and we'll live a long life - wtfoctagon (2024)

Chapter Text

Chaos 8, Morsugr 8, early morning of the last day of Taliesin’s new years festival.

Cloudy. Might rain. Will have to inquire about moving performance into the town hall.

Magilou sighs, closes her journal, and goes back to sleep.

The little girl rips through all the books you have on hand in the span of a year, because, of course.

Not that you mind, you guess. It was about time you expanded your collection, and raiding your old man’s office is as good a start as any. Surprising that they kept it as is, but, well. You’re hardly complaining. Not like they could have gotten any use out of the really juicy stuff, anyway, given that you’re the only one who can read his cipher.

“I don’t know how I’d even begin to thank you, Aneirin…”

You smile, taking another sip of the ice tea you’ve been offered. “Think nothing of it. To watch a young mind flourish is its own reward.”

It’s also cute in its own way, to be honest. Little Magnolia sits cross-legged on the rug of the Wardes’ sitting room, completely engrossed in a book while Bienfu sleeps in her lap making these quiet purr-snores. A girl of almost five years shouldn’t be able to parse a book on the history of Exorcists, much less devour every word at a breakneck pace— but, well.

You’re in no position to call it strange. The only difference being that Magnolia is allowed to slouch on the floor with a malak she calls a friend, while the orderlies staffing the Abbey library didn’t tolerate such slovenly conduct.

“You’re right about that,” Ophelia laughs and when you look across the small tea table, she’s smiling at Magnolia with contentment, maybe even a bit of pride. “Still, it’s my responsibility to provide for her— and I do my best, of course, but…”

But books— especially educational ones— are luxury items for the privileged and fortunate, and a small town florist can only do so much.

“Pardon my nosiness,” you start, leaning back in your chair. “But might I ask why you’re going so out of your way for her?”

She smiles ruefully. “Probably seems strange, doesn’t it? I’m sorry— the answer’s not all that interesting or exciting.” As if an answer need be any of those things to be worth hearing. “Thing is, I’ve never been well-off enough to provide for anyone else other than myself and my son until recently. And honestly, I was lucky enough to be able to do just that— luckier than most, but only by a little,” she sighs. “It wasn’t rare that I found myself having to turn away from someone much less fortunate because I couldn’t spare what little I had. And it never got easier no matter how many times I had to do it— so when I finally had a chance at being the help that someone needed...”

“You couldn’t pass it up,” you finish for her, earning yourself a nod and another rueful smile.

“Having Graham show up with bruises everywhere and a little girl in tow was an awful fright, of course— but the timing couldn’t have been better. I knew that our new house here would have more than enough room, and… well, that was that.”

So simple. And certainly not the story of a lost daughter she might have wanted a second chance at caring for through another girl, or her own orphaning and desire to shield another child from the same fate— none of the so very personal or motherly reasons you were expecting.

So simple, and yet, it’s the nuances just beneath the surface that catch you off-guard. Somewhere between the selfless martyr’s pyre and the selfish blind eye, there is the entirely ordinary understanding that you cannot save anyone else if you cannot save yourself. And in a world of scarcity, the safety and stability needed to be of any help to others is a rare privilege— one that most ordinary people would leap at the chance to have.

It’s intuitive. It’s understandable. It makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure what it is that feels like such an unexpected revelation to you.

“‘Course, now that I know how bright she really is, I wonder if I shouldn’t have sent her to the Abbey.” She shakes her head. “I can’t teach her half the things they could, and it doesn’t seem fair to hold her back like that.”

“The Abbey is no place for a child.”

The quick and cold words slip out of you before you can catch them. Ophelia stares at you, startled— oh, dammit.

“If you’re worried about not doing right by her, don’t,” you say with a sigh, softer this time, for heaven’s sake. “Education can be bought— but a botched childhood can never be made right. She’s much better off with you than being raised by people who only care for extracting as much of her talent as possible.” You take another sip of your tea, keeping your voice and posture steady. “Take it from me.”

And you know you’ve revealed more than you would prefer to. The explicit implication is that you would know firsthand, after all, and Ophelia Warde is not an unintelligent woman no matter how unlearned she might consider herself.

