[There's definitely a pattern afoot: where Sciel moves, Verso observes, oddly fascinated by how she studies Sucrerie for how it causes his heart to roll about like a dumb, happy cat in a sunbeam, aware of its transience and yet convincing itself like it might still be there, keeping him warm and cosy, when it wakes however long later.
As they'd established earlier, he's used to people being interested in him. It's part and parcel of being a mysterious and immortal stranger. This softer kind of interest, though, where he gets to watch her take in the finer details of a carousel horse simply because he's named it as his favourite – that's different, and he knows it's not the cold that has him feeling chills when she returns to her horse to ask her questions.
Why indeed. Still torn on whether he should broach the subject of Alicia himself or wait for the likely inevitability of one of the 33s piecing together the clues, he searches his thoughts for an alternative, knowing better, at least, than to pretend it really is about lost innocence.]
Someone I cared about chose it for me. [Is the answer he settles on, in the end.] So, it makes me think of the time we spent together before everything went to hell.
[Before she knew the truth about the fire and the nature of her existence; before Verso and Renoir's lies had driven them, blood-stained, away from one Lumiere and into the skeleton of the other. A time when Verso loved her more than he hated himself and when the two of them didn't feed each other's guilt through the simple osmosis of nearness.
Fortunately, he has another question to answer instead of delving into those depths, and so he breathes some of the tension in his chest away as if it can be that easy, and takes his own moment to contemplate Sciel's horse, though it's not necessary.]
Nah, only Sucrerie does. [At least as far as he knows. If the children who once played here had named them, those names are as lost to time as the memories of them are.] Which means... You should give it one.
[ His answer is neither strange nor suspicious; after all, he's lived a long time and has had dozens of people move through the space of his life. So while she has no drive to press him about it, she does have a curiosity about it that is both natural to her and encouraged by the time she's spent in his company. ]
Would you tell me about them? [ Whoever they may be, who'd clearly known Verso well, she assumes, to have chosen a horse for him that seems so apt. ] However much you want, or don't want.
[ After all, it's already been a long day of people (herself included) trying to get answers and personal information out of him, so...if he isn't inclined to share, she won't pursue it.
In the meantime, she has a task. Though it really isn't long after he sets it for her that her lips part almost knowingly, eyes trailing from the horse beneath her out across the scintillating landscape that surrounds them. ]
Pierre. [ Sciel announces, and her voice holds the name like you would a kitten or an infant: with a gentle, inherent love. ] ...I told you my husband loved the idea of snow? I...really like the idea that he could...be here. To be surrounded by all this, to...get to see it every day. It makes me really happy, imagining it.
[ He's gone, but...who knows. Maybe bestowing his name upon the lovely, warm horse that had caught her eye could somehow -- in some mystical, unknowable way -- share this fragment of her life with him, even now. Her lips press together in a smile that twists only briefly in the reopening of her old wounds, but the moment is primarily, as she'd said, a happy one. This is...a way she can keep him alive.
Sciel turns back to look at Verso, head resting against the hands she has wrapped along the pole. ]
Part of me wishes we didn't have to move on so soon. I think I could spend a lot more time out here.
[ But they still have a mission: one more important than any whimsical inclinations. The Axons await, and as far as she knows, neither possible island is snowy like this.
Fortunately, at least, this night is far from over. The music carries on, the lights continue to flash, and she lets herself sink more fully into the moment, exhaling in another visible puff.
[That really is the question: would he? If he wants to be pragmatic, he probably should; making it through the Renoir-is-my-father reveal reasonably unscathed was a fortunate turn of events. It could have gone worse. It has gone worse. Maybe that isn't a fate he should stop tempting, at least when it comes to the other remaining survivor.
Besides, he can trust Sciel. Even if she doesn't like the implications, he can still believe that she'll hear him out. So:]
My little sister, Alicia. She... [A pause while he debates tense, then a sigh as he makes his decision.] She hasn't had the easiest life, so she can be quiet and withdrawn. Really liked to read and write so when I did manage to convince her to come out here with me, she usually spent a lot of time with her nose in a book. Not that I minded, it's just...
[It made him sad. The loss of her voice and they way she wore a mask. How she wore her hair to cover her missing eye. The utter silence of a voice he was always so happy to listen to, no matter the topic, even if she was telling him all the ways his poetry needed improvement. Sometimes especially then.]
When she did come out of her shell, those were some of my favourite moments.
[Distinctly, he remembers how it felt to hear that rasp of a laugh when he'd hopped on Sucrerie, quickly displaced by embarrassment once he started hamming it up. She'd written a poem for him afterwards that he still keeps on him, tucked safely into his pictos space where it'll always be there for him when he reaches for it.
It's not comparable to what Sciel has going on with the memory of her husband, he knows, but the way his heart both blooms and aches over his memories of Alicia isn't dissimilar to how it swells and twinges as Pierre is given his name and a restored presence in the world. He lets the thought exist in silence for a moment, not wanting to rush into his own words while Sciel's still hang in the air like welcomed ghosts. What a beautiful sentiment. What a perfect way to memorialise the lost.
Without too much of a delay, though:]
I like that. A lot.
[There is much more he can say, but he doesn't want to overstep by trying to be deep or insightful over something he's missing the most important details on. And while he could take this moment to ask her more, he holds off at least for now, following her spirit of not wanting to move on too soon by keeping them in place for at least a bit longer.]
But what's a teacher without their students, right? Did he have any favourites who can keep him company?
[ Alicia. Sciel thinks back, of course, to the last bits of the moment they'd caught in the heart of Old Lumiére: Renoir and the pair behind him standing just beyond the threshold of the manor.
There are a lot of questions she could ask, but what she gives voice to is: ] And...her coming to the carousel, picking out a horse for you...that was a win. [ No wonder it's special. Sciel is an only child, but that doesn't mean she can't understand those bonds. ] I'm sure she loved spending that time together.
[ Even if it might not be his sister's natural inclination, reserved as she allegedly is. Sciel has taught students like that, and there's no magic formula to get all of them to open up. Kids are individuals like anyone else, and finding those little niches that help them to flourish can be difficult, but so, so rewarding.
That's true of adults too, of course. ]
And she's obviously got great taste. [ Sciel adds, nodding toward Sucrerie.
The conversation then turns toward her own horse as she imbues the inanimate creature with her intentions for someone loved and lost. Sciel offers a little smile as he affirms the sentiment, but it's what he says next that snags that smile.
There's a long moment when she looks back at him with a largely inscrutable expression. Because...it's so goddamn sweet. Unexpectedly so: not because it'd come from him, but because it's just not something most people would think to suggest. It isn't a reaction of sympathy or discomfort, both of which she's learned to shrug away like water off a duck, but rather a follow-up that engages directly and unflinchingly with a difficult sentiment. And not just a difficult one, but...one that is more important to her than almost anything.
That stretch of silence hangs, with her looking back at Verso surprised, overwhelmed, and grateful. ...Eventually, she gently shakes herself free from the heart-swelling feeling and looks away, though it's still with a big smile that she's unable, unwilling, to dim. ]
Yeah. 'Course he did. [ She breathes, glancing around at the surrounding horses. ] Great idea, Verso.
[ And, naturally, she hops off her own mount again to wander the surrounding rows, albeit without moving out of eyeshot of her companion. Sciel again looks them up and down, peering into their faces, before returning to hop on the newly-dubbed Pierre's back. ]
Right. There were five I was always hearing about. [ At which point she leans in toward him so she can point out the ones she'd chosen. ] That one...three ahead of you, that's Jean. Two in front of mine's Germaine, and the one to her right is Louise. Then...right behind ours are René and Emile.
[ The horses she describes all vary in appearance and pose, ranging from white and pretty with a braided mane to speckled gray with a bubble-like design on its saddle to everything in between. The two she'd mentioned last rise and fall behind them, heads positioned in such a way that you could say are meant to appear as though they aren't eyeing the horses in front of them, though they absolutely are. ]
They're a pair of troublemakers, so watch your back. [ Sciel leans in farther to whisper conspiratorially. ]
[That it's a win, mainly; Verso would very much like to hope that she loved those short years they'd spent in blissful ignorance, but time has coloured his perception and understanding of his relationship with his sister, and the way she does things like going from helping him in one moment to making a show of how she's chosen their mother in the next doesn't only confuse their present and future. It leaves him wondering more than he'd like about the past as well, how he's coloured his memories, how she's shaded her own. So, he only offers Sciel a smile at the good taste comment before shifting his focus back to Sucrerie for a moment, giving her a mental scritch under her chin.
When he looks back amid a descending silence and meets Sciel's steady gaze, there's a part of him that wants to look away, a little worried that he's gone and engaged in his least favourite yet arguably most revisited hobby: inserting his foot squarely in his mouth. But the more she looks, the less possible that feels, and so his expression softens, and he relaxes against his horse, letting the loop of his arm around the pole keep him steady as he leans back a little, curious but patient.
Then, it's once again his turn – a turn no less gladly taken than the others – to watch her as she moves between the horses. It would have been easy for her to go with the practicality of proximity, but she views them with the same care with which she found herself choosing Pierre-the-Horse, and something about that intrigues and impresses and warms him. There's just so much life about her, an effortless compassion for things that others might consider inconsequential or irrelevant in the face of everything else, but that she makes the time for, every time.
He can't possibly know why she chose each horse for each child, but still he tries picturing it. Is the pretty white one for a budding fashionist? The bubbly one for a giggly child whose effervescence was contagious? It's been decades since he's been around children in any meaningful way, but he can almost feel their presence on the carousel, laughter mingling with the creaking gears and booming music, not like before but... today's children. Whoever little Jean and Germaine and Louise and Rene and Emile have become over the years, teenagers who may have otherwise outgrown such attractions, perhaps, and yet who might embrace it with the same whimsy and wonder as Sciel does.]
I'm pleased to make their acquaintances.
[Her last comment draws a laugh from him, and he lets his focus linger on those two mischievous horses for a moment before raising his hands and turning his back to them.]
Hey. Far be it from me to discourage troublemaking.
[The matter of which Axon to take down first aside, anyway.]
Speaking of... You ready to head on up and see the stars? Used to be a time-honoured tradition, you know. We'd sneak up there after the park closed and the night staff were off on the last train into Lumiere. Bring a few bottles of wine, tell our worst stories. Try to wake up before the morning staff arrived with, uh, varying degrees of success. Though that last one was only on the warmer nights. The frostbite would've given us away.
[ Those students had become her students, and Verso isn't far off the mark with his assessment of how the horses might relate back to their namesakes. Louise is a sweet thing with a propensity for the more traditionally-feminine, though also with a fierce attitude that might be unexpected if judging her on appearances alone. Germaine has a bubbly personality, true, but also a hyperfixation on the nautical (to his maîtresse's mild chagrin) that he'd gush about at any possible opportunity. Jean, the first she'd called out, is quiet and thoughtful, but beautifully imaginative: his horse is one of the more colourful ones, spattered with starbursts and clouds and things, and not too dissimilar from Verso's own favourite. ]
Right...guess that'd be a bit hypocritical. [ Considering Verso can be, as she might say if referring to one of her more troublesome students, a bit of a stinker. Or maybe it's because of his recklessness, or because of the past he's shared wherein he'd somewhat gone against familial expectations to do things like spend a night drinking absinthe in the city. He knows how to get himself into trouble, or better or worse.
A next natural thought: how has her understanding of those familial expectations changed with the knowledge that Renoir is his father? Sciel almost sighs but doesn't, though she is able to gently shunt the train of thought for another time.
Besides, they've got another item on the agenda. It won't surprise him to see the question spark fresh light in her eyes, knowing what he does about her inclination toward the stars. ]
Well, unless you've got a secret stash of wine, then all we've got are our worst stories. [ Verso may be relieved that she continues, though it's as much for the benefit of her secrets as his: ] ...But I think you've probably given your share of those today already.
