From the very beginning, this case has vexed her. Eclair has chased ghosts and flashing lights instead of solid evidence. In fact, from the onset every attempt to approach this in the manner of a detective has resulted in a trap, a farce, or a farcical trap. And that is because Timtam had been preparing for a detective the entire time. The disadvantaged party was always the one following the heist, once you assumed the other side was skilled enough to manage the crime in the first place.

It was very telling that the moment she'd given up on the chase to do something selfish (like help repair a destroyed town), the circus had landed on top of her and scattered all the missing information on the floor for her to pick up. She knew the culprit, the means, to some uncertain degree the motive, and as important as anything the final location of the magic trick. It did her no good now to double back and verify any of the previous steps. As amazing as it might seem, the abduction of Civelia was just a step in an ongoing game.

"It is irritating for me to admit, but the facts of this case are irrelevant. There is nothing left but to fly on wings of intuition to the place where the final duel will occur."

Draw weapon, tasseled heartspear. Thrust, circle, thrust, vault: swing board off of back and heel stomp off of shaft. Rise, 1080 off-axis to misalign center of balance, switch weapon to greatbow. Draw, fire. Four daggers follow, cardinal points around arrow. Descend, longswords aimed at the ordinal points. Stalefish grab, return board to harness on back.

Land on balls of feet at top of arrow shaft. Sigh.

"The Khatun is a laughable problem. Is there any smaller minded or more pointless exercise of power than an attempt at world domination? I do not understand why so many children playing with toys end up in positions of authority. Well. It is not my part in this game to swat her and offer reprimand. There are plenty of capable heroes en route who are equal to the task."

The dice were already cast. The final moves have already been made. All that she could do is trust in fate, and hope that whatever asinine tendency lead her to do something as stupid as collapse and rest had been as worthwhile as what she could have done with her time if she'd toughed it out, instead. Broken and abandoned though they were, the handmaidens of Heron were coalescing around her.

Eclair had no power in her to be a guide. Though she often played the role of advisor when people around her were confused, it didn't change the fact that her observations were rarely insightful, barely intelligent, and hardly ever useful. The spiritual equivalent of 'do not get hit' or 'try being better than your opponent/problem'. Have you tried being good? Ninety eight percent of the time, it works!

Be that as it may, they came to her. She could at least burn as a beacon until they found themselves and came up with better things to do. And that meant making use of them while they stayed.

"I do not fear the army of the Khaganate. Should it come to that I could fight the lot of them well before I exhausted my arsenal. But I cannot do that while pinning down Timtam, and as long as she has a clear play the game will not end. She has formed a new Order. The Aurorae have withdrawn. I can only hope to succeed if I do the same."

A beat, then two. The dramatic pause turns to awkward silence. Eclair tries to stand still and imposing but her body is so impossibly light and fit after her nap and the magic of HEAL that she cannot help herself. She dances through the Stacks and calls upon a dizzying array of opal-tinted weaponry; every flavor of sword and spear and shield the world has a name for, as well as bows, whips, scythes, and to finish it all, a humble ribbon. She wraps it around her chest and waist, and poses with her right hand covering the opposite eye.

"My name is Eclair Espoir, the Violet Flash. For the very final time, I fight as a Maid-Knight of the Aurora! Once more only, I wield my blade for the sake of the world! And I am..."

She grits her teeth, but moves out of her pose to spread both arms wide to either side of her. A breeze picks up and a cloak she is not actually wearing flutters behind her.

"...Asking you all for help. Please. Be my wings. If only once."

And in the hereafter (she looked at Mayzie, and lifts her head up a little higher), she will fight only for love.

Sometimes you can find yourself thinking -

"Well, love is complicated."

It builds up like a callous in the face of pressure. Defenses emerge. Distance is imposed. Shields are raised. Excuses become ever more elaborate and complicated. Philosophy is deployed, as it usually is, as a defensive shell around a bothersome contradiction, like the generation of a pearl around a grain of sand. Love is complicated. Duty is complicated. A lot goes into sustaining affection past its shelf life. And it lasts until -

Until someone gives a heroic speech, detailing what the fuck is happening, what is going to happen next, and what your part in all of it is. A request to follow. A sign that you are valued. And the reaction is so total and intense that it feels like an entirely different category of thing that all your philosophy said was love.

"I will be your wings," said Injimo, hand over her heart.
A thumbs up emerged from the wheelbarrow of liquid mercury, before melting back into the shining liquid.
Even the empty air radiated commitment.

This was all they had needed to hear. They were yours now, until the end.

It’s got to be Thellamie, doesn’t it? Throw a pebble in any direction, and you’re liable to hit a good reason. It’s the world that filled a dozen notebooks, full of every scrap and morsel he could think to get. And then, yes, Yuki! He's a guest in her world, and how could he ever look her in the eye again if his coming doomed it all? Then there’s the other notebooks, the ones Yuki never saw, of dreams that might die along with this world. There’s the dream he’s in right now, a little adventure of his own, and it’s good for the repressed and forgotten boy to enjoy a little more time asleep. As a treat.

But - put those claws away now, Missy! Now! Back! Shoo! He’s getting to it, alright? Meddlesome fox, don’t ask the question if you won’t let him finish the answer!

…well it’s not worth asking now if he’d have left it at that without the threat of claws, now is it? We’ll never know for sure, and we’ll all just have to deal with that. So there.

Anyway. None of that’s inaccurate, to be clear. All of those are good reasons to fight, and he’s got all of those reasons in his heart, and he’ll happily tell you any…well, most any of those, if you asked him straight. But. There’s a difference between a good reason, and the heart’s reason, isn’t there? Correct answers are well and good. But nobody ever fell in love by correct answers alone.

Okay! Yes! Continuing! Not stalling! Haven’t been stalling! Nyeh!!!

Don’t put it to him straight, because he wouldn’t tell you, and he’s not ready to tell you either. This is just between us. As the Golden Fawn rides to his grand finale, as the miles stretch on and on, and as the past day looms ever-larger over him, his thoughts do not turn to anything as noble as the fate of Thellamie.

He wonders how Miss Yaz kept the party civil, after he disappeared. She's uncommonly good at that, you know, keeping everything running in a crisis.

He remembers much too late that he never got a chance to see if they rebuilt Cafe Le Faun. His locker may even still be in the back-ways, if it survived the chaos.

He regrets the hours everyone will have to spend contending with all that tea before it soaks too deep into mats and carpets, all after a long party night. He can only imagine the grief they'll give him, should he ever show his face there again. Might throw him in the teapot until Cutie justice was satisfied.

He wishes - and oh, how he wishes - that he was safe in his bunk, head upon Deo’s lap, feeling clever fingers play with his hair as the buzz of the day’s stories wrapped around him more snugly than any blanket. And to his shame, he curls up tighter against Khan Mikela the Fierce, and she will need sharp ears to hear the soft whimper of longing that escapes his lips.