“In any case,” you say, in a lighter tone. You don’t really want to get into it. “You needn’t worry about it to begin with— I’ll make sure she’s never left wanting for reading material nor guidance when it comes to her magic. If that’s alright by you, of course.”

No, Ophelia is far from unintelligent, but startlingly unreadable when she decides to be. You dislike that you can’t see more than politely pleasant curiosity in the way she’s looking at you now. For a moment, that’s all there is, and you’re halfway to formulating another way out of the conversation when she finally just smiles and shakes her head.

“You must be joking,” she laughs, gracious. “I should be so lucky to have you watching out for her, dear— I just worry that there’s not much I can do to repay you.”

You won’t admit this aloud or even to Bienfu: there’s a part of you that feels like you could never do enough to repay Ophelia herself. For caring. For being the parent to Magnolia that you so sorely needed when you were a child.

Strange, isn’t it? Not like it would fix anything in the abominable co*cktail of hang-ups that constitute your mind, not after so long.

“Discount on the flowers, maybe?” you say with a smile. “The yearly expenses are starting to eat into my budgeting.”

And that gets a hearty laugh from her.

“That’s a bit of a big ask,” she chuckles facetiously. “I’ll have to check my books before I get back to you.”

“I suppose I can only hope you’ll take pity on a wandering minstrel,” you laugh as you finish the last of your tea. With a sigh, you rise to your feet. “I’m afraid I must be off, now— my ship leaves in about an hour, and the captain’s rather prickly about latecomers.”

“You’re leaving?”

The small voice comes from right beside you, and it’s all you can do not to jump back— quiet little critter, mother of hell. Ophelia ought to put a bell on her or something.

“For now— I’ve work to do elsewhere, love,” you say, patting the girl on the head. She just stares up at you with wide gray eyes, clutching the book and Bienfu to her chest. The malak just… sleeps on. Oblivious, as always.

“When will you be back…?”

Bollocks. You can’t quite fill a white lie in here, can you? “I’m not sure.” Because, before this? You really and truly only ever stopped by once a year, not once every few months. “But I promise I won’t take longer than I absolutely must, alright?”

“Oh.” She looks down at her feet. “Okay.”

Ugh. Children. Clingy, sentimental things.

(How often and how long would you stay, if you had the choice?)

“In the meantime, I have a favor to ask you,” you say, crouching down to one knee as you reach into your bag. “Will you take care of these books for me?”

Her eyes go wide for an entirely different reason when you present the three leather-bound volumes to her. She sets Bienfu and the book she’s already holding on the floor beside herself before reaching eagerly for the new ones.

“Can I read them? What are they about?” The books barely fit in her small arms, and you laugh as you give her the first one and set the other two on the floor, as well.

“Yes, you can read them— they’re an introduction to understanding malakim and magic.”

She flips the book over once, twice, then finally cracks it open, closely examining the front page.

“... these are handwritten,” she mumbles, looking at you with awe. “Did you write them?”

Eyes of a hawk, and a mind sharper than a razor. Not that you’re particularly surprised.

“No.” You stall, weighing your next words before saying them. “My father did. He wrote them for me when I was about your age, to help me get started on learning more about my powers.”

Every single word you say is true. And still, somehow, it feels like the worst lie you’ve told the girl yet.

“They’re very important to me,” you say, and it’s easy because neither Magnolia nor Ophelia know why it might be hard. “And I’m worried I might lose them while travelling— will you keep them safe for me, Magnolia?”

She nods so solemnly, like you’ve given her an important mission. “I will. I— I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” You smile. “Don’t forget, you can jot down anything you don’t understand in the journal I gave you to ask me next time. Why don’t you go get started now?”

Wide eyes, rapid nodding— she clumsily gathers all four books in her arms and darts off to her room, forgetting about you entirely, the little rascal. You grab Bienfu and set him on your shoulder, nudging him to wake him up just enough that he can blearily hang onto the side of your head as you push yourself to your feet.

“Don’t forget your umbrella, dear,” Ophelia says, grabbing it for you. “It’s cleared up outside, but goodness knows when it might start pouring again. Take care on your way down to the docks, yeah?”

