Phoe

Aristeia! Building a Champion

She... she can.

All that she can perceive with her eyes is the room in front of her: the table, the maids and their ladies, that stupid cake and Machia's glimmering eyes. She can see her arm and she can see the cup held at the end of it, just like she can see that it's trembling a little. She sees silverware, carpet, chandeliers and furniture. Everything, everywhere, all of it mundane.

But she can hear the motorcycle whining as it revs. Her ears flick and try to follow it in a dark mirror of Machia's. Is it coming? Is it already here? When would the blow connect?

She can feel the heat of the arena, even in this plain and boring (beautiful) room. The intensity isn't like the lower leagues at all! Nothing from her training, nothing of her career could have prepared her for this feeling. Only her dreams, and those always end being swallowed by--

A sword? A sword! How is she supposed to block a sword? It's faster than her! Stronger than her! Not dodgeable, not blockable, and it would be the deathblow if she let it. She can hear the tires screech. She can hear the rush of the blade. She is out of time, and the puzzle isn't solved.

Madeleine uncrosses her legs.

She swings one up high over the other and rolls her weight from one hip to the other. Swing, lift, stomp, shift, repeat. She doubles the gestures and recrosses from the opposite side, her best attempt at the seated equivalent of a dodge roll. When the blow falls she is already leaning into it. Though her hand still shakes, her fingers keep the cup firm. And she is already moving it into position so that as her neck finishes settling into its new angle she is ready to attempt another sip.

She dares for two, this time. When the cup lowers, her eyes follow it. She locks onto the cake. There, that is it. That is the scoring zone, that is victory. She has never wanted to see someone else eating more in her entire life. Patience, patience... follow the path. Can she do this?

Yes.

Aristeia! Building a Champion

There are actually so many problems with this situation.

She has at least managed to pick up the cup, so that's step one down. She can't claim she's ever owned dishware as nice as this, but practice is really a matter of desire and willpower more than opportunity. As in Aristeia!, as in life, would that be about right? She's got her index finger inserted through the undersized handle and her pinky extended to let the bottom of the cup rest on it while her middle and index fingers curl around the side. This isn't... ideal form, she wouldn't call it, but it creates a stable surface that also lets her leverage the curve of her wrist for additional pressure and stability when she needs it. At the very least, holding her coffee is no problem.

And this is completely, utterly useless to her because her lips and teeth are clenched around a golden bar. How? How had she not been thinking about this the entire time she was walking here? Was she just stupid? Was Machia? Is this whole thing a terrible trap and the final push to strip her of all dignity tonight? No, at the very least it isn't that. Machia was many things, but among them was a famous connoisseur of sweet things. Not to mention a woman possessed of negative amounts of restraint. She wouldn't taunt herself with a dessert she thought she could not eat. Could she be lying? No. The setup is too unwieldy, she's put too much thought into this. Besides which, it wouldn't serve as good training. So she, at least, thought this was somehow possible. But was she an idiot?

The jury remained out.

She lifted the cup, following the sudden curve of her neck so she could take a deep breath while it was still at its peak heat. Oh, the aroma was heavenly. Rich, and deeper than even the color implied, Madeleine detected notes of cinnamon and chocolate. These would be the signature qualities of the cultivar then, how surprising there was still somewhere so wet so high above the sea (Dedication. Willpower. Enjoying coffee was not a skill that came naturally to anyone). If she could get even a drop of this on her tongue it would be the highlight of her life.

Well first she... hrm. No. Typically the done thing would be to rest the rim on her bottom lip, but how's that supposed to work when the whole thing would just clink against her bridle? Not to mention that if the direction of her head turned at all she could chip this delicate material or even shatter it outright. Never mind not spilling anything, she'd be lucky not to wear the whole thing. So what if she..? No. How would that even? It doesn't make any sense. No seal, no funnel, no point of...

Oh, what if she pinched her bottom lip in her free hand and poured that way? But no sooner does she lift her hand to try it than she realizes this too is a dead end. There would be multiple points of failure at the moment of the sip, and it would limit her ability to keep her eyes on everything she was doing, besides. She had to abandon instinctive form entirely, which really only left one avenue. Oh, this was going to be a disaster.