[ The idea of spending the night here makes her shiver, because though the coats keep them from outright freezing, the temperature is still deeply, bone-chillingly low. ]
We also don't have the blanket and tea you mentioned before. [ She hums mournfully, slipping for a final time off horse-Pierre's back and waiting for Verso to lead the way to the roof. ] Think we can still get our fill of the sights without freezing?
[ It's teasing, but surprisingly not with any twinge of innuendo in spite of the low-hanging fruit available. Really, she just looks eager to get up there and see it, knowing that her experience stargazing in Lumiére and then even in their time on the Continent since then won't be able to compare to what's waiting for them just above. ]
[Alas; while he does have a secret stash of wine, he's more elusive about that than he is about himself, and so a soft laugh and an honest-ringing lie:]
Fresh out of wine stashes, unfortunately.
[And blankets and tea, but he can compensate for the former at least a little bit. A nod of thanks for the break she offers, and then he's leaping off the horse like a daredevil in a circus, landing with a ridiculous flourish as if he's dismounted something far more dangerous than a children's ride. Then, he throws his thumb over his shoulder and starts walking backwards towards the stairs.]
But there is something I can do to make things warmer. Just give me another second, yeah? Oh, and brace yourself. Ride's about to get bumpy.
[Down the stairs he goes, back to the control panel. This time, he uses his hands and not his chroma, wanting to fine-tune the controls. Music down to a murmur. Speed of the carousel slowed. Rise and fall of the horses at a higher frequency to compensate. The gears groan before obeying and slipping into a low murmur that fades behind what's left of the music, but Verso pays no mind to their complaints; chroma's always worked differently, often an imitation of industry rather than a precise replication of it, and he's sure that no ill will come of the carousel. He'd have left it alone, otherwise, finding it far too important to lose any part of.
Once upstairs again, he summons his blade and starts prodding at part of the roof.]
Almost ready.
[Eventually, the sound of a latch loosening gently clangs, followed by something a little more screeching as Verso lifts himself up to pull down an access ladder. Which he holds steady for Sciel to climb up, following afterwards.
There'd been near to no snow on the roof, so there's no meltwater – a small blessing considering that Verso was too scattered by the day's events to have brought anything to compensate for it. Instead, a warmth emanating from the main gears, the ambient temperature still a little cool but the metal roof panels are pleasantly warm. The slope is perfect for relaxing, the lip around the edge deceptively high. Safe. Almost comfortable. They'd have to try to fall off, even with the roof spinning.
[ Verso withdraws to operate the carousel in his mysterious ways and so Sciel waits, casting her eyes out across the frozen landscape while she still can. She still clasps the golden pole of her horse, bracing herself a bit at Verso's warning, but her attention is very much elsewhere. Even as the cheerful sound of the music dims, the overall speed of the ride diminishing as the horses themselves pick up the pace, Sciel just holds on and watches the world turn.
Unlike Lune and Maelle, and Gustave before them, Sciel hasn't been writing in her journal. It's almost certainly breaking some protocol, but every time she'd pulled it out it'd ended with the same suite of pristine pages. This had come after the incident at the beach, of course, and after she'd found herself in Gestral Village with no clear return path to their mission in sight. She'd never had aspirations to soldier on alone, to somehow represent the 33s in a successful one-woman war against the Paintress when all of her friends and fellows had been slaughtered. No: she'd put every waking moment either training or fighting, trying to keep her body occupied long enough for it to Gommage. And so...she certainly hadn't been journaling then.
After, when the others had found her and their journey was again a semi-realistic endeavor, was when she'd found herself staring down those empty lines. Whether she'd been surrounded by the scratch of the others' implements or in complete silence, whether they'd had a surprisingly unremarkable day or had seen no less than a dozen wonders of the Continent, none of it had managed to produce any written reflection. She hadn't really been sure why and didn't feel the need to examine it too closely on those occasions, but: right now, looking out at the rise and fall of mountains, the ethereal sweep of snow, the spectrum of lights strew across it all like gemstones...
Maybe I'll write about this one, she thinks, smiling out at it all.
Before long Verso gives her the heads up that his task is almost complete and so she turns, releasing Pierre and moving closer to the stairs in the middle, waiting. She doesn't have to stand idle much as he pulls down the ladder and gestures for her to ascend, which she does with a little 'merci' before climbing to reach the roof. ]
No, this is perfect. [ She assures him once she reaches the top, getting her bearings. Notably, though, Sciel avoids looking directly up, as if she's holding off. Instead, she casts her attention his way again, asking: ] Anywhere in particular we should go?
[As soon as Sciel asks where they should go, Verso is heading off in that direction, stopping about a quarter of the way around where the decor along the rim is less obtrusive, the panel and the air just a touch warmer.]
Yeah. Right here.
[This part of the roof is more worn than the rest, black paint missing in places, metal beneath it polished to a shine from use. There are chips and scrapes along the paint in places where buckles have banged up against them, or where someone might have placed a sword. Even a couple well-weathered corks are scattered near the rim, relics from a time when Verso still had what felt like an abundance of wine. Sheepishly, he kicks them off to the side before using his sleeve to wipe off one of the panels. There's barely anything there – the snow keeps things reasonably clean – but it feels like the proper thing to do, and some of his rich-boy-from-a-powerful-family instincts still overpower his forestman side every now and again. Particularly when the company is so pleasant that it restores him to something almost ordinary.
A look at his sleeve and a dusting off of both sleeves together before he steps aside and gestures for her to sit down and get comfortable.]
So.
[So. He knows what he wants to say, but needs a moment. There's something almost shy about him in the silence, written in the soft curve of his shoulders, in way his lips curl into a barely there smile that exists of its own volition. The way he crosses his arms over his chest is also more reflexive than intentional, but he remains in place otherwise, keeping a gentle focus on Sciel.]
I, uh, brought you something.
[And of course he's going to be mysterious about what, letting an impish gleam shine in his eyes as some of the shyness abates now that the relatively hard part's over with. Back before the Fracture, he'd always liked giving people gifts, little trinkets that reminded him of them, or pastries from the boulangerie that tasted particularly good, or songs he composed. Anything for a smile. That stopped a very, very long time ago – he never really got to know any of the Expeditioners well enough to understand what they might like, and he found it easier to try and lighten their spirits through other means, anyway – but now...
Well, now he thinks he might have an idea.]
Do you want it now, or would you like to spend some time with the stars first?
[ Sciel hardly seems to notice the panels or whatever bits of trash remain after decades of his making use of this space. Once she's up there, and as she continues to wait for any direction he has to offer, she's got her focus out on the snow that surrounds them again, breathing deep of air so cold it almost burns her nose. When he clears off a spot for her and indicates she should settle in, Sciel returns her attention, her little smile, to Verso and just does that: sitting down on the roof, immediately exhaling as she finds it surprisingly warm beneath her.
Speaking of surprises: ]
Do you? [ Sciel briefly considers the possible joke -- that it's a wonder he has any surprises left, after what had happened -- but immediately dismisses it. They've left the events of Old Lumiére behind in camp, after all.
It's probably not a good idea, letting herself think of these excursions as if they exist outside of the harshness of their reality. After all, she'd told Lune that part of this was going to be her trying to (gently!) get more information about what they'd learned today. But...she takes in the little cues of something like bashfulness in his bearing, and...well, she has absolutely no desire to rend that asunder. So: her lips come together in a tight, fond grin as she peers up at him and considers the order of things. ]
...Let's have it now. [ Sciel decides after a moment, still not having turned her eyes skyward to take in the main event. ] They'll still be there in a bit, yeah? And now that you've told me, I'm very curious.
[ It'd be a shame if her attention was divided during any part of the evening, right? Though of course, with no idea what he's prepared, it's hard to say the surprise won't still be on her mind when they finally do lie back and, as he'd said, "spend some time with the stars."
So she shifts, propping up a knee and searching his face with a gentle curiosity for anything that might give it away. ]
[It's all stars in the end. Stars all around them, stars in Verso's eyes, stars in the gift he materialises in the palm of his hand: a small black-and-gold telescope.
It occurs to him that it might not be a novel thing to her, but maybe it's something novel out here, another way to escape when reality closes in on them and there's nowhere else to go. Or, maybe she won't like it – that's an understandable possibility – but that's okay. He's sure she'll be gracious either way, and they can use any awkwardness to segue into stargazing. A rare plan where he truly feels like nothing can go catastrophically wrong.]
I don't know if you had these in Lumiere, but this one's real good.
[Once, the pictures of stars he'd held in his mind had resembled those that might have appeared over Paris. He still remembers the first time Esquie handed him that telescope and told him to look through and into a sky full of stars as envisioned by the same little boy who painted the rest of the whimsy into this world. Colour and light and shape and texture, almost-stories set to almost-music, another hidden fairytale in this land of nightmares. And maybe Sciel is different, but Verso's always saw the experience as something separate from stargazing, like the disconnect between performing and being part of an audience.
Regardless, once it's in Sciel's hands, Verso takes a seat next to her, following suit in not starting out into the sky quite yet, stricken by the feeling that it would be almost wrong to take it in ahead of her, though he struggles enough to pinpoint why that he stops trying. Besides, it's nice to have the time to be patient, wonderful to harbour expectations that will actually be fulfilled.]
I won't take it personally if you don't want to use it right away. [A pause, and then he has to go and try to make a funny.] It's also great for hitting Nevrons with. Or Monoco when he gets too close with his foot collection.
[ The moment is another strange one. Sciel follows his movement as he produces the little telescope, holding it out for her to take, both talking up and talking down the gift. She takes it into her hand, looking it over without a word for a moment before peeling off her gloves so she can roll the metal directly against her skin, thumbing along the little ridges and around the lens. Her face grows increasingly full of something like wonder, and she casts Verso himself a brief, searching look before -
Shutting her eyes. Taking in a deep breath and then lying down, the gift still clutched in her bare hand. Only a brief time more passes, then, before she opens her eyes again beneath the full expanse of the sky.
It's...overwhelming. A dazzling array of colors and lights that make the display of the carousel look positivity dull by comparison. There are spots of all colours that dot the sky from the horizon line all the way across, twinkles of tiny distant stars and the constant shine of planets. Any bits from the Fracture fade away in the face of what hangs high above them: a sight that almost no human alive has ever seen. A trove of gems who share their sparkle with the people who look up at them from below, scintillating in Sciel's eyes as she stares: silent in the face of something so naturally stunning.
It's then that she brings the telescope to her eye, giving her an even better view of the endless stretch of shimmering sky. The velvet canvas of night blaze with ancient lights that now seemed close enough for her to reach out and touch. Her lips part unconsciously, expression still floored, but before long there's something that gradually twists at her mouth in a suggestion of, perhaps, an inner conflict.
It's too easy for her to return to those days after she'd learned Pierre had died. Before the water. It'd been her and their empty flat, her and all of his things, her and the memory of him that haunted every corner of her life but which she could never reach out and touch. That wracking devastation still feels dangerously close, and yet...in this moment, she wishes more than anything she could share some of what she's feeling now with the Sciel who had believed there would be no end to the pain.
Eventually she does move the telescope from her eye, though she keeps it tight in her grasp. She draws herself up to finally turn back to him, face again shining with the joy and gratitude she feels. Then, moving her free hand to cup his jaw, she leans in to capture his lips in a kiss that communicates only a fraction of all that, and of things he doesn't know, may never know. ]
Thank you. [ Sciel breathes, pressing her forehead to his before she withdraws again, settling back down against the roof and drinking in the sight on display above and around them with unabashed zeal. ] For-...all of this.
[ He might never have thought to share these places with her. It may all be made more difficult if he's done the same in the past, only to have those Expeditioners leave him behind in death, giving the places that were once special and innocent a dark, bitter twinge. But he's done it anyway, twice now, even if it isn't easy.