“I will.” Not that you have to, of course. The umbrella is entirely for show considering that all it takes is a wave of your hand to simply bend the rain out of your way. “Thank you, Ophelia.” You smile, reaching for the door. “I’ll see you next time.”

“Of course.” She puts her hands on her hips and there’s such a… quietness to her smile, suddenly, reminiscent of her muted curiosity earlier. “And don’t hesitate to drop by if you ever need a place to rest awhile. You’ll always have a hot meal and a warm bed waiting for you here.”

Ah. Right. Ordinary people, and the entirely ordinary impulse to be kind when they can. And what is a good-natured widow to do with such an obviously lonely and troubled young woman showing up at her door? It’s your own fault for revealing too much.

“Thank you, Ophelia,” you say again. “I appreciate it.”

You do. You really do. But as you walk down the white steps leading down to the docks, you cannot shake that rotten taste of freshly told lies. You cannot help but wish that you had actually been untruthful, if only to give a reason for the putrid feeling in your gut.

But every word you’ve said so far is nothing but true, and the bitterness of a half-told truth is just as empty as you are.

“Miss Magilou…?”

Magilou doesn’t open her eyes, laying perfectly still on her side under the duvet. “Good morning.”

She feels him land on the pillow, just beside her head. “Miss Magilou, are you feeling okay…?”

Perfectly fine. Why wouldn’t she be?

“Bienfu,” she mutters. “I think I’m making a mistake.”

There’s a long silence filled only by her own warm breaths starting to clog the small coffin she’s made of the sheets.

“Nothing to say to that, huh?” she laughs. “Figures.”

“I—” he squeaks, and she feels him throw himself onto the back of her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Magilou, I don’t know— I don’t know,” he hiccups, “I just want…”

He just wants what he’s always wanted. For her to be happy. Long-lived though he is, he’s ever been a creature of instinct, of the now. Logically, he can understand cause and consequence and the need to prepare for the future— but at any given moment, he simply cannot remember nor imagine what it’s like to feel any other way than he does that very second. What it’s like to want anything other than what he wants.

It’s why he’s followed her for so long. Why he couldn’t bring himself to take her away from her old man, seeing how happy she was, even though he knew the bastard never cared about her. Why he brought her to Grimoirh, why he stayed through the torment she put him through, and—

Why he betrayed her too, ultimately. Probably. She would have died if he hadn’t, after all, pushing herself like that with hardly a care in the world. Being locked in a prison with food and some sort of a roof over her head was better than wasting away in some forgotten ditch somewhere, right? Nevermind what kind of hell that might end up being for her, anyway.

(Nevermind how she might feel, being stabbed in the back by the only person she trusted not to hurt her.)

She lifts up the duvet— letting in a small pocket of cool, breathable air— and waits for him to fly around and curl up into her, the way he used to. The way he still does, sometimes, when she’s feeling particularly pathetic.

He starts to purr for her, thrumming whole-heartedly to try and soothe her the way a cat might— and, well. Not much of a difference, if she really thinks about it. She tucks the duvet at a less suffocating place, just around their faces, and sighs as she lets him take care of her the only way he knows how. He’s never been able to make decisions or guide her for the life of him— he just prays that she’ll figure it out for herself and helps her pick up the pieces afterwards.

As always. Horrid, short-sighted, sentimental little thing.

(Birds of a feather. Takes one to know one, and all that.)

When she finally gets dressed and goes knocking on the door down the hall, Eleanor is sitting on the floor of her room brushing her pony.

“Oh.” She stops in the doorway, ready to leave as Keincaled turns her face to glare. Those light green eyes are as piercing and disdainful as ever, and Magilou’s in no mood to put up with that right now.

The malak huffs once, quietly. “Hello,” she says curtly, just before pushing herself to her feet and turning into an amorphous cloud of energy— because apparently that’s something she can do— that glides out the open window somewhere into the overcast sky.

Eleanor’s hands fall into her lap along with the brush.

“Wow.” She blinks at the window, then at Magilou. “She really likes you.”

Magilou coughs.