But one impossible thing at a time. If this is an arena, then she's on a timer to get the the scoring zone before her window disappears entirely. Whatever she did she'd need a stable moment to do it in, something she couldn't do with brute force. She'd have to start by engineering a window. She watches Machia. Watches the placid smile spread across her face, watches her deep and curious eyes. One the way here, she'd taken a fascination with anticipating Madeleine's own natural movements and proclivities. She won't do that now, that'd be too helpful, but that would still be her instinct, surely?

She'd reverse it, then. Follow Madeleine's line of sight and push the exact opposite way she'd then try to move. Well if it worked, she'd know where she was ending up, and if she could anticipate it she could keep her center of balance long enough to try and have a... No. To win.

She shifts her weight toward the back of her chair. As soon as she feels the tug in the opposite direction, she leans in and brings her cup to the top of her mouth. She strains against the pull, just enough to tilt her head up less than one degree, and puts the cup in position. She has it for only a fraction of a second, and then she's obliged to extend her arm to keep the cup stable.

But she can taste it! It isn't much, but now that it's on her tongue she feels the rush of delicious notes underneath and through the bitterness (itself a sensation she adored). Her chin is, amazingly, dry. Her shirt is unstained. The table has not a splash at all. She presses her lips against the bit and tries to swallow, and immediately she can feel the liquids in her mouth try to pull forward and dribble back out. The things you learn in a challenge like this, huh? She'd never thought about how many muscles in her face were supposed to be involved in an act like this.

But she's saved by the size of her sip. Any more in her mouth, and it'd be an instant game over. But as it is, the muscles in her throat tighten daintily and she feels the warm liquid sliding down inside her. She blinks, and forgets herself for a moment. She stares at Machia, lifts her eyebrows in surprise, and tilts her head in the tiny lull that follows.

That worked?

Aristeia! Building a Champion

Madeleine sits as though pulled into the chair on marionette strings. She is breathless and heaving, plainly terrified in the eyes of everyone looking at her. And rest assured, everyone is looking at her. She trembles in her seat and clutches at her wrist where the muscles were pulled too tight, hiding behind her arm as a shield.

But her eyes... her eyes are bottomless. And hungry.

It takes her several minutes to compose herself, to convince herself to let her own arm go and begin the quiet, dignified task of putting the buttons on her shirt back in order. One of them was ripped clean off, but that is no matter. She restores herself to presentability and places her hands demurely in her lap while she waits for her treat/test/trap.

"...Nho." she says, not... not clearly, but for all to hear. And as importantly, with pride.

"I dhn't chrr uh'bhht thhm. I kn'ww Ih'm whheek. I kn'ww Ih'lrl l'huse. Yhh dhn't nhrd to t'lll mhe. Bht..."

She crosses her legs where she sits and straightens her spine. She lifts her hands to smooth out her glossy black hair and muss with her bangs until they sit perfectly to the side of her right eye. If she is to be a pet then at the very least she refuses to let anyone say she isn't a high-class enough one to be here. There is a creeping cold spreading through her veins, but she cannot afford to pay attention to it right now. The coffee will save her. Even if she slops most of it down the front of her gorgeous blouse, it will still save her from this.

No haunting. No failure. She watches; a hungry ghost.

"I whhn't bhrehk. Th'shey... w'lll shee mhe sht'nnd. Yhh. w'lll shee. H'ff I nr'vrr hee'hr itt fr'mm th'resht... th'tt sh'fhine. Bh'utt yhh, Muhk'eea. HI'll mhk yhh shey my name. Th'tt ish a phr'mish."

She waits. Her darting eyes at long last perceive a cup on the periphery, and even from here she can smell the rich, dark roast coming towards her. No sugar and no cream to despoil it. She smiles through the bridle, in spite of everything. Just the tiniest flash, and then it is gone.

"Nh'tt tr'dhey. Bht sh'un. I w'lll phhl h't fr'mm yhh'r lhipsh. Wh'n I shwww yhh... we h'rr prt'nrrs whff fuh sh'aym drh'eam."

Aristeia! Building a Champion

Madeleine watches Machia in silence. Not glaring, not sulking, not fuming, not even really staring. Just... watching. As best she can. Even when her head is turned to one side in imitation of a shy maiden (she does blush, however briefly, when she feels it happen) her eyes follow back to the center of attention so she can watch the light dancing in those pools of wild magenta.