Sciel tucks all of these things away, folding them carefully so they'll travel safely with her through the rest of what time is left. ]
[Silence used to mean something bad. Anger or frustration. Disappointment – the kind that ate away at him for days on end and shrank him into something small that he needed to grow out of being. Absence, so much fucking absence that it made presence feel meaningless. Eventually, silence evolved to become something like freedom in its own right, one of the few things he could control. His own silence through isolation. The silence of the world through descending to depths almost beyond reaching.
This silence, though – that flurry of speaking-through-gestures and then not speaking at all – is neither of those things. It's a peace rarely felt, a sense of place he'd thought he'd lost long, long ago. Later, he'll think about what he'd told himself before he joined the 33s – that he has thoughts about making friends with Expeditioners, that he won't get too attached – and he'll think himself a fool either for believing he could detach himself this time or for failing to do the same, but. without regret, either way. For now, though, none of that. All doubt falls from the sight of the stars with his worries that Sciel might not like her gift, and he feels light, almost buoyant.
It's a bit before he looks out into the sky himself, taking in the gift of Sciel's marvel, that reflection of starlight she wears like it's her birthright. As he leans back, his eyes flutter shut. A bit counterproductive, perhaps, but he basks in the feelings of the moment, letting them crystallise until they have weight enough that he can fling them up to the stars as if for safekeeping. Which he does, tracing new memories into the lines of old constellations, replacing the stories they tell of gods and goddesses, of myths and of legends, with something that rings even more spectacular to his exhausted, worn-down heart.
More speaking-through-gestures follows as Sciel emerges to guide him into a kiss. Now, it's his heart that flutters up to the stars as she brings him back down to earth, grounding her in those perceivable and unknowable things she shares, in her warmth and her presence, in everything he knows better than to wish for but that he grasps at with the prowess of a seasoned dreamer.
The kiss breaks. Sound returns through the softness of her voice and with the way her breath breezes across his skin. And when she pulls the rest of the way away, Verso holds still and silent for a moment longer before responding.]
I'm glad.
[Is all he says at first. Everything else feels trite. I'm sorry I couldn't give you more. Or, I wish it could have been under better circumstances. Pointless condolences wrapped up in something other than grief. And anything that starts with You deserve feels off-tone, like he could only deliver it in someone else's voice.
So, instead, he thinks back to their first real conversation about the stars and about silence, and he lolls his head to the side to ask:]
[ Sciel laughs at that, surprised, turning her own head to look back at him where they lie together under the blanket of stars. ]
No. They've been chatty for a while now. [ That conversation seems like it was ages ago, when in reality it hasn't been long at all since that chat at the cliffside. Strange to think they'd barely known each other then. Stranger...to think of how Gustave had still been with them not long before.
(There's the usual pang that comes with the memory of their lost 33s, but she's able to gingerly set it aside, as always.) ]
They're celebrating. [ Sciel explains, returning her attention upward to continue drinking in the otherworldly sight, heart still full with the rare splendor of it all. ] We've never been able to speak this clearly before. And with this - [ Here she indicates the gift, lifting the hand that holds it. ] I can see them better than ever, so they're able to show off.
[ Her dad would gush over this view, if he could see it. It's without any difficult at all that she's able to drop into a moment that will never exist: her father lying nearby, arm extended to outline constellations and planets, making sure she's able to follow where he indicates. That's the big bear, the hunter, the swan. Regaling her with stories about their myths and backgrounds, how they'd been discovered and how they helped people in history. ]
...It's a little like tarot, actually. Talking with the stars. [ Sciel offers after the stretch of silence, letting the vision of her dad disperse itself into starlight and flutter away on the wind. ] Give it a try and see what they've got to say to you.
[ Here she extends her hand to offer him the telescope (after which she dons her glove again, having quickly lost feeling in her fingers, particularly with the cold of the metal). ]
Or just take a look. [ There's a grin sent his way as she folds an arm beneath her head, chin twitching skyward to direct him. ] Even just taken as they are, it's...incredible.
[ And maybe it's become old hat for someone who's spent more than a scant amount of time here, but maybe not. Maybe, in these old haunts, there are still moments of fresh awe to be found for him.
It isn't exactly a gift she can offer in return, but it's at least a hope. ]
[Sciel's answer is heartening; so accustomed is Verso to seeing Expeditioners dim the further they get from Lumiere that he's stricken with his own moment of overwhelm. It takes a special kind of strength, the thinks, to consider anything to be celebratory this side of the sea, especially in the face of such devastating loss, and the look he fixes with her as she speaks is brimming with admiration. If he was half the person she is, then maybe –
No. There's no point in thinking like that. Circumstances are what they are.]
I'm glad to hear that. For you and them.
[Because it is a nice thought, that the stars are showing off, that they have that spirit of blooming all the more brightly when someone sees them for what they are. It's relatable. It's what he experiences now, even with the spectre of the Renoir-is-your-father revelation still haunting them both. That freedom to be the man he might've been if none of this had happened. That normalcy of something he'd done before the Fracture leeching into him like it's possible to go back to those times.
It's not and he knows that. But it's through that knowing that he gives himself permission to feel otherwise.
When she hands him the telescope, he takes it after a moment's pause. Maybe stargazing isn't exactly novel in the general sense, but like many things, Sciel's perspectives have an infectuous quality that transforms Verso's own. Not quite to the same extents, but enough that even his old, tired eyes can find new ways to view a world that still means a great deal to him.
So, he thinks of the stars in celebration as he lifts the telescope to them; he imagines that they're the ones swirling above him rather than the carousel swirling him down below them. He doesn't talk to them because he worries what they might say – he has to do what he's convinced himself needs to be done, he has to – but he does watch them show off, wondering how Sciel sees them, if her hope causes them to shine even brighter, if her resilience helps her to see colours he can't.
Eventually, he looks away and returns the telescope to her, looking no more enlightened but a little more relaxed.]
I don't think I speak their language.
[He offers lightly. This is true, too; his is the language of inward doubt and outward certainty, too dour and strict for the fantastical expanse above them.]
But I see what you mean. They're brighter than I'm used to, too.
[Again, that shift in his perspective towards her own. One he's not going to speak aloud because that feels like too much to share, but one which he acknowledges as simply as he can:]
Thanks. [He needed this – another thing that goes unsaid. Instead:] You're really something else, you know.
[ Sciel continues her observation of the heavens as Verso takes his turn with the telescope, saving any actual whispering to the stars for later when they're back in camp (and there's less of a view, but more privacy). When he returns the gift to her alongside his assessment of the experience, she maintains her easy smile, unbothered that he hadn't had some grand revelation as part of it. Honestly, it'd possibly come off as...pandering, if he had. But one of the (increasing) number of qualities she likes about Verso is that he's able to be honest about things like this in an intentional, gentle way. He knows how important this is to her and, as with the tarot, has engaged in ways that feel...authentic, but without empty lip service. ]
Maybe we'll get a night high on the Monolith. [ She muses, and though it touches on the subject of their solemn mission, and though they may not even make it that far, her relaxed demeanor doesn't change. ] I'm sure it's beautiful from way up there.
[ If the mountains have been any indication, then...the sight from the highest point in their world (except for the bits accessible only by flying) will be unforgettable. It's a nice thought, considering -- if they survive to that point -- the sweeping landscape will probably be a stunning sight before a possible end at the Paintress' hands.
There's a quick streak of light overhead: a shooting star. ]
I know. [ Sciel replies, carefree smile growing again to a playful grin. ] But it definitely means something, coming from the handsome immortal who's met more people than most.
[ Everyone's got something to offer. Even the shyest and most bitter people can be pried open like clams, coaxed into revealing the depth beyond the surface. She isn't downplaying her own worth or acting overly humble in the face of his compliment, but is instead inclined to remind him that those who are 'something else' might be in less short supply than he's let himself see, lately.
Maybe that perspective could help (if things do go tits-up )him to give the 32s a chance, too.
Though she's loathe to take her attention from the stars for even a moment, Sciel does think back to the first conversation they'd had about this place, back during the game of piquet, and closes her eyes. It's a little disorienting, maybe -- the gentle spin of the carousel without the sight of the world around it to anchor her -- but she again delights in yet another new sensation, grin widening.
There isn't much more to it. No cathartic experiences to be had: just the round and round and round of the ride, the weight of the telescope in her hand, the knowledge of Verso at her side. ]
...Oh. [ She breathes, upon opening her eyes again. There's a little laugh to accompany it. ] Guess I was warned.
[ As advertised: it feels like the world is spinning. ]
[Another question of how much to say, how much to keep close to his chest. He has been there at the top of the Monolith; he knows how its view opens upon onto the Crooked Tower, revealing an expanse that had felt impossible, then, though he's long since lost the details of that feeling. If the 33s do manage to ascend all the way to the peak of the Monolith, this is a truth that is almost certain to reveal itself: as far as he knows, the Expedition Zero flag still waves in its place just before the Monolith makes way for open sky.
In theory, it's harmless. Maybe there's some nervousness over how he has no sense of what the Lumierans might believe about where Expedition Zero met its fate, but nothing that worries him. In practise, though, it creates problems similar to those surrounding his silence on Renoir: that it's personal, and it's painful, and he wants to hold those memories that suffocating grief in private.
So, he offers a different memory from a similar time instead.]
You ever take in the view from the top of the Crooked Tower? I spent a lot of time up there after the Fracture. Getting a lay of the land, looking for... signs of life. And, after a while... finding the motivation to press on. Every time I looked out there, I saw home.
[The Lumiere that is never really was that for him. Just a transitional place between two very different devastations. Letting out a soft sigh, he sinks a little more against the roof, quirking a halved smile her way.]
I hope it's like that for you.
[A contradictory sentiment, he knows, considering what he intends to bring about atop that peak, but he means it all the same. And not because he needs them at their best to take down the Paintress. He wants them to feel those highs. To dance in the firelight. To tell warmer stories and dream happier dreams until the Canvas can no longer sustain them.
Those thoughts distract him enough that he can only offer up a smile at what she says about his immortality, cheeky and an I know in its own right, though his is a bit less fully felt than Sciel's. But his focus falls entirely when next she breaks the silence, and he rolls over onto his side, not too concerned – not after that laughter – but enough so to ask:]
Yeah. [ Sciel responds, affirming she is, in fact, okay as she rolls onto her own side to meet his attention. ] Just a little dizzy. [ And because there's a big difference in this effect when inflicted by certain Nevrons and the fun whirl of the carousel, she adds: ] Good dizzy, though.
[ As the feeling ebbs, she chuckles: an initial reply to his question about the Crooked Tower. ]
'Course. I was up there a lot, actually. It's where I met Lune, after our parents Gommaged. [ They did more than meet there, but she doesn't disclose that now. ] Like you said: it was a hell of a view. I'd go up there even while my parents were still around just to...I dunno, take it all in. And then after, being closer to the stars made me feel closer to my dad. [ There's a contemplative pause, because she can't think about the Crooked Tower without the other major period she'd spent in its heights. So when she presses on, her tone is softer. ] ...And then after they told me Pierre had died, I... Like you said: I was trying to find the motivation to press on. I heard about the accident from people who were there, but his body washed away. I think...part of me hoped I'd look out and see him coming home someday.
[ It'd been even more intense than that, though she doesn't expand. There had been a stretch where, in her grief, she'd be convinced that he would come back if only she were there to see it. That if she missed a day, she'd miss him, and that would be it. It was the kind of irrational habit borne of some of the worst experiences people can go through, and in the end, he'd never returned.
In the end, she hadn't found the motivation to press on. ]
...I'm looking forward to going back, after. [ After the defeat of the Paintress, of course. ] Looking out and seeing that Monolith wiped clean, with nobody sitting beneath it. [ And her smile returns, though it's a little more wistful, now. ] You'll have to come too, yeah? I like this theme we've got going. Meeting up in places with the best views.