“That’s what you got from that exchange?” She crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe. “She looked at me like she would’ve trampled me if it weren’t for you.”

Eleanor laughs as she stands up, rolling her eyes. “I told you, she’s just shy.”

“And I’m telling you, that’s not what I would call it.”

“Trust me,” she says, still smiling as she goes to tuck the brush away in her bag. “If you were anyone else, she would have left when she heard you walking down the hall. Only a handful of the other exorcists have actually seen her in person.”

Huh. Right, Eleanor is— was, maybe? — the head of a group of exorcists, taking on the role after Artorius. Magilou hadn’t really thought about how that would’ve worked, considering that she was branded a traitor for the longest time— and with the entirety of the legates and upper ranks of praetors wiped out, the power reshuffle must have been nasty.

… and maybe now’s not the best time to ask, considering that it's a fresh start to a brand new day, cloudy though it might be.

(Mornings suit Eleanor. They always have. Something about the rest of the day being ahead of her makes her constant air of uprightness and determination even lovelier— with her crisp white shirt, hair tied back in a tidy and simple ponytail, dark, handsome brows casting such a charming contrast with the sweetness of her face, and—

And hells have mercy, Magilou is f*cking hopeless.)

“Well…” she sighs. “Good morning, in any case.”

And she probably should’ve been prepared for what happens next. Eleanor turns to beam at her, ever, ever so affectionately, taking deliberately unhurried steps towards her.

“Good morning,” she says softly, walking right into Magilou’s space— slow enough that Magilou has plenty of time to lean away, of course— before gently cradling her cheek. “May I kiss you?”

Good f*cking god.

Magilou’s not sure she can handle the way Eleanor’s eyes are fixed on her so tenderly. “What, you’re not even gonna invite me in first?”

“Oh—” Eleanor steps back, stammering— “of course— please, make yourself at home, I just—”

“Relax,” Magilou laughs, closing the door behind herself. “I’m just teasing you.”

With that, she reaches up and pulls Eleanor in by the collar of her shirt for a chaste kiss.

Not that she thought she’d ever do anything that could be described as such. She’s supposed to be the depraved witch getting a sweet church girl embroiled in her debauchery, but here they are. Having done nothing more than soft kissing while fully clothed. There hasn’t even been any tongue involved so far.

Of course, last night could have gone in a very different direction, if Eleanor’s barely contained eagerness was anything to go by; there was something heated about the way she held onto Magilou’s waist to pull her closer, despite not having done anything explicitly untoward. Yet in an entirely shocking turn of events, it was Magilou who pulled away and asked to be left alone to sleep for the night.

Not that she’s not willing, obviously. It just… it didn’t feel right, tumbling into bed like that right away; not when they hadn’t had a chance to consider it from a clear perspective in the morning, when all the intimacy and emotions didn’t seem so immediate.

But if Eleanor’s had any second thoughts since, it doesn’t show. She pulls back with a warm, almost dopily content smile, winding her arms around Magilou’s waist.

“Did you sleep well?”

Not really. Nightmares here and there, a bit of anxious nausea through most of the night, and so on.

“A little better than average,” she says, sliding her hands up to Eleanor’s shoulders. It’s not even untrue if she really considers her whole life so far. “You?”

“Not as well as I would’ve liked.” She tucks her chin a little sheepishly, still smiling. “Just got a bit… nervous.”

Magilou frowns. “About what?”

“Well…” she bites her lip for a moment, and Magilou can feel her hands wringing a bit uneasily behind her. “I kept waking up worried that I’d misinterpreted the situation somehow, and…”

Magilou quirks a brow at her. “And that my begging to have things said in no uncertain terms was some sort of code to mean something else entirely?”

Eleanor just laughs— softly, a little derisively at herself. “I know. It’s— it’s ridiculous, and I kept telling myself as much, but…”

But Eleanor is not infallible, and the thought surprises Magilou as much as it did the first time.

And she’s learning— against all odds— that that’s its own kind of selfishness, to so quickly forget someone’s flaws and weaknesses as if idealization were an act of love or reverence.