Her ear flicks: the crosswalk is lit for them to pass. She spins on her heels and continues forward as though nothing had happened.

"Yhh r're... shho wh'eer'd."

Her tail flicks once, sharp and elegant beneath her coat. She lifts her head high, for one brief moment by her own will and not a result of the bridle. This would get weirder before it was over. No matter how hard she fought to keep her poise, Machia would find a way to ruin everything in the end. She always did. But...

There were eyes following her. Following them. Before long she had no doubt there would be cameras. In a way it was exciting to wonder what the headlines on the news feeds would manage to put together come morning. Worth the laughter to know. Worth the scrutiny. She would show them all.

Because... the very annoying, very stupid fact was that Machia was a magic spell. A Mystic Code to be specific, something you kept with you that rewarded you with unusual somethings if you were brave enough to trust in it. In her, rather. It didn't mean she wouldn't be out for revenge. She would. She was already eyeing the streets for her moment, just as surely as she was relishing the coming flavor of a truly excellent cup of coffee.

It is just that. As much as she would like to complain. As much as she should be humiliated to be out in public like this... she is not. Giving up control of her mouth and neck has freed up her brain to think about how her muscles are moving. She is paying attention to tiny things, shifts in the weight of her heels and the sensations of her jawline, and yes her teeth against the metal of the bit, and the more she focuses the smoother and more wraithlike her walk becomes.

She is becoming a shadow. That is the truth. It is almost enough to make her believe that everything is worth it.

"...I mm. Tr'shtnng yhh... whff my rr'drr. Bhht pleash yu'sh my nhhme. Shey it r'ght."

Aristeia! Building a Champion

Her eyes bore holes in Machia's face. Sweet, satisfying holes. But all she gets in response is a stupid, smug smile. She can't even grimace in turn; the bit and bridle take that from her. She closes her mouth around the bit with as much dignity and poise as she can muster, and flips her hair back over her neck as she finally rises from the table.

She glides like a shadow across the room, not sparing a glance for her companion. She cannot help but touch her fingers to her harness straps, has to brush a nail across her chin to know whether or not she is drooling. She shudders, and straightens her back. If she isn't at least taller than Machia for this whole affair then it really will become impossible.

Madeleine presses her fingers together until the motion feels smooth, and then she calmly and quietly reaches for the chair with her bra. Her neck very suddenly jerks to the right hard enough to make her stumble a half step, but she doesn't so much as turn around as she positions the hooks of the black, lacy number around the front of her chest. She spins it around with her neck suddenly pressed into her chest and wiggles it up until the cups are covering and lifting her petite breasts.

A deep breath. One step down.

Her white, button up blouse is pure torture. Even getting the pearl buttons on her cuffs done is the work of long minutes and makes her look like a technician attempting to disarm a bomb more than a grown woman dressing herself, and getting everything done down the length of the ribbed, delicate top requires more retries than she cares to count. Her arms are jerked away from her once, twice, again, and when her eyes flash in celebration to see a finished fasten she is immediately forced to mutter around her "mouthpiece" and undo it when she realizes it had gotten misaligned and wouldn't properly fit her if she continues.

Even still it is only another five minutes before she has it to her satisfaction (she had to give up on the top collar button completely) and she tucks it into the waist of her black slacks and tugs back out and in again until it is appropriately flattering against her waist and hips, such as they are. She tightens her wide black leather belt and flips the thigh-length half skirt into place where the gold spiraling accents will best compliment her finishing number.

The long black coat slides onto her shoulders like an old friend. It doesn't matter that every fresh jerk of her reigns takes her balance. The steps she needs to recenter herself are shrinking nearly every time it happens, and now with her coat on it adds a pop of dramatic, flowing shadow to the whole affair that is very nearly enjoyable. Gold chains and gold thread form patterns of a flower on a light background of what might be gears, split across the two halves of her chest.

She bends down to pick up her shoes. She glides again across the room and shoves the high heels into Machia's hands, settles herself into a chair nearest the door, lifts her delicate foot up and points as aggressively as she may.

"Yhh do th'sh pr'rt."