[ Whatever his plans would be, if they're successful, she'll at least strong-arm him into this one thing. ]
[There's something about the way Sciel's bangs fall as she shifts over that draws Verso's focus and his hand alike; he reaches over to brush them aside as if gravity could be so easily tamed, then laughs when they land right back out of place again. So, he just fusses with them for a little, for the feel of her hair between his fingers, for those moments when his fingertips graze her forehead, before withdrawing his hand and lifting himself up a bit more onto his elbow.]
Good dizzy's good.
[He says with a lack of eloquence and excess of obviousness that he compensates for with an easy earnestness. One that softens into something unreadable as Sciel makes her own connections between the Crooked Tower and death. Connections that Verso probably could have made but didn't; after all these years, he's still unable to comprehend what life in Lumiere has become.
Maybe he can relate to them forgetting about the Gestrals and the Grandis after all.
That's a thought for later, though, when he's alone and needs to keep his thoughts from wandering off in their worst directions. Now he listens, his expression softening with her tone, masks raised when she surprises him by delving deeper into the topic of Pierre. Not that it's unexpected under the circumstances, him and his students still spinning beneath them, a sea of chatty stars swirling above, but rather that it's never come up like this before, and he supposes that he assumed it never would. It usually doesn't, but then again his connections with the Expeditioners are usually less... well, less of whatever he and Sciel have.
She pushes ahead before he can say anything, thoughts of returning to Lumiere and viewing the Continent from its long-lost perspective introducing a different kind of ache but inspiring a soft smile all the same.]
That'd be nice. [He'd like that, genuinely, in a better world with tomorrows that meant something.] Maelle told me the boulangerie's still there. We could grab some fresh viennoiseries, make an afternoon of it.
[They can't. At least not in his narrowed view of what might come. But less good would come of saying that than he convinces himself comes of pretending otherwise, so...
In the silence that follows, he lets out a breath and cants his head to the side as if the motion'll set his words in order. It doesn't help him find an easier way to ask the question on his mind, but that's nothing new. He presses on anyway.]
Do you want to talk about him? Pierre.
[He doesn't want to touch on any of the specifics in case her answer is no. Goodness knows he understands the massive leap in difficulty that exists between skimming the surface of something painful and going into its details.]
[ Soft, little touches are more dangerous than the rough and needy moments from the train. Her breath slows as he reaches out to move her hair aside, to laugh as gravity takes its toll, to brush her forehead. There's a deeper silence, then, and a gradual, visible exhale into the frigid air between them. ]
What, Mathilde's? [ It's a really nice thought, isn't it? To be able to grab a few pastries, maybe a bottle of wine, and ascend together the tower that'd been such a presence in both their lives. And she can picture it, knows that it isn't a complete impossibility. To what degree are these dreams helpful, in the hope that they inspire, versus dangerous, in the distraction they might create? ...Sciel immediately has to chide herself for that thought, though: I sound like Lune.
Speaking of, sort of. Of the remaining original 33s, Lune is the one Sciel would talk to about Pierre, if there were anything to talk about. But Lune prefers to stay on task, and though she wouldn't refuse a conversation about their lost loved ones if Sciel asked, Lune herself doesn't bring up her parents, her siblings, Gustave, the others. And honestly, Sciel has been completely fine with working this way, because there's a part of her that's afraid the depths of her old grief are still inside her somewhere, waiting like a pitfall for her to misstep and then be well and truly lost.
When Verso asks, though... It's strange. The feeling is like a little knot being delicately undone. ]
...Yeah. [ She replies eventually, and where her attention and gaze had drifted off, she now returns them to Verso. ] Thanks.
[ But what about? Describing someone you know better than anyone in the world who was taken from you too soon to someone who'd never met them is...a dizzying task. More so than the way the world had spun after she'd closed her eyes and let the carousel take her around and around. So there's another pause as she sorts through the memories, more and more of a bittersweet love seeping into her face as she does. ]
He was part of the Outdome teams, making trips to the surrounding islands for plants and things. They were always bringing back samples, and when I asked for some myself, that's how we met.
[ That memory is as clear as day: he'd flagged her down at the docks to present the boxes upon boxes of cuttings. She'd still been staring at them, flabbergasted, when he'd produced a bouquet from behind his back, offering it up with a breathless smile and the unspoken promise of more. More...kindness, more thoughtfulness, more moments that would never, ever leave her.
(More moments that would leave gaping, festering holes in her life when he was gone.) ]
We we supposed to have five more years, when it happened. [ There's never enough time, in their world, but to lose him so early and unexpectedly had been a particularly cruel twist of fate. ] I...try and remember all the good days we had together, to keep him alive how I can [ whether it be with inanimate horses named in his honour or sharing his existence with others ] but... God, I do still miss him. So much.
[ There's so much more she can say, but she knows Verso understands. He's loved and lost, he's experienced more of this sort of thing than probably anyone. So her torn expression softens again, and now it's her turn to reach out and sweep aside any wayward hair as she feels, with deep empathy, for him in turn. ]
He used to make up stories he was 'hearing from the stars.' [ Sciel adds, face splitting in a grin at the recollection. ] Elaborate ones, like they were characters in...I dunno, really melodramatic novels. There'd be plot lines and betrayals and everything.
[ It wasn't as if he didn't take her connection to them seriously. Not at all. He just discovered early that it'd made her laugh, and eventually she'd start smacking him until they were both silly piles on the floor, looking to each other instead of at the sky. ]
[He'll spare her the information that it was called Angelique's, then, and he used to live in the apartment right above it. Maybe another time, if their conversations ever take them back to the Lumiere-that-was during the short period after the Fracture and before Expedition Zero.
Besides, the silence that follows is important, and he treats it with the respect it deserves, keeping all but his softened breaths to himself, giving Sciel however much room she needs to let her grief expand before she can bring it back to centre. Sometimes when Expeditioners open up to him, there are things for him to ease first, or obstacles for him to help to surmount, and though he doesn't expect anything like that to happen now, he keeps an eye out for it, too, just in case. Being that neutral third party feels like one of the few things he can genuinely offer. Close enough to death to understand but far away enough from Lumiere to know.
Though it's a bit different with Sciel; his dynamics with Expeditioners are typically a little more distant, closer to what he has with Lune. A flimsier rapport. Circumstances that follow more of a deliberate route. He'll notice something is off and make an approach, or something that was said or done earlier stays on his mind long enough for him to bring it up. Little check-ins, not... whatever's happening now, his heart foolishly thumping with more than just sympathetic nerves.
Five years, though. It's a pittance held like a broken promise, and his mouth twists towards something angry. He masks it into mournfulness before he gives himself away. A mask that becomes more natural when she takes her turn at playing with his hair.]
That never stops.
[Not that she wouldn't already have a sense of that; Lumierans are practically born mourning. But there was a difference for him between five years and thirty-three, and between thirty-three and sixty-seven, so he doesn't say it to patronise. There have been times when he couldn't feel the pain of losing Julie and wondered what that meant. Times when he'd tried to talk to her and couldn't find her voice. But the pain always comes back, and oh, what a relief it had been to know that she was still there, because the nightmare is better than the void.]
They never leave you.
[The story about melodramatic stars gets another laugh out of him, and he lifts himself a little more.]
Now I'm intrigued. It's been a while since I've heard a new story... if you don't mind sharing.
I hope not. [ Soft-spoken, almost wistful, to his assurance. ] I would never want to forget. Even when it hurts.
[ That hadn't always been true, though. The pain of the present had overcome the love of the past. Even after that, she'd continued trying to fill the void with endless distractions, still unsure as she was that facing it all head-on wouldn't drive her right back into the water.
It feels like something is pressing against her throat from within, uncomfortably welling up there and making it more difficult to draw breath. So Sciel takes a bigger, steadying inhale and exhale, withdrawing her hand from him but remaining on her side, looking back.
There's so much they both can't say, are unwilling to say. But just being here and scratching its surface...is enough. ]
I don't mind, but I'll warn you: they're ridiculous. [ Pierre had been a perfectly fine storyteller, but these particular tales had been spun with the intention of making his wife laugh, so...they weren't always the most cohesive. Retelling them now might make that all the more obvious. ...But, Verso had asked, and who cares if they're silly? Silly...is nice, in the face of all the ugly bits they usually have to grapple with. ]
For example... [ Glancing up at the stars in question, picking out some of the more obvious constellations, she pieces the stories back together and chuckles preemptively. ] The main character was usually Monsieur Major, a huge bear trying to live a normal live in his little flat. Him and his dog, Sirius, who I always said should also be big, because-...but Pierre insisted it was a tiny dog, so Monsieur Major was always losing track of him. And...he had a lot of neighbours, real characters, who figured into it all. Like Taurus, whose horns were too big to fit through the door, so they'd always have to chat right there in the doorway. Or Cassiopeia, who always acted like she was too good for everyone else, but was smitten with Monsieur Major, naturally. Very charming bear. Though he was oblivious, because he only had eyes for Aquila, who was...well, an eagle, but I just assumed they were all anthropomorphic in these stories, and Aquila wasn't interested in romance at all...
[ She trails off, lips parted in a lightly exasperated, but deeply fond grin. ]
...Things like that. [ There's another little laugh accompanied by a short sigh. ] And it didn't matter which stars were actually visible at the moment, naturally. He'd just use whatever he thought fit the moment.
[ As much as anything "fit" in his over-the-top dramas. ]
[Verso notices that breath – its depth and its centring – and though he keeps silent, his eyes don't. They speak of concern and the passing question he asks himself of whether he should pose a question to her, or say something, or maintain the nothing. A twitch in his arm suggests he could reach out again and twirl one of those face-framing strands between his fingers. The narrowing of his brow telegraphs a sense of searching. But he has enough self-awareness to recognise that those impulses stem from his deeper need to do something – to feel like he can serve a purpose other than destruction – and so he tempers them.
Just being here is enough: a truth that makes itself clear when Sciel moves to start sharing Pierre's stories, and Verso feels his thoughts get less cloudy as he follows her focus back up to the stars.]
Ridiculous stories are the best.
[Spoken with an enthusiasm similar to the one he has for trains and skiing and music. Goodness knows he and Monoco have shared enough of them over the years, their back-and-forths being one of Verso's most effective salves. Even so, there's a pang of... regret, at first, that familiar sense of purposelessness to everything that has happened and will continue to happen here. Sciel deserves more stories. So did Pierre's students. So did Pierre. Verso pictures the horses below listening in, the troublemakers adding their own twists, the others either encouraging them quiet or pleading the story on.
Part of him wants to join in on that imagined chorus, or ask ridiculous questions about scandals and secrets and intrigue, and keep them both in this imaginary world where the worst he's hearing is that love has a decent shot of going unrequited. The rest of him keys in on that post-laugh sigh and thinks better of pushing Sciel to exist with ghosts. So, he laughs at the last of her comments instead, the artist in him thinking naturally, too.]
He sounds like a man dedicated to his craft.
[And his wife, and her smile, and eking out however much happiness he can for her. Again, Verso masks his frustration over the state of the world before turning back towards Sciel with an expression that's soft, if unreadable.]
Thanks for sharing. And... I'll keep it with me.
[Because this is another thing that he can do: be a vault for legacies that might not be carried on otherwise.
He thinks, too, about what she'd said earlier about the stars and their current mood, and about talking to them. Hearing and being heard. And just like with the horses beneath them, he looks up at all the constellations named and those that he hopes existed in other stories, and he imagines.]
[ His comment about the absurdity of the stories earns him another little laugh and a knowing -- fondly-judgmental -- look. ]
Oh, are you a fan of ridiculous stories? I hadn't noticed. [ Verso on his own has shared swaths of them, and when he and Monoco are together the flood only intensifies. Sciel chuckles again, softer now, at the handful of memories of either witnessing these back-and-forths firsthand while they all sat around the fire, or else catching word of them a short distance away as the two old friends chatted a little ways off of camp.