Not to mention, Magilou never did say her piece on the matter, did she? Explicitly implied, yes, but she would be a hypocrite to simply leave it at that.

“Would it help for me to tell you, then?” She smooths down the collar of Eleanor’s shirt, running her thumb over the edges of the fabric. “As of last night, you and I are together. In a relationship,” she murmurs, smiling as she mimics Eleanor’s words from earlier. “With lots and lots of strings attached.”

They should… probably sit down and actually talk about what those strings really entail, actually. Presumably the usual, expected conditions of a conventional relationship— communication, trust, monogamy, and all that.

(She hopes so, anyway. More flexible arrangements are perfectly normal and functional and not at all feasible for Magilou, wretchedly weak-willed creature that she is.)

“To the best of my understanding, in any case,” she adds, trying not to sound quite as unsure as she suddenly feels. “Unless there were any… caveat s you wanted to add…?”

“What?” Eleanor holds her a little tighter as her eyes widen. “No, of course not, I—” she stops just short of launching into some string of affirmations, it looks like, before she just kind of— laughs and shakes her head.

“Why does it feel like we’re going in circles?”

“Because we’re both ridiculous, apparently,” Magilou sighs. Maybe they are a good match, if only by sheer force of anxiety alone. Isn’t that a thought? “So I should probably invite you to brunch like I intended to before we get carried away on another loop.”

“Oh.” Eleanor tilts her head. It’s cute. “Brunch?”

“With Magnolia’s family. I’d like to go see them before my show tonight, if that’s alright by you,” she says. “I usually have dinner with them on my first night back— and before you start fretting about taking up my time,” she scolds gently, placing a finger over where Eleanor’s lips were already opening with an apology. “I wanted to spend the day with you first, and I don’t mind.”

Eleanor’s halfway to a pout before she just laughs sheepishly again.

“Thank you,” she says graciously. “Is that better?”

“Much.” Magilou pulls her hand away with a smile. “So, will you be joining me, or no?”

“I…” Eleanor hesitates. “Was actually hoping to take care of something else this morning, and…”

And that’s a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Magilou certainly isn’t entitled to all of Eleanor’s time, even if she’s a bit surprised that she has anything else to take care of in an unfamiliar town, but that’s really none of her business.

“Not that I don’t want to!” Eleanor looks a bit panicked, and Magilou realizes she hasn’t been all that great at hiding her petty disappointment. “It’s just that I… I really should let Maotelus know how I’m doing.”

Oh. Right. She’s currently dating the Pact Keeper, a woman of earth-shattering importance.

“Have you not spoken to him since…?”

Eleanor shakes her head a little sheepishly. “He… he knows where I am and that I’m safe, but no. I think he’s been trying to give me space, considering everything that’s happened.”

Which is rather nice of him— Empyrean or no, the boy hasn’t changed much. Magilou spares a brief thought for how Eleanor and little Phi are the only two of their merry little band who’ve stayed together after the Closing, then decides that it brings up a host of feelings too tangled and complicated for her liking and promptly brushes it aside.

“Well, you better sit down and give him a call, then, yeah?” She smiles. “He’s worried sick about you, most likely.”

“Yeah,” Eleanor sighs, then bites her lip. “You wouldn’t mind if I told him about you, would you? I think he’d be glad to hear that you’re doing alright.”

Magilou snorts softly, tucking her face downwards to hide a wry sort of smile. Well. She wouldn’t be quite so sure about that.

“Oh, stop that,” Eleanor scoffs, nudging her with her nose to coax her into looking up again before giving her another quick kiss. “He misses you, Magilou— he was fond of you, you know that.”

“No, that’s not….” Magilou sighs. “I’m not just being exhausting for the sake of it like usual. It’s… complicated.”

It’s not, actually. She lashed out rather rudely, and he’s most likely and rightfully upset with her. As simple as it gets, but she can’t quite find a way to explain it without inadvertently eliciting Eleanor’s sympathy.

Eleanor frowns, and Magilou can feel her place her hands flat around the small of Magilou’s back to start brushing her thumbs back and forth in a soothing motion. “Did… did something happen?”