Her heart is pounding. Her blood is racing. Her ears are high and rigid atop her head. She has to force herself not to blush. She has to fight to keep her eyes calm. Is she really going out like this? Is she... is she really? She really is. Machia is actually sliding her shoes on for her, clipping the buckles into place around her ankles and then pulling her onto her feet again.

"...Rhhmemb'rr. Sh'mwhhre. Nnissh."

Her ear hits her left shoulder as she tries to open the door.

Aristeia! Building a Champion

"You are a tyrant. When the revolution comes for your head I will be there. Laughing."

Cause for concern. Had she allowed these modifications to go too far? Which alteration was responsible for the lingering warmth where her head had just been pat? She could be haunted, she supposes. Possessed? It's unlikely though: Machia has such minimal spiritual energy that most mystics just shrivel up and die in her presence.

She'd have to review the notes later. Her notes, her journal. Machia's logs didn't make sense to anybody but her. Which was either the proof that she was a genius, or an idiot. The type you'd have to be desperate to ask for help.

Madeleine's entire body is tense. It is also flushed with heat; her skin is electric and prickling even where nothing is touching it. Especially, in fact. No, this is not a haunting. This heat is very different from the frozen joints and the weight stomping on her chest that makes it impossible to breath or move. Here she can strain against her bindings just fine, it is simply pointless to do so. Here, some deep impulse inside of her is making her squeeze her legs toward one another, though that does nobody any good.

Her tail is dancing without permission. Still, she says nothing. Seconds creep past her into minutes and there is only the sound of a computer running off in the corner and the small haptic buzzes of her phone as Machia continues to play with it without permission. Continues to play with her without permission.

Her hair, lifted. Twisted around, this soft and delicious feeling like there are fingers brushing up against her soul. It all pulls taut and then is released again, unwinding so she can go through it all again. She still doesn't say anything. Minutes become half an hour.

"I am rescinding my offer."

She has to clear her throat. Her back feels stiff, she's been letting it stay pulled for so long. Wandering, winding waiting...

She relaxes.

"When... you let me up. I will not make coffee. You will take me somewhere we can have a cup together."

She lets her amber eyes drift closed and lets the waves inside the room wash over her.

A moment later, she opens them again.

"...Somewhere... nice. Where they serve it... in a real cup. If you bring me to a vending machine again I promise... they will never find your body."

Aristeia! Building a Champion

Madeleine. Her name is pronounced Madeleine. Madeleine Cross if you wanted to get technical (which she very much did). There is a lot of power in a name, which is to say that there are energies surrounding every syllable, like incantations in a magic spell. There are any number of ghosts and demons you can hold at bay or even outright defeat just by saying their names.

But it must be done correctly. That is the key. Say it wrong and the spell goes awry. Say it wrong and you lose your miracle. Say it wrong, and you get cursed.

It won't be a problem. They probably won't remember to say it at all, once they see me play.

She can feel Machia's thigh press into her hip. The hairs of her sleek, black tail lift and swish in response. She needed to learn how to control that. It made it too easy to read her, and the one thing she could not afford to do if she wanted to survive this... partnership was hand Titanomachia any ammunition.

She couldn't be allowed to know how good any of this felt. How much Madeleine looked forward to some of her sessions just for the sake of having them. If she let this, this, this... woman know in certain terms how talented her fingers really were, it'd be the same as handing her binding magic. The whole thing would rapidly grow intolerable.

Those talented fingers wrench her hair, pulling her neck until she feels the restraints biting into her body. Madeleine clenches her teeth as her tail slaps the inside of Machia's thigh.

"I don't know," she sighs, "Who most of these people are. But if they... want to train when I am active, I'm going to say yes. I don't care if they're sloppy. If they can see me and say 'come over'..."

One long, flexible ear twitches from on top of her head. It bends away from the nonsense on the stream toward the nonsense of the woman on top of her. To listen to her breathing. To listen for the cluck of disapproval as it strikes Machia's teeth. Or maybe she was about to start that condescending chuckle of hers that marked the descent into one of her theory lectures on the nature of Aristea! Either way, the words would do what they were meant to.

Madeleine smiles into the table, a little magic just for her. It wasn't fair. To take this woman away from the sport she loved. She couldn't make it worth it. But that didn't make it not fun.

"And if you're just going to braid my hair all day, at least untie me first. I could make us coffee..."