"He sounds like a man dedicated to his craft," Verso remarks, and Sciel bobs her head in assent as her expression shifts back into something a touch more wistful. If only this were a situation that allowed her to take those words and springboard into euphemism, to wink and elbow her companion with something like a "You have no idea." But...that isn't where she goes. Instead she recalls flashes of their shared life: Pierre anticipating cuttings she hadn't even asked for and providing them, Pierre in the classroom getting overrun by adoring students, and, yes: Pierre telling his ridiculous stories on the fire escape of their flat, unrelenting until she laughed so hard there were tears in her eyes.
The scenes fade, but don't disappear, as she returns to the present. ]
Thanks for listening. And...for asking in the first place. [ It's worth commenting on, considering how infrequently she has the opportunity to delve back into these memories beyond her own internal recollection. ] ...I'm not sure how much I needed it, but it really helped. Like...it was a pressure valve that just needed a little turning.
[ And the pressure -- the grief -- isn't gone, but she does feel slightly lighter.
His asking after the opinion of the stars tugs up the corners of her mouth as she casts her gaze their way, humming thoughtfully. ]
Oh, definitely. This is the best meeting we've had in a while. [ Between the display and the stories, which...she realizes, she hadn't been alone in her reminiscing. Not if she thinks the glittering swaths above are largely the same as the ones that had once witnessed Pierre's attempts to amuse his wife.
Still lying on her side, Sciel shifts the position of her head a little, searching his face as if trying to make a decision about something. ]
...What about you? [ She asks, after that pause, having apparently decided to press ahead with her inclination to ask after a story for a story. ] Any little moments you want to revisit?
[ Not necessarily between him and another person, not necessarily anything in particular. He may decline, and she won't press him (this time, as thanks for all the gestures), but the opportunity to vent some steam of his own is there, at least, for the taking. ]
[Ah, so the mysterious man of mysteries isn't always so mysterious. He laughs in turn at the call-out, shrugging in concession. That lightness carries on even as she thanks him, the only change being in how his smiles shifts towards melancholy and his eyes soften.]
Of course. Anytime.
[More of that simple honesty – that honesty of the man he'd be in a better life. More of that blurring of the line between how close he should get to anyone and how distant he should behave, too, but at this point course-correcting toward the latter is such a lost cause that he quietly accepts the defeat he'd been dealt a good while back. Only his guilt benefits from denying these moments the chance to exist, anyway, and he understands too well the consequences of quieting it, so. It's fine. It's okay. It somehow feels... right, even if it might be easy to beg to differ.
Her question earns her some more silence at first. What about him, indeed. There are, he knows, probably things that he should revisit, whether for catharsis or to share information, but he's never been good at taking that initiating step. Even with their usual exchange of dark and personal stories, he needs time to prepare. And with so much having happened since their last conversation – with him also being unsure whether Sciel would even join him for another chat after Old Lumiere – he has nothing. Blanks all across the board.
Which he knows he could just address with a simple, "Nah." Sciel would respect it, and they'd find something else to talk about or to do, or else they'd head back to camp. Simple, easy, right there for the taking.
But instead:]
I've had a lot of little moments. Care to help me narrow it down?
[Because in the end, he does trust her. A lot. Not nearly enough to offer up everything he is and was and wants and feels and knows, but enough to show her this small bit of faith.]
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tableauvivant) wrote2025-09-17 01:14 pm
no subject
As they'd established earlier, he's used to people being interested in him. It's part and parcel of being a mysterious and immortal stranger. This softer kind of interest, though, where he gets to watch her take in the finer details of a carousel horse simply because he's named it as his favourite – that's different, and he knows it's not the cold that has him feeling chills when she returns to her horse to ask her questions.
Why indeed. Still torn on whether he should broach the subject of Alicia himself or wait for the likely inevitability of one of the 33s piecing together the clues, he searches his thoughts for an alternative, knowing better, at least, than to pretend it really is about lost innocence.]
Someone I cared about chose it for me. [Is the answer he settles on, in the end.] So, it makes me think of the time we spent together before everything went to hell.
[Before she knew the truth about the fire and the nature of her existence; before Verso and Renoir's lies had driven them, blood-stained, away from one Lumiere and into the skeleton of the other. A time when Verso loved her more than he hated himself and when the two of them didn't feed each other's guilt through the simple osmosis of nearness.
Fortunately, he has another question to answer instead of delving into those depths, and so he breathes some of the tension in his chest away as if it can be that easy, and takes his own moment to contemplate Sciel's horse, though it's not necessary.]
Nah, only Sucrerie does. [At least as far as he knows. If the children who once played here had named them, those names are as lost to time as the memories of them are.] Which means... You should give it one.
no subject
Would you tell me about them? [ Whoever they may be, who'd clearly known Verso well, she assumes, to have chosen a horse for him that seems so apt. ] However much you want, or don't want.
[ After all, it's already been a long day of people (herself included) trying to get answers and personal information out of him, so...if he isn't inclined to share, she won't pursue it.
In the meantime, she has a task. Though it really isn't long after he sets it for her that her lips part almost knowingly, eyes trailing from the horse beneath her out across the scintillating landscape that surrounds them. ]
Pierre. [ Sciel announces, and her voice holds the name like you would a kitten or an infant: with a gentle, inherent love. ] ...I told you my husband loved the idea of snow? I...really like the idea that he could...be here. To be surrounded by all this, to...get to see it every day. It makes me really happy, imagining it.
[ He's gone, but...who knows. Maybe bestowing his name upon the lovely, warm horse that had caught her eye could somehow -- in some mystical, unknowable way -- share this fragment of her life with him, even now. Her lips press together in a smile that twists only briefly in the reopening of her old wounds, but the moment is primarily, as she'd said, a happy one. This is...a way she can keep him alive.
Sciel turns back to look at Verso, head resting against the hands she has wrapped along the pole. ]
Part of me wishes we didn't have to move on so soon. I think I could spend a lot more time out here.
[ But they still have a mission: one more important than any whimsical inclinations. The Axons await, and as far as she knows, neither possible island is snowy like this.
Fortunately, at least, this night is far from over. The music carries on, the lights continue to flash, and she lets herself sink more fully into the moment, exhaling in another visible puff.
Tomorrow always comes, but...not yet. ]
no subject
Besides, he can trust Sciel. Even if she doesn't like the implications, he can still believe that she'll hear him out. So:]
My little sister, Alicia. She... [A pause while he debates tense, then a sigh as he makes his decision.] She hasn't had the easiest life, so she can be quiet and withdrawn. Really liked to read and write so when I did manage to convince her to come out here with me, she usually spent a lot of time with her nose in a book. Not that I minded, it's just...
[It made him sad. The loss of her voice and they way she wore a mask. How she wore her hair to cover her missing eye. The utter silence of a voice he was always so happy to listen to, no matter the topic, even if she was telling him all the ways his poetry needed improvement. Sometimes especially then.]
When she did come out of her shell, those were some of my favourite moments.
[Distinctly, he remembers how it felt to hear that rasp of a laugh when he'd hopped on Sucrerie, quickly displaced by embarrassment once he started hamming it up. She'd written a poem for him afterwards that he still keeps on him, tucked safely into his pictos space where it'll always be there for him when he reaches for it.
It's not comparable to what Sciel has going on with the memory of her husband, he knows, but the way his heart both blooms and aches over his memories of Alicia isn't dissimilar to how it swells and twinges as Pierre is given his name and a restored presence in the world. He lets the thought exist in silence for a moment, not wanting to rush into his own words while Sciel's still hang in the air like welcomed ghosts. What a beautiful sentiment. What a perfect way to memorialise the lost.
Without too much of a delay, though:]
I like that. A lot.
[There is much more he can say, but he doesn't want to overstep by trying to be deep or insightful over something he's missing the most important details on. And while he could take this moment to ask her more, he holds off at least for now, following her spirit of not wanting to move on too soon by keeping them in place for at least a bit longer.]
But what's a teacher without their students, right? Did he have any favourites who can keep him company?
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There are a lot of questions she could ask, but what she gives voice to is: ] And...her coming to the carousel, picking out a horse for you...that was a win. [ No wonder it's special. Sciel is an only child, but that doesn't mean she can't understand those bonds. ] I'm sure she loved spending that time together.
[ Even if it might not be his sister's natural inclination, reserved as she allegedly is. Sciel has taught students like that, and there's no magic formula to get all of them to open up. Kids are individuals like anyone else, and finding those little niches that help them to flourish can be difficult, but so, so rewarding.
That's true of adults too, of course. ]
And she's obviously got great taste. [ Sciel adds, nodding toward Sucrerie.
The conversation then turns toward her own horse as she imbues the inanimate creature with her intentions for someone loved and lost. Sciel offers a little smile as he affirms the sentiment, but it's what he says next that snags that smile.
There's a long moment when she looks back at him with a largely inscrutable expression. Because...it's so goddamn sweet. Unexpectedly so: not because it'd come from him, but because it's just not something most people would think to suggest. It isn't a reaction of sympathy or discomfort, both of which she's learned to shrug away like water off a duck, but rather a follow-up that engages directly and unflinchingly with a difficult sentiment. And not just a difficult one, but...one that is more important to her than almost anything.
That stretch of silence hangs, with her looking back at Verso surprised, overwhelmed, and grateful. ...Eventually, she gently shakes herself free from the heart-swelling feeling and looks away, though it's still with a big smile that she's unable, unwilling, to dim. ]
Yeah. 'Course he did. [ She breathes, glancing around at the surrounding horses. ] Great idea, Verso.
[ And, naturally, she hops off her own mount again to wander the surrounding rows, albeit without moving out of eyeshot of her companion. Sciel again looks them up and down, peering into their faces, before returning to hop on the newly-dubbed Pierre's back. ]
Right. There were five I was always hearing about. [ At which point she leans in toward him so she can point out the ones she'd chosen. ] That one...three ahead of you, that's Jean. Two in front of mine's Germaine, and the one to her right is Louise. Then...right behind ours are René and Emile.
[ The horses she describes all vary in appearance and pose, ranging from white and pretty with a braided mane to speckled gray with a bubble-like design on its saddle to everything in between. The two she'd mentioned last rise and fall behind them, heads positioned in such a way that you could say are meant to appear as though they aren't eyeing the horses in front of them, though they absolutely are. ]
They're a pair of troublemakers, so watch your back. [ Sciel leans in farther to whisper conspiratorially. ]
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[That it's a win, mainly; Verso would very much like to hope that she loved those short years they'd spent in blissful ignorance, but time has coloured his perception and understanding of his relationship with his sister, and the way she does things like going from helping him in one moment to making a show of how she's chosen their mother in the next doesn't only confuse their present and future. It leaves him wondering more than he'd like about the past as well, how he's coloured his memories, how she's shaded her own. So, he only offers Sciel a smile at the good taste comment before shifting his focus back to Sucrerie for a moment, giving her a mental scritch under her chin.
When he looks back amid a descending silence and meets Sciel's steady gaze, there's a part of him that wants to look away, a little worried that he's gone and engaged in his least favourite yet arguably most revisited hobby: inserting his foot squarely in his mouth. But the more she looks, the less possible that feels, and so his expression softens, and he relaxes against his horse, letting the loop of his arm around the pole keep him steady as he leans back a little, curious but patient.
Then, it's once again his turn – a turn no less gladly taken than the others – to watch her as she moves between the horses. It would have been easy for her to go with the practicality of proximity, but she views them with the same care with which she found herself choosing Pierre-the-Horse, and something about that intrigues and impresses and warms him. There's just so much life about her, an effortless compassion for things that others might consider inconsequential or irrelevant in the face of everything else, but that she makes the time for, every time.
He can't possibly know why she chose each horse for each child, but still he tries picturing it. Is the pretty white one for a budding fashionist? The bubbly one for a giggly child whose effervescence was contagious? It's been decades since he's been around children in any meaningful way, but he can almost feel their presence on the carousel, laughter mingling with the creaking gears and booming music, not like before but... today's children. Whoever little Jean and Germaine and Louise and Rene and Emile have become over the years, teenagers who may have otherwise outgrown such attractions, perhaps, and yet who might embrace it with the same whimsy and wonder as Sciel does.]