Magilou chews on the inside of her cheek. “In a manner of speaking. We had a… chat around six years ago. Not in Loegres, mind you,” she says— maybe it’s a bit trite to try and avoid giving Eleanor the impression she visited Maotelus but not her, but nevertheless— “he invited me into the Earthpulse while I was poking around in Islegand for a while.”

“I… see,” Eleanor says. “I take it the conversation didn’t go very well…?”

No, it very much did not. Magilou sighs yet again, winding her arms around Eleanor’s neck as she carefully picks through her words.

“I owe him an apology, technically speaking,” she grumbles. “You can ask him about it if you’d like— I think he’d do a better job of explaining it.” In a fair manner, anyhow. “And you can tell him as much about me as you’d like to, I don’t mind.”

Just not sure he’d be very thrilled to hear it, is all. Eleanor studies her quietly, and Magilou lets her; terrified that the full truth of it might make Eleanor think less of her, but what’s new? She’d rather Eleanor choose to be with her knowing the full truth instead of blindly adoring some curated version of her with the nasty bits cut out—

(Oh, but isn’t that what’s happening now? She doesn’t have a ‘full truth’ to her name. She’s made of a rotating cast of curated characters and nothing else. Nothing else.)

“Alright,” Eleanor says in a fond yet almost diplomatic tone. “When will you be back?”

Graciously changing the subject, even though she’d be within her rights to press a bit more. Magilou might just swoon if Eleanor’s not careful with being so sweet.

“Midday, maybe?” She shrugs. “You’re welcome to come join me if you finish before I’m back— Magnolia’s mother owns the flower shop just up the stairs.”

“Oh.” Eleanor looks unsure again. “I…”

“It was an invitation, love, not a demand— you don’t have to come along if you’d rather not.”

“That’s not—” Eleanor takes in a sharp breath. “Again, it’s not that I don’t want to, I just… I don’t have anything nice to wear, and…”

Magilou frowns, takes a quarter-step back to give her a once-over, then quirks a brow. “What you’re wearing right now is perfectly fine, no?”

A clean shirt and set of pants. Sure, it’s not high-class, but what’s wrong with it?

“For travelling, yes, but…” Eleanor sighs. “It doesn’t exactly help to give a good first impression.”

A good—

Magilou laughs. “A good first impression?” She shakes her head. “You did hear me say I’m visiting Magnolia’s family, not mine, right?”

(That ship sank long ago.)

“Yes, but, still— these people have been part of your life for a good while now,” Eleanor huffs. “I felt underdressed enough last night meeting Connor, I just…”

She just wants to impress the people that Magilou has been spending most of the past eight years with. As Magilou’s new and very official girlfriend. Because she’s just that kind of a person: stalwartly proper and earnest, and maybe even a little old-fashioned in her own unorthodox kind of way.

It’s as cute as it is silly. But the thought of showing up to Ophelia’s place with Eleanor in a nice sundress of some sort makes her gut flutter nervously, so she just pulls Eleanor a little closer again and laughs.

“Relax, will you? You could’ve shown up in a burlap sack and Connor would’ve still liked you.” Maybe even more, considering his absurd sense of humor, but that’s besides the point. “And I daresay you needn’t worry about Magnolia’s mother, either, considering you’ve already saved her son’s life before even setting foot in town.”

“Oh.” Eleanor frowns thoughtfully for a moment. “Graham is Magnolia’s brother, then?”

She nods. “They both live with their mother, Ophelia— she’s the only one you haven’t met so far, actually. She’s nice, you’ll like her— and after putting up with me for five years, she’ll probably think you’re a breath of fresh air.”

And Eleanor scoffs at that, rolling her eyes before leaning down for an exasperated kiss. “Stop that,” she says, right up against Magilou’s lips, “you’re good company, and you know it.”

She’s not and she doesn’t, not really, but she did say she wasn’t trying to be exhausting for the sake of it earlier so she might as well try to stick to that.

“If you think flattery’s going to get you anywhere with me, you’d be absolutely correct,” she chirps, giving Eleanor another quick peck on the mouth before pulling away. “But I really should get going, and so should you.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes again, but lets her have her way. As usual.