Breathless Dead

It did no good to explain these things to the God of the Dead. Nuance was not nor had it ever been her strong suit: it was not a thing that had fallen into her domain, and so she had no use for it. And even to begin with the concepts of value and usefulness had stopped carrying much weight at all now that she had shed her mortal shell and become a thing of divinity.

"...For the last time Bella, it's not wine! It's called sake and it is different and I am begging you not to make an ass of yourself in front of the Goddess of the Hunt again!"

Bella lifted the small stone bottle between two fingers and stared at it with curiosity flickering in her golden eyes. She poured a small measure into the tiny saucer in her hand and swirled the clear liquid about, setting it down without touching it to her lips at all.

"It looks like wine to me, Beljani."

"Bhhh! You! Just 'cause you outrank me now doesn't mean you're an expert on treats! Does that smell like grapes to you? No! Does it look dark? N-"

"There are white wines, you know."

"Yes but! Not the! This is clearly different! It's not white either, for one thing! It's clear, like water! And for another you're not supposed to chill this one! It needs to be warmed up or it won't release the aromatics right! Those are the best part, Bella!"

"Of wine?"

"Of! Sake!"

"You're getting really spun up about this," said Bella, "Does it even matter when Artemis doesn't drink?"

"She does, though! She does when she's bathing! And it matters a lot because your predecessor had a rad as hell Casino Fort - which you up and trashed I will remind you - and he knew the names of every libation he served and if you ever want to have company over again YOU HAVE TO KNOW THESE THINGS! I'm right, aren't I? Vesper, help me! I know you're up there! You always are!"

Lying on her back tucked into the rafters above, Vesper lazily turned the page of her new book. She'd been reading a lot, lately. Just for the pleasure of it. All trashy fiction; it was more fun to guess the silly twists and turns than it was to study any new facts. There weren't tests to take anymore. This wasn't poison anymore. She sighed, and rested her novel on her chin.

"You, uh, don't want my help on this one Gem."

"Beljani! When I'm down here it's-- sorry. Never mind. I would, though. I would like your help. Because this uncultured oaf won't listen to me and I am running out of slippers to throw at her!"

"...Sake is rice--"

"HA!" crowed Beljani, full of triumph.

"...Wine."

Bella's cackle echoed off of every stone and bit of flowing water winding its way into the baths.

It really did no good to tell her, after all.

*****

She felt hands around her neck. Beautiful, blue, and shimmering scales. Claws trace the outline of her jaw while talented fingers peeled back the layers of her silk robes and revealed her glory to the world. Bella stood there and let the tip of her tail curl in place of words. She closed her eyes and let the pressure all crash down on her.

The weight and warmth of another person. The softness of skin and fur and the sharpness of bone and joint intertwining, mixing, until the difference between them all became irrelevant. She felt Mynx trace her collarbone and did nothing. She felt the hands against her breasts and merely stiffened. But then the tip of a claw slid down her stomach and...

"Mynx." she snapped, "You do understand I'm technically a god now. Right?"

"Mmhmm. That's why I'm worshiping you~"

"Fuck's sake, Mynx. Knock it off."

In reply, Bella felt teeth sink into her neck.

"That still doesn't work, for the record."

"Awww, that's boring. But don't worry! I'm gonna figure you out yet! Then we'll have all kinds of fun <3"

Bella snarled. Mynx's hands obligingly (if slowly) worked their way back up Bella's body and busied themselves tying a blindfold made of white flowers in place. Lilies, chamomiles, a chrysanthemum... but not a single rose. She'd refused their presence ever since she returned home. It was a stupid thing to have a hangup over. Was somebody in her positioned even meant to have hangups?

Well, yeah. Obviously. How else do you explain Zeus if not...

"Ok Bels you're all dressed and ready. Go have fun! And remember, no peaking! God or not, you really don't wanna find out what she'll do if you try to watch."

****

The water was warm. The steam was waking up her blindfold; petals unfurled across her cloth wrap and turned her whole world white even as they buried her in their soft, clean scents. She took a deep breath and descended deeper into the spring. She liked this place a lot. Ever since it fell here from Above.

There was time now, nearly infinite time to indulge all of the hobbies she'd built up in death and in life but as importantly as that, she needed to wash it all away sometimes. To soak and to let the obsessions that clung to her seep away into the water and swirl around the many smooth stones that decorated the garden here. The bamboo in particular soothed her. It felt like... like she hadn't missed out.