I'm pleased to make their acquaintances.
[Her last comment draws a laugh from him, and he lets his focus linger on those two mischievous horses for a moment before raising his hands and turning his back to them.]
Hey. Far be it from me to discourage troublemaking.
[The matter of which Axon to take down first aside, anyway.]
Speaking of... You ready to head on up and see the stars? Used to be a time-honoured tradition, you know. We'd sneak up there after the park closed and the night staff were off on the last train into Lumiere. Bring a few bottles of wine, tell our worst stories. Try to wake up before the morning staff arrived with, uh, varying degrees of success. Though that last one was only on the warmer nights. The frostbite would've given us away.
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Right...guess that'd be a bit hypocritical. [ Considering Verso can be, as she might say if referring to one of her more troublesome students, a bit of a stinker. Or maybe it's because of his recklessness, or because of the past he's shared wherein he'd somewhat gone against familial expectations to do things like spend a night drinking absinthe in the city. He knows how to get himself into trouble, or better or worse.
A next natural thought: how has her understanding of those familial expectations changed with the knowledge that Renoir is his father? Sciel almost sighs but doesn't, though she is able to gently shunt the train of thought for another time.
Besides, they've got another item on the agenda. It won't surprise him to see the question spark fresh light in her eyes, knowing what he does about her inclination toward the stars. ]
Well, unless you've got a secret stash of wine, then all we've got are our worst stories. [ Verso may be relieved that she continues, though it's as much for the benefit of her secrets as his: ] ...But I think you've probably given your share of those today already.
[ The idea of spending the night here makes her shiver, because though the coats keep them from outright freezing, the temperature is still deeply, bone-chillingly low. ]
We also don't have the blanket and tea you mentioned before. [ She hums mournfully, slipping for a final time off horse-Pierre's back and waiting for Verso to lead the way to the roof. ] Think we can still get our fill of the sights without freezing?
[ It's teasing, but surprisingly not with any twinge of innuendo in spite of the low-hanging fruit available. Really, she just looks eager to get up there and see it, knowing that her experience stargazing in Lumiére and then even in their time on the Continent since then won't be able to compare to what's waiting for them just above. ]
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Fresh out of wine stashes, unfortunately.
[And blankets and tea, but he can compensate for the former at least a little bit. A nod of thanks for the break she offers, and then he's leaping off the horse like a daredevil in a circus, landing with a ridiculous flourish as if he's dismounted something far more dangerous than a children's ride. Then, he throws his thumb over his shoulder and starts walking backwards towards the stairs.]
But there is something I can do to make things warmer. Just give me another second, yeah? Oh, and brace yourself. Ride's about to get bumpy.
[Down the stairs he goes, back to the control panel. This time, he uses his hands and not his chroma, wanting to fine-tune the controls. Music down to a murmur. Speed of the carousel slowed. Rise and fall of the horses at a higher frequency to compensate. The gears groan before obeying and slipping into a low murmur that fades behind what's left of the music, but Verso pays no mind to their complaints; chroma's always worked differently, often an imitation of industry rather than a precise replication of it, and he's sure that no ill will come of the carousel. He'd have left it alone, otherwise, finding it far too important to lose any part of.
Once upstairs again, he summons his blade and starts prodding at part of the roof.]
Almost ready.
[Eventually, the sound of a latch loosening gently clangs, followed by something a little more screeching as Verso lifts himself up to pull down an access ladder. Which he holds steady for Sciel to climb up, following afterwards.
There'd been near to no snow on the roof, so there's no meltwater – a small blessing considering that Verso was too scattered by the day's events to have brought anything to compensate for it. Instead, a warmth emanating from the main gears, the ambient temperature still a little cool but the metal roof panels are pleasantly warm. The slope is perfect for relaxing, the lip around the edge deceptively high. Safe. Almost comfortable. They'd have to try to fall off, even with the roof spinning.
Speaking of...]
I can slow it down more if this is too much.
[Getting motion sick is probably not ideal.]
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Unlike Lune and Maelle, and Gustave before them, Sciel hasn't been writing in her journal. It's almost certainly breaking some protocol, but every time she'd pulled it out it'd ended with the same suite of pristine pages. This had come after the incident at the beach, of course, and after she'd found herself in Gestral Village with no clear return path to their mission in sight. She'd never had aspirations to soldier on alone, to somehow represent the 33s in a successful one-woman war against the Paintress when all of her friends and fellows had been slaughtered. No: she'd put every waking moment either training or fighting, trying to keep her body occupied long enough for it to Gommage. And so...she certainly hadn't been journaling then.
After, when the others had found her and their journey was again a semi-realistic endeavor, was when she'd found herself staring down those empty lines. Whether she'd been surrounded by the scratch of the others' implements or in complete silence, whether they'd had a surprisingly unremarkable day or had seen no less than a dozen wonders of the Continent, none of it had managed to produce any written reflection. She hadn't really been sure why and didn't feel the need to examine it too closely on those occasions, but: right now, looking out at the rise and fall of mountains, the ethereal sweep of snow, the spectrum of lights strew across it all like gemstones...
Maybe I'll write about this one, she thinks, smiling out at it all.
Before long Verso gives her the heads up that his task is almost complete and so she turns, releasing Pierre and moving closer to the stairs in the middle, waiting. She doesn't have to stand idle much as he pulls down the ladder and gestures for her to ascend, which she does with a little 'merci' before climbing to reach the roof. ]
No, this is perfect. [ She assures him once she reaches the top, getting her bearings. Notably, though, Sciel avoids looking directly up, as if she's holding off. Instead, she casts her attention his way again, asking: ] Anywhere in particular we should go?
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Yeah. Right here.
[This part of the roof is more worn than the rest, black paint missing in places, metal beneath it polished to a shine from use. There are chips and scrapes along the paint in places where buckles have banged up against them, or where someone might have placed a sword. Even a couple well-weathered corks are scattered near the rim, relics from a time when Verso still had what felt like an abundance of wine. Sheepishly, he kicks them off to the side before using his sleeve to wipe off one of the panels. There's barely anything there – the snow keeps things reasonably clean – but it feels like the proper thing to do, and some of his rich-boy-from-a-powerful-family instincts still overpower his forestman side every now and again. Particularly when the company is so pleasant that it restores him to something almost ordinary.
A look at his sleeve and a dusting off of both sleeves together before he steps aside and gestures for her to sit down and get comfortable.]
So.
[So. He knows what he wants to say, but needs a moment. There's something almost shy about him in the silence, written in the soft curve of his shoulders, in way his lips curl into a barely there smile that exists of its own volition. The way he crosses his arms over his chest is also more reflexive than intentional, but he remains in place otherwise, keeping a gentle focus on Sciel.]
I, uh, brought you something.
[And of course he's going to be mysterious about what, letting an impish gleam shine in his eyes as some of the shyness abates now that the relatively hard part's over with. Back before the Fracture, he'd always liked giving people gifts, little trinkets that reminded him of them, or pastries from the boulangerie that tasted particularly good, or songs he composed. Anything for a smile. That stopped a very, very long time ago – he never really got to know any of the Expeditioners well enough to understand what they might like, and he found it easier to try and lighten their spirits through other means, anyway – but now...
Well, now he thinks he might have an idea.]
Do you want it now, or would you like to spend some time with the stars first?
[He knows what they mean to her, after all.]
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Speaking of surprises: ]
Do you? [ Sciel briefly considers the possible joke -- that it's a wonder he has any surprises left, after what had happened -- but immediately dismisses it. They've left the events of Old Lumiére behind in camp, after all.
It's probably not a good idea, letting herself think of these excursions as if they exist outside of the harshness of their reality. After all, she'd told Lune that part of this was going to be her trying to (gently!) get more information about what they'd learned today. But...she takes in the little cues of something like bashfulness in his bearing, and...well, she has absolutely no desire to rend that asunder. So: her lips come together in a tight, fond grin as she peers up at him and considers the order of things. ]
...Let's have it now. [ Sciel decides after a moment, still not having turned her eyes skyward to take in the main event. ] They'll still be there in a bit, yeah? And now that you've told me, I'm very curious.
[ It'd be a shame if her attention was divided during any part of the evening, right? Though of course, with no idea what he's prepared, it's hard to say the surprise won't still be on her mind when they finally do lie back and, as he'd said, "spend some time with the stars."
So she shifts, propping up a knee and searching his face with a gentle curiosity for anything that might give it away. ]
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It occurs to him that it might not be a novel thing to her, but maybe it's something novel out here, another way to escape when reality closes in on them and there's nowhere else to go. Or, maybe she won't like it – that's an understandable possibility – but that's okay. He's sure she'll be gracious either way, and they can use any awkwardness to segue into stargazing. A rare plan where he truly feels like nothing can go catastrophically wrong.]
I don't know if you had these in Lumiere, but this one's real good.
[Once, the pictures of stars he'd held in his mind had resembled those that might have appeared over Paris. He still remembers the first time Esquie handed him that telescope and told him to look through and into a sky full of stars as envisioned by the same little boy who painted the rest of the whimsy into this world. Colour and light and shape and texture, almost-stories set to almost-music, another hidden fairytale in this land of nightmares. And maybe Sciel is different, but Verso's always saw the experience as something separate from stargazing, like the disconnect between performing and being part of an audience.
Regardless, once it's in Sciel's hands, Verso takes a seat next to her, following suit in not starting out into the sky quite yet, stricken by the feeling that it would be almost wrong to take it in ahead of her, though he struggles enough to pinpoint why that he stops trying. Besides, it's nice to have the time to be patient, wonderful to harbour expectations that will actually be fulfilled.]
I won't take it personally if you don't want to use it right away. [A pause, and then he has to go and try to make a funny.] It's also great for hitting Nevrons with. Or Monoco when he gets too close with his foot collection.
[ relationship level increase ]
Shutting her eyes. Taking in a deep breath and then lying down, the gift still clutched in her bare hand. Only a brief time more passes, then, before she opens her eyes again beneath the full expanse of the sky.
It's...overwhelming. A dazzling array of colors and lights that make the display of the carousel look positivity dull by comparison. There are spots of all colours that dot the sky from the horizon line all the way across, twinkles of tiny distant stars and the constant shine of planets. Any bits from the Fracture fade away in the face of what hangs high above them: a sight that almost no human alive has ever seen. A trove of gems who share their sparkle with the people who look up at them from below, scintillating in Sciel's eyes as she stares: silent in the face of something so naturally stunning.
It's then that she brings the telescope to her eye, giving her an even better view of the endless stretch of shimmering sky. The velvet canvas of night blaze with ancient lights that now seemed close enough for her to reach out and touch. Her lips part unconsciously, expression still floored, but before long there's something that gradually twists at her mouth in a suggestion of, perhaps, an inner conflict.
It's too easy for her to return to those days after she'd learned Pierre had died. Before the water. It'd been her and their empty flat, her and all of his things, her and the memory of him that haunted every corner of her life but which she could never reach out and touch. That wracking devastation still feels dangerously close, and yet...in this moment, she wishes more than anything she could share some of what she's feeling now with the Sciel who had believed there would be no end to the pain.
Eventually she does move the telescope from her eye, though she keeps it tight in her grasp. She draws herself up to finally turn back to him, face again shining with the joy and gratitude she feels. Then, moving her free hand to cup his jaw, she leans in to capture his lips in a kiss that communicates only a fraction of all that, and of things he doesn't know, may never know. ]
Thank you. [ Sciel breathes, pressing her forehead to his before she withdraws again, settling back down against the roof and drinking in the sight on display above and around them with unabashed zeal. ] For-...all of this.
