troubled her for days when she found the kitchen and ate and then coughed up the food that tasted like ash, slept fitfully in one of the many beds, flung books from their shelves and wept in a heap on the ground next to their unreadable pages.
No lights would turn on, no fire would take. No water ran from the taps.
Something watched her from the darkness. It watched as she appeared in the grand atelier from in front of the dead Canvas. It watched as she pulled fruitlessly at the sealed front doors of the manor. It watched as she gagged on the foul food, sobbed among the scattered books, curled up in fitful sleep, and starved to death. It did not heed Lune’s call when she finally asked if anyone was there. But it crept closer as she slept, hovering over her as a silent faceless cloud.
Lune finally felt its presence, now more pronounced as she teetered on the brink of oblivion, curled up like a sick animal in the rumpled bed sheets she had dragged to the corner of the room. She caught it with fast flick of her hand and she heard a gasp of surprise escape its unseen lips. She felt its chroma swirling in her fist, around the Lumina Converter she still clutched, even as it tried to escape her. She forced its smoky form into something solid, and as she pulled at it the chroma of the manor pulled in towards her.
“I can’t die here.” She told the ghost. “I’m sorry.” She pulled its chroma inside out and its rent remains layered over all of her picto tattoos, giving her control over this small dark world. She felt the shadowy walls fall in towards her. They became jagged like knives and for a moment Lune was gripped by fear.
The fear gave way to acceptance. At least she was back in control.
Lune awoke to a softer darkness. The nightmare that had plagued her melted away from her mind and in its place was the dim outline of her bare arm stretched up towards the ceiling. Maelle touched her shoulder with a tentative lightness. She had been watching Lune from the other half of the bed they shared.
“It’s okay.” Lune whispered, and she lowered her arm. “I’m alright.”
Maelle, still watching her, moved her hand from Lune’s shoulder up to her damp cheek then brushed the tips of her fingers along the sweat that beaded her brow. “Just a nightmare.” Lune continued, not sure who she was reassuring. Maelle nodded in understanding, her singular sea glass eye still watching her in the gloom as she pulled her hand away to rest on Lune’s pillow next to her head. She then shifted, reached up for something on a shelf above the headboard and then placed something soft and slightly weighted on Lune's chest. Lune picked up the round doll and looked at its smiling sunny face. "Oh..." She said. She put Esquie down again and wrapped her arms around him. "Thank you." She managed to croak past the lump in her throat.
The weight of Maelle's arm joined that of the doll, and they lied in silence, not wanting to further disturb the tranquility of the sleeping house, until the blue light of dawn ate away at the shadows and they both fell back to sleep at the edge of another tomorrow.