But today she was not alone. She tried not to swallow her nerves. It shouldn't be unusual for a meeting like this to happen. No big deal at all. She'd even been the one to suggest it.

"...I appreciate your restraint," said Artemis, "Move no closer."

In response, Bella floated a tray of wine across the water and listened for the clink where it met the goddess' hand. The broken splashing of the waterfall told her everything she needed to know about what was happening. She could picture it, if she really wanted to. She took a sip from her own cup, instead. Smooth and slightly sweet, with no burn but a vaguely pleasant sour earth note on the back of it. She let it dance across her tongue, and set the saucer down again without turning her head to follow the motion.

"Thanks for letting me join you at all. I know you can't be particularly thrilled with me, so..."

"Why do you keep assuming that? Do you think that I, out of everyone, would mince my words with you?"

"I just... I always wanted this. With everyone. But especially with you."

"You have it." said Artemis. Her fingers slid through her hair like moonlight.

"And did I... earn that? I know I wasn't the arrow that you knocked. And I didn't land even if I was. Just, when you pushed me... what were you hoping for? It couldn't have been this?"

Return to Thellamie

"...I am a detective."

She says it with a shrug. As if that explains everything all by itself. As if it was all she could or even needed to say to solve this case.

She has, for the moment, discarded the remains of her armor. And with it, her skirts and colors. She is clad now only in white: a clinging tank top and simple tights. And, absent all of her carefully designed pageantry and costuming the obvious temptation would be to call her diminished. But if anything it is the opposite: now it's possible to see how broad her shoulders really are, how thick her calves, the degree to which her body is a thing of effort, cut and scarred and built until it could withstand the things she thought were necessary for her work. The armor had been a mask, yet another disguise trying to make her seem like a small thing trying to look large.

"I seek only the truth. That is to say, the nuances of the healing arts are lost on me. It is unhelpful to know, and if I learned anything I would bend my will toward forgetting it as quickly as possible. I feel similarly in regards to combat arts, to magic writ large, to sewing, even to deduction itself. To study anything with granularity is to lose sight of its purest form. I do not know a single spell or sword form. I wield only raw Light. I apply only raw force. If I knew the true colors of anything I would never be able to respond to anything! It would take me so long to be certain I had the right tool that I would lose my window every single time. I wouldn't dare take that risk."

It is also possible to see the many ways in which she is falling apart. With no support, her leg twitches violently every time she puts weight on it in payment for her duel with Timtam. Rather than resting it, she has continued performing heroics and acrobatics until it's started to give the impression that it would rather twist around backwards and dump her on the floor than put up with her bullshit any longer. Her back too is bending, and for all she tries to play it off as simply leaning on the handle of her Heartbroom anybody who has been with her for longer than fifteen minutes could realize she would always stand straight in this sort of situation. She simply cannot manage it anymore.

In fact, she really ought to at least sit down. Mayzie won't even let her help with the sorting, so what good is it doing her to stand like this? Except that, if she left her feet in this condition, how would she ever regain them? The case has needs. That was the point of sculpting herself in the first place.

Eclair turns her neck and looks out over the Stacks for herself. Her broom has dusted a great many treasures both ancient and modern since she took to trying to sweep this place up. All manner of weapons, armor, mystical relics that do who-knows-what, and a plethora of tools so marvelous their like will never be seen again are all nothing but a heap of golden dust, swept into a little sack she's keeping on the floor between her feet and guarding like a dragon. All of it consigned as worthless trash. A mess.

She sighs.

"That is why I cannot demean those who walk the paths that I refuse. As you say, did leaving decisions to the magic even work? Any simpleton can cut a knot or locate a fulcrum. A child barely old enough to walk could trip someone, and her parents would call that a magic trick. Do you understand what I am saying? I am a passing storm, best experienced for an hour or two before the wind carries me over the horizon. For all my light and thunder, what do I leave behind but vaguely dazed memories? Everyone who lives with me someday decides they would be better off if I kept moving, and they did not. That is why they call me the Violet Flash."