[ He might never have thought to share these places with her. It may all be made more difficult if he's done the same in the past, only to have those Expeditioners leave him behind in death, giving the places that were once special and innocent a dark, bitter twinge. But he's done it anyway, twice now, even if it isn't easy.
Sciel tucks all of these things away, folding them carefully so they'll travel safely with her through the rest of what time is left. ]
I love it.
[ gradient feelings unlocked | verso: less doom ]
This silence, though – that flurry of speaking-through-gestures and then not speaking at all – is neither of those things. It's a peace rarely felt, a sense of place he'd thought he'd lost long, long ago. Later, he'll think about what he'd told himself before he joined the 33s – that he has thoughts about making friends with Expeditioners, that he won't get too attached – and he'll think himself a fool either for believing he could detach himself this time or for failing to do the same, but. without regret, either way. For now, though, none of that. All doubt falls from the sight of the stars with his worries that Sciel might not like her gift, and he feels light, almost buoyant.
It's a bit before he looks out into the sky himself, taking in the gift of Sciel's marvel, that reflection of starlight she wears like it's her birthright. As he leans back, his eyes flutter shut. A bit counterproductive, perhaps, but he basks in the feelings of the moment, letting them crystallise until they have weight enough that he can fling them up to the stars as if for safekeeping. Which he does, tracing new memories into the lines of old constellations, replacing the stories they tell of gods and goddesses, of myths and of legends, with something that rings even more spectacular to his exhausted, worn-down heart.
More speaking-through-gestures follows as Sciel emerges to guide him into a kiss. Now, it's his heart that flutters up to the stars as she brings him back down to earth, grounding her in those perceivable and unknowable things she shares, in her warmth and her presence, in everything he knows better than to wish for but that he grasps at with the prowess of a seasoned dreamer.
The kiss breaks. Sound returns through the softness of her voice and with the way her breath breezes across his skin. And when she pulls the rest of the way away, Verso holds still and silent for a moment longer before responding.]
I'm glad.
[Is all he says at first. Everything else feels trite. I'm sorry I couldn't give you more. Or, I wish it could have been under better circumstances. Pointless condolences wrapped up in something other than grief. And anything that starts with You deserve feels off-tone, like he could only deliver it in someone else's voice.
So, instead, he thinks back to their first real conversation about the stars and about silence, and he lolls his head to the side to ask:]
Are things still quiet?
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No. They've been chatty for a while now. [ That conversation seems like it was ages ago, when in reality it hasn't been long at all since that chat at the cliffside. Strange to think they'd barely known each other then. Stranger...to think of how Gustave had still been with them not long before.
(There's the usual pang that comes with the memory of their lost 33s, but she's able to gingerly set it aside, as always.) ]
They're celebrating. [ Sciel explains, returning her attention upward to continue drinking in the otherworldly sight, heart still full with the rare splendor of it all. ] We've never been able to speak this clearly before. And with this - [ Here she indicates the gift, lifting the hand that holds it. ] I can see them better than ever, so they're able to show off.
[ Her dad would gush over this view, if he could see it. It's without any difficult at all that she's able to drop into a moment that will never exist: her father lying nearby, arm extended to outline constellations and planets, making sure she's able to follow where he indicates. That's the big bear, the hunter, the swan. Regaling her with stories about their myths and backgrounds, how they'd been discovered and how they helped people in history. ]
...It's a little like tarot, actually. Talking with the stars. [ Sciel offers after the stretch of silence, letting the vision of her dad disperse itself into starlight and flutter away on the wind. ] Give it a try and see what they've got to say to you.
[ Here she extends her hand to offer him the telescope (after which she dons her glove again, having quickly lost feeling in her fingers, particularly with the cold of the metal). ]
Or just take a look. [ There's a grin sent his way as she folds an arm beneath her head, chin twitching skyward to direct him. ] Even just taken as they are, it's...incredible.
[ And maybe it's become old hat for someone who's spent more than a scant amount of time here, but maybe not. Maybe, in these old haunts, there are still moments of fresh awe to be found for him.
It isn't exactly a gift she can offer in return, but it's at least a hope. ]
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No. There's no point in thinking like that. Circumstances are what they are.]
I'm glad to hear that. For you and them.
[Because it is a nice thought, that the stars are showing off, that they have that spirit of blooming all the more brightly when someone sees them for what they are. It's relatable. It's what he experiences now, even with the spectre of the Renoir-is-your-father revelation still haunting them both. That freedom to be the man he might've been if none of this had happened. That normalcy of something he'd done before the Fracture leeching into him like it's possible to go back to those times.
It's not and he knows that. But it's through that knowing that he gives himself permission to feel otherwise.
When she hands him the telescope, he takes it after a moment's pause. Maybe stargazing isn't exactly novel in the general sense, but like many things, Sciel's perspectives have an infectuous quality that transforms Verso's own. Not quite to the same extents, but enough that even his old, tired eyes can find new ways to view a world that still means a great deal to him.
So, he thinks of the stars in celebration as he lifts the telescope to them; he imagines that they're the ones swirling above him rather than the carousel swirling him down below them. He doesn't talk to them because he worries what they might say – he has to do what he's convinced himself needs to be done, he has to – but he does watch them show off, wondering how Sciel sees them, if her hope causes them to shine even brighter, if her resilience helps her to see colours he can't.
Eventually, he looks away and returns the telescope to her, looking no more enlightened but a little more relaxed.]
I don't think I speak their language.
[He offers lightly. This is true, too; his is the language of inward doubt and outward certainty, too dour and strict for the fantastical expanse above them.]
But I see what you mean. They're brighter than I'm used to, too.
[Again, that shift in his perspective towards her own. One he's not going to speak aloud because that feels like too much to share, but one which he acknowledges as simply as he can:]
Thanks. [He needed this – another thing that goes unsaid. Instead:] You're really something else, you know.
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Maybe we'll get a night high on the Monolith. [ She muses, and though it touches on the subject of their solemn mission, and though they may not even make it that far, her relaxed demeanor doesn't change. ] I'm sure it's beautiful from way up there.
[ If the mountains have been any indication, then...the sight from the highest point in their world (except for the bits accessible only by flying) will be unforgettable. It's a nice thought, considering -- if they survive to that point -- the sweeping landscape will probably be a stunning sight before a possible end at the Paintress' hands.
There's a quick streak of light overhead: a shooting star. ]
I know. [ Sciel replies, carefree smile growing again to a playful grin. ] But it definitely means something, coming from the handsome immortal who's met more people than most.
[ Everyone's got something to offer. Even the shyest and most bitter people can be pried open like clams, coaxed into revealing the depth beyond the surface. She isn't downplaying her own worth or acting overly humble in the face of his compliment, but is instead inclined to remind him that those who are 'something else' might be in less short supply than he's let himself see, lately.
Maybe that perspective could help (if things do go tits-up )him to give the 32s a chance, too.
Though she's loathe to take her attention from the stars for even a moment, Sciel does think back to the first conversation they'd had about this place, back during the game of piquet, and closes her eyes. It's a little disorienting, maybe -- the gentle spin of the carousel without the sight of the world around it to anchor her -- but she again delights in yet another new sensation, grin widening.
There isn't much more to it. No cathartic experiences to be had: just the round and round and round of the ride, the weight of the telescope in her hand, the knowledge of Verso at her side. ]
...Oh. [ She breathes, upon opening her eyes again. There's a little laugh to accompany it. ] Guess I was warned.
[ As advertised: it feels like the world is spinning. ]
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In theory, it's harmless. Maybe there's some nervousness over how he has no sense of what the Lumierans might believe about where Expedition Zero met its fate, but nothing that worries him. In practise, though, it creates problems similar to those surrounding his silence on Renoir: that it's personal, and it's painful, and he wants to hold those memories that suffocating grief in private.
So, he offers a different memory from a similar time instead.]
You ever take in the view from the top of the Crooked Tower? I spent a lot of time up there after the Fracture. Getting a lay of the land, looking for... signs of life. And, after a while... finding the motivation to press on. Every time I looked out there, I saw home.
[The Lumiere that is never really was that for him. Just a transitional place between two very different devastations. Letting out a soft sigh, he sinks a little more against the roof, quirking a halved smile her way.]
I hope it's like that for you.
[A contradictory sentiment, he knows, considering what he intends to bring about atop that peak, but he means it all the same. And not because he needs them at their best to take down the Paintress. He wants them to feel those highs. To dance in the firelight. To tell warmer stories and dream happier dreams until the Canvas can no longer sustain them.
Those thoughts distract him enough that he can only offer up a smile at what she says about his immortality, cheeky and an I know in its own right, though his is a bit less fully felt than Sciel's. But his focus falls entirely when next she breaks the silence, and he rolls over onto his side, not too concerned – not after that laughter – but enough so to ask:]
You all right?
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[ As the feeling ebbs, she chuckles: an initial reply to his question about the Crooked Tower. ]
'Course. I was up there a lot, actually. It's where I met Lune, after our parents Gommaged. [ They did more than meet there, but she doesn't disclose that now. ] Like you said: it was a hell of a view. I'd go up there even while my parents were still around just to...I dunno, take it all in. And then after, being closer to the stars made me feel closer to my dad. [ There's a contemplative pause, because she can't think about the Crooked Tower without the other major period she'd spent in its heights. So when she presses on, her tone is softer. ] ...And then after they told me Pierre had died, I... Like you said: I was trying to find the motivation to press on. I heard about the accident from people who were there, but his body washed away. I think...part of me hoped I'd look out and see him coming home someday.
[ It'd been even more intense than that, though she doesn't expand. There had been a stretch where, in her grief, she'd be convinced that he would come back if only she were there to see it. That if she missed a day, she'd miss him, and that would be it. It was the kind of irrational habit borne of some of the worst experiences people can go through, and in the end, he'd never returned.
In the end, she hadn't found the motivation to press on. ]
...I'm looking forward to going back, after. [ After the defeat of the Paintress, of course. ] Looking out and seeing that Monolith wiped clean, with nobody sitting beneath it. [ And her smile returns, though it's a little more wistful, now. ] You'll have to come too, yeah? I like this theme we've got going. Meeting up in places with the best views.
[ Whatever his plans would be, if they're successful, she'll at least strong-arm him into this one thing. ]
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Good dizzy's good.
[He says with a lack of eloquence and excess of obviousness that he compensates for with an easy earnestness. One that softens into something unreadable as Sciel makes her own connections between the Crooked Tower and death. Connections that Verso probably could have made but didn't; after all these years, he's still unable to comprehend what life in Lumiere has become.
Maybe he can relate to them forgetting about the Gestrals and the Grandis after all.
That's a thought for later, though, when he's alone and needs to keep his thoughts from wandering off in their worst directions. Now he listens, his expression softening with her tone, masks raised when she surprises him by delving deeper into the topic of Pierre. Not that it's unexpected under the circumstances, him and his students still spinning beneath them, a sea of chatty stars swirling above, but rather that it's never come up like this before, and he supposes that he assumed it never would. It usually doesn't, but then again his connections with the Expeditioners are usually less... well, less of whatever he and Sciel have.
She pushes ahead before he can say anything, thoughts of returning to Lumiere and viewing the Continent from its long-lost perspective introducing a different kind of ache but inspiring a soft smile all the same.]
That'd be nice. [He'd like that, genuinely, in a better world with tomorrows that meant something.] Maelle told me the boulangerie's still there. We could grab some fresh viennoiseries, make an afternoon of it.
[They can't. At least not in his narrowed view of what might come. But less good would come of saying that than he convinces himself comes of pretending otherwise, so...
In the silence that follows, he lets out a breath and cants his head to the side as if the motion'll set his words in order. It doesn't help him find an easier way to ask the question on his mind, but that's nothing new. He presses on anyway.]
Do you want to talk about him? Pierre.
[He doesn't want to touch on any of the specifics in case her answer is no. Goodness knows he understands the massive leap in difficulty that exists between skimming the surface of something painful and going into its details.]
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What, Mathilde's? [ It's a really nice thought, isn't it? To be able to grab a few pastries, maybe a bottle of wine, and ascend together the tower that'd been such a presence in both their lives. And she can picture it, knows that it isn't a complete impossibility. To what degree are these dreams helpful, in the hope that they inspire, versus dangerous, in the distraction they might create? ...Sciel immediately has to chide herself for that thought, though: I sound like Lune.
Speaking of, sort of. Of the remaining original 33s, Lune is the one Sciel would talk to about Pierre, if there were anything to talk about. But Lune prefers to stay on task, and though she wouldn't refuse a conversation about their lost loved ones if Sciel asked, Lune herself doesn't bring up her parents, her siblings, Gustave, the others. And honestly, Sciel has been completely fine with working this way, because there's a part of her that's afraid the depths of her old grief are still inside her somewhere, waiting like a pitfall for her to misstep and then be well and truly lost.
When Verso asks, though... It's strange. The feeling is like a little knot being delicately undone. ]
...Yeah. [ She replies eventually, and where her attention and gaze had drifted off, she now returns them to Verso. ] Thanks.
[ But what about? Describing someone you know better than anyone in the world who was taken from you too soon to someone who'd never met them is...a dizzying task. More so than the way the world had spun after she'd closed her eyes and let the carousel take her around and around. So there's another pause as she sorts through the memories, more and more of a bittersweet love seeping into her face as she does. ]
He was part of the Outdome teams, making trips to the surrounding islands for plants and things. They were always bringing back samples, and when I asked for some myself, that's how we met.
[ That memory is as clear as day: he'd flagged her down at the docks to present the boxes upon boxes of cuttings. She'd still been staring at them, flabbergasted, when he'd produced a bouquet from behind his back, offering it up with a breathless smile and the unspoken promise of more. More...kindness, more thoughtfulness, more moments that would never, ever leave her.
(More moments that would leave gaping, festering holes in her life when he was gone.) ]
We we supposed to have five more years, when it happened. [ There's never enough time, in their world, but to lose him so early and unexpectedly had been a particularly cruel twist of fate. ] I...try and remember all the good days we had together, to keep him alive how I can [ whether it be with inanimate horses named in his honour or sharing his existence with others ] but... God, I do still miss him. So much.
[ There's so much more she can say, but she knows Verso understands. He's loved and lost, he's experienced more of this sort of thing than probably anyone. So her torn expression softens again, and now it's her turn to reach out and sweep aside any wayward hair as she feels, with deep empathy, for him in turn. ]
He used to make up stories he was 'hearing from the stars.' [ Sciel adds, face splitting in a grin at the recollection. ] Elaborate ones, like they were characters in...I dunno, really melodramatic novels. There'd be plot lines and betrayals and everything.
[ It wasn't as if he didn't take her connection to them seriously. Not at all. He just discovered early that it'd made her laugh, and eventually she'd start smacking him until they were both silly piles on the floor, looking to each other instead of at the sky. ]
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[He'll spare her the information that it was called Angelique's, then, and he used to live in the apartment right above it. Maybe another time, if their conversations ever take them back to the Lumiere-that-was during the short period after the Fracture and before Expedition Zero.
Besides, the silence that follows is important, and he treats it with the respect it deserves, keeping all but his softened breaths to himself, giving Sciel however much room she needs to let her grief expand before she can bring it back to centre. Sometimes when Expeditioners open up to him, there are things for him to ease first, or obstacles for him to help to surmount, and though he doesn't expect anything like that to happen now, he keeps an eye out for it, too, just in case. Being that neutral third party feels like one of the few things he can genuinely offer. Close enough to death to understand but far away enough from Lumiere to know.
Though it's a bit different with Sciel; his dynamics with Expeditioners are typically a little more distant, closer to what he has with Lune. A flimsier rapport. Circumstances that follow more of a deliberate route. He'll notice something is off and make an approach, or something that was said or done earlier stays on his mind long enough for him to bring it up. Little check-ins, not... whatever's happening now, his heart foolishly thumping with more than just sympathetic nerves.
Five years, though. It's a pittance held like a broken promise, and his mouth twists towards something angry. He masks it into mournfulness before he gives himself away. A mask that becomes more natural when she takes her turn at playing with his hair.]
That never stops.
[Not that she wouldn't already have a sense of that; Lumierans are practically born mourning. But there was a difference for him between five years and thirty-three, and between thirty-three and sixty-seven, so he doesn't say it to patronise. There have been times when he couldn't feel the pain of losing Julie and wondered what that meant. Times when he'd tried to talk to her and couldn't find her voice. But the pain always comes back, and oh, what a relief it had been to know that she was still there, because the nightmare is better than the void.]
They never leave you.
[The story about melodramatic stars gets another laugh out of him, and he lifts himself a little more.]
Now I'm intrigued. It's been a while since I've heard a new story... if you don't mind sharing.
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[ That hadn't always been true, though. The pain of the present had overcome the love of the past. Even after that, she'd continued trying to fill the void with endless distractions, still unsure as she was that facing it all head-on wouldn't drive her right back into the water.
It feels like something is pressing against her throat from within, uncomfortably welling up there and making it more difficult to draw breath. So Sciel takes a bigger, steadying inhale and exhale, withdrawing her hand from him but remaining on her side, looking back.
There's so much they both can't say, are unwilling to say. But just being here and scratching its surface...is enough. ]
I don't mind, but I'll warn you: they're ridiculous. [ Pierre had been a perfectly fine storyteller, but these particular tales had been spun with the intention of making his wife laugh, so...they weren't always the most cohesive. Retelling them now might make that all the more obvious. ...But, Verso had asked, and who cares if they're silly? Silly...is nice, in the face of all the ugly bits they usually have to grapple with. ]
For example... [ Glancing up at the stars in question, picking out some of the more obvious constellations, she pieces the stories back together and chuckles preemptively. ] The main character was usually Monsieur Major, a huge bear trying to live a normal live in his little flat. Him and his dog, Sirius, who I always said should also be big, because-...but Pierre insisted it was a tiny dog, so Monsieur Major was always losing track of him. And...he had a lot of neighbours, real characters, who figured into it all. Like Taurus, whose horns were too big to fit through the door, so they'd always have to chat right there in the doorway. Or Cassiopeia, who always acted like she was too good for everyone else, but was smitten with Monsieur Major, naturally. Very charming bear. Though he was oblivious, because he only had eyes for Aquila, who was...well, an eagle, but I just assumed they were all anthropomorphic in these stories, and Aquila wasn't interested in romance at all...
[ She trails off, lips parted in a lightly exasperated, but deeply fond grin. ]
...Things like that. [ There's another little laugh accompanied by a short sigh. ] And it didn't matter which stars were actually visible at the moment, naturally. He'd just use whatever he thought fit the moment.
[ As much as anything "fit" in his over-the-top dramas. ]
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Just being here is enough: a truth that makes itself clear when Sciel moves to start sharing Pierre's stories, and Verso feels his thoughts get less cloudy as he follows her focus back up to the stars.]
Ridiculous stories are the best.
[Spoken with an enthusiasm similar to the one he has for trains and skiing and music. Goodness knows he and Monoco have shared enough of them over the years, their back-and-forths being one of Verso's most effective salves. Even so, there's a pang of... regret, at first, that familiar sense of purposelessness to everything that has happened and will continue to happen here. Sciel deserves more stories. So did Pierre's students. So did Pierre. Verso pictures the horses below listening in, the troublemakers adding their own twists, the others either encouraging them quiet or pleading the story on.
Part of him wants to join in on that imagined chorus, or ask ridiculous questions about scandals and secrets and intrigue, and keep them both in this imaginary world where the worst he's hearing is that love has a decent shot of going unrequited. The rest of him keys in on that post-laugh sigh and thinks better of pushing Sciel to exist with ghosts. So, he laughs at the last of her comments instead, the artist in him thinking naturally, too.]
He sounds like a man dedicated to his craft.
[And his wife, and her smile, and eking out however much happiness he can for her. Again, Verso masks his frustration over the state of the world before turning back towards Sciel with an expression that's soft, if unreadable.]
Thanks for sharing. And... I'll keep it with me.
[Because this is another thing that he can do: be a vault for legacies that might not be carried on otherwise.
He thinks, too, about what she'd said earlier about the stars and their current mood, and about talking to them. Hearing and being heard. And just like with the horses beneath them, he looks up at all the constellations named and those that he hopes existed in other stories, and he imagines.]
You think the stars liked hearing it again?
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Oh, are you a fan of ridiculous stories? I hadn't noticed. [ Verso on his own has shared swaths of them, and when he and Monoco are together the flood only intensifies. Sciel chuckles again, softer now, at the handful of memories of either witnessing these back-and-forths firsthand while they all sat around the fire, or else catching word of them a short distance away as the two old friends chatted a little ways off of camp.
"He sounds like a man dedicated to his craft," Verso remarks, and Sciel bobs her head in assent as her expression shifts back into something a touch more wistful. If only this were a situation that allowed her to take those words and springboard into euphemism, to wink and elbow her companion with something like a "You have no idea." But...that isn't where she goes. Instead she recalls flashes of their shared life: Pierre anticipating cuttings she hadn't even asked for and providing them, Pierre in the classroom getting overrun by adoring students, and, yes: Pierre telling his ridiculous stories on the fire escape of their flat, unrelenting until she laughed so hard there were tears in her eyes.
The scenes fade, but don't disappear, as she returns to the present. ]
Thanks for listening. And...for asking in the first place. [ It's worth commenting on, considering how infrequently she has the opportunity to delve back into these memories beyond her own internal recollection. ] ...I'm not sure how much I needed it, but it really helped. Like...it was a pressure valve that just needed a little turning.
[ And the pressure -- the grief -- isn't gone, but she does feel slightly lighter.
His asking after the opinion of the stars tugs up the corners of her mouth as she casts her gaze their way, humming thoughtfully. ]
Oh, definitely. This is the best meeting we've had in a while. [ Between the display and the stories, which...she realizes, she hadn't been alone in her reminiscing. Not if she thinks the glittering swaths above are largely the same as the ones that had once witnessed Pierre's attempts to amuse his wife.
Still lying on her side, Sciel shifts the position of her head a little, searching his face as if trying to make a decision about something. ]
...What about you? [ She asks, after that pause, having apparently decided to press ahead with her inclination to ask after a story for a story. ] Any little moments you want to revisit?
[ Not necessarily between him and another person, not necessarily anything in particular. He may decline, and she won't press him (this time, as thanks for all the gestures), but the opportunity to vent some steam of his own is there, at least, for the taking. ]
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Of course. Anytime.
[More of that simple honesty – that honesty of the man he'd be in a better life. More of that blurring of the line between how close he should get to anyone and how distant he should behave, too, but at this point course-correcting toward the latter is such a lost cause that he quietly accepts the defeat he'd been dealt a good while back. Only his guilt benefits from denying these moments the chance to exist, anyway, and he understands too well the consequences of quieting it, so. It's fine. It's okay. It somehow feels... right, even if it might be easy to beg to differ.
Her question earns her some more silence at first. What about him, indeed. There are, he knows, probably things that he should revisit, whether for catharsis or to share information, but he's never been good at taking that initiating step. Even with their usual exchange of dark and personal stories, he needs time to prepare. And with so much having happened since their last conversation – with him also being unsure whether Sciel would even join him for another chat after Old Lumiere – he has nothing. Blanks all across the board.
Which he knows he could just address with a simple, "Nah." Sciel would respect it, and they'd find something else to talk about or to do, or else they'd head back to camp. Simple, easy, right there for the taking.
But instead:]
I've had a lot of little moments. Care to help me narrow it down?
[Because in the end, he does trust her. A lot. Not nearly enough to offer up everything he is and was and wants and feels and knows, but enough to show her this small bit of faith.]
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excuse me that song is RUDE