The one thing that has invariably resisted her attempts at cleaning it have been the random, awkward elixirs and overly specific healing salves. Every tincture, every wand, every hourglass or scale or pestle made to cure exactly one thing for exactly one animal or type of person is simply sitting in a big sortable heap, having outlives even the tables and the shelves they'd been sitting in after Eclair had brushed them into oblivion. These, at least, were treasures.

"I think... it would be a genius indeed who could cast HEAL in the first place. To hold in one's hand pure white and understand that what she wielded was not one simple color, but the violent and unpredictable rainbow itself? And from that impossible puzzle to pluck exactly the threads that would grant relief to the needy, and in the way that they needed it?

"Yes. I would call that mastery. And I would say that it had been worth any amount of effort that it took to give it to the world."

Her shirt is white. On her back, it crawls with colors she did not put there. But she cannot hide anything anymore.

Breathless Dead

Even here, even now, even after everything... there are bells. Innocent, chiming, dancing, curious bells. She cannot hear her own heartbeat. Because there are bells. Ringing, singing, amateur bells. She cannot hear the sound of blade connecting on bone, she cannot hear the whimpers of the most precious person in her life as the threads holding her together are snipped, one by one.

Because what fills her ears instead are hopeful, happy, bells. The nonsense music of a child with no lessons to their name. Beautiful, serene, nonsensical bells. Every ring is closer than the one that came before. In the pauses, there is only silence. Aphrodite is beyond speech. Bella is too tired. Redana cannot open her mouth, or she will fall to her knees.

So the music is all there is.

But she can see him coming. She knows that stance. She knows the arch of that back, knows that this is where he'd thrash his tail if he'd felt the need to grow one, she can feel the sensation of his talons quivering in the air as though they were her own. She can smell his frustration, the crackle like pure electricity that means his nerves are burning above their capacity. The heat of his strike is already in her lungs, though he has not moved.

But still, there are bells. Moving closer, getting louder. She feels him twitch at their approach, a quarter second's hesitation. Less, perhaps. It is beyond contemplation; she is already moving.

She is grateful, little bell. If it wasn't for you, this wouldn't be enough. Being closer wouldn't matter, anticipating his actions would be worthless. She is, in the end, nothing more than the child learning that her father had been holding back for her sake all this time. Now she knows his true might. Now she knows she was never a match. But, because of you... she can...

The air shudders where she steps. She has never moved faster in her life. Every tortured muscle in her body is screaming with the effort, but she drowns it in the music. Only for a moment, Bella. Only you can do this. The tendons in her legs snap; she feels them dangling inside her skin, but she is already off the ground.

Her grip is strong. She seizes Redana by the waist in the space afforded to her by that little chiming miracle, and she howls above it all. Her hips twist, her muscles stretch and contract one last time. Redana goes hurtling across the ruins of the throne room. Bella watches her fly, and she grins.

"Ghhhhk! Fffffft, a-a-aah."

She cannot feel it. Her neck is heavy; she has to fight to twist it down. Even now that she sees it, she still can't feel it there. She tries to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but what comes out is ugly, undignified gurgling.

Haaaaaaaa. That's so... fucking funny. Father, you moron. You... stupid... limp-dicked... bastard. With talons that large you... you went right through her spine. You couldn't make her suffer... at all. If it... if everyone else at least... felt like this... that's... that's not so... bad. Heh.

Bella wants to look up. She wants to smile. She wants to reach out toward her wife. But she is still. She dangles on the end of Aphrodite's wrist, arms and legs limp and useless, tail drooped low and lifeless, neck bouncing as he shakes her. She wants to speak, wants at least to breathe, but her body won't move. Is her heart still beating. Weird. She can't... tell.

He lifts her up with a snarl she can't perceive and flicks her to the ground. Bella's body bounces off the floor, floppy and useless. Only one thing proves she hasn't died just yet. Only the music. Her eyes well with tears. Not bloody, not messy, but clean and pure. They wash her face free of filth. As much as they may. She lies there, still. Listening.

...Hey.

Her mouth does not move. She has no voice to speak with. Even the music is becoming dull and distant now.

Hey.

Hey?

Do you...?

Do you think?

Do you think that?

Do you think that our daughter?

Do you think she?

Would she have made music this beautiful, too?

No way... right?

She'd have been...

So much better.

Right?

Re... Da... Na...