“Alright,” she says, gathering Magilou’s hands in hers to lift them up and press a kiss to the backs of her fingers. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Count on it.”

And with yet another quick kiss, Magilou makes her exit and wonders if she’s really going to let this turn into one of those saccharine sweet relationships. They just— they really just had that entire conversation while wrapped around each other like that, punctuating topics with little gestures of affection.

Honestly? Kind of gross.

Though the most disgusting part of it all, really, is the fact that she actually just… can’t quite bring herself to really complain. It’s… it’s nice, and she wouldn’t want to stop unless Eleanor wanted to, and maybe being gross is just a normal part of being in a newly established relationship.

What would Magilou know? This is her first, after all. Thirty-four years she’s been alive— admittedly only ambiguously so at some points— and this is her very first relationship.

(Oh. That’s…

That’s kind of scary, actually.)

She sighs, shakes the thought, and resolutely starts the climb towards the flower shop. Yes. It’s scary. She has no idea what she’s doing. But she never really has, and against all odds, she’s made it this far. What’s a little romantic inexperience compared to all the bullsh*t she’s been through already? It’s fine.

(She feels a bit sick.)

“You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

He gets it from Velvet, most likely. Isn’t that funny? You laugh as you fall to your knees, your palms scraping harshly on the shifting blue stone. Spouts of green flame lick at your skin, freezing your blood cold where they touch— the air shifts, settling like silt with the smog of pure energy and you choke on it as you laugh.

For a second— when the portal opened in Eumacia’s temple, for a second, you were stupid enough to think that it might be Velvet. That it might be Velvet, finally inviting you in for a last talk, or at least some closure— failing that, maybe whatever’s left of your old man compelling the Empyrean of Earth to reach out to you—

But no. When has the world ever been so perfect, except to be perfectly ironic?

“Magilou,” he says softly— a god, the capital ‘G’ God, appearing before you as the quiet little boy you knew so well— “Are you—”

“No. Shut up.” Your hands dig into the strange gravel as you grit your teeth. “Of all the things— of all the f*cking memories the Earthen Historia has, you show me that one,” you hiss, “and you have the gall to ask me if I’m alright?”

You look up just in time to catch him recoil, innocent little face twisting into a grimace as he flinches. Good.

“I just… I just thought…”

“Thought what? What were you thinking, Lord Maotelus— what, in all your Empyrean wisdom, were you thinking this would do?”

He shakes his head sadly. “I just thought that… I was hoping it would help. To know that…”

“To know that my old man actually expected me to come back after failing his test would— would somehow make me feel better about myself?” You cackle, shaking your head. Astounding. Absolutely astounding. All the memories, all the knowledge of the Earthpulse at his fingertips— and still, somehow, he was naive enough to think that this would help.

What a f*cking joke.

“I… I’m sorry.” And he sounds oh so sincerely remorseful. “I just… I thought you deserved to know.”

“That he thought I would just bounce back after he pretended to disown me? That he came looking for me when I didn’t show up at his doorstep again? That he mourned me when he couldn’t find me because he thought I was dead?”

You laugh and laugh and laugh, because, oh, it makes so much sense, doesn’t it? You were his oh so beloved special project. When had you ever disappointed him before that— when had you ever not come back stronger for the trials and punishments he put you through? Because he put you through hell— pushed you more and more, and never stopped each time you rose to the occasion and maybe—

Maybe, just maybe, that’s just your lot in life. Neverending trials. Every time you overcome one, you get knocked down and put through a fresh new kind of hell. There’s no winning. Not for people like you.

“Well I suppose that’s fair enough! I usually deserve most of the horrible sh*t that happens to me— I guess this isn’t any different, hey, Great Dragon of Light?” you cajole. “You got any other psyche-shattering revelations to share with me, milord?”

He shakes his head, his face crumpling with guilt and hurt and concern. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you— I just… I know how much he meant to you, and—”

“Here’s the thing, my dear Empyrean,” you cut him off, because he is so very correct and so very stupid at the same time. “There are two stories telling themselves over and over and over and OVER in my head—” you hold up two fingers, waving them at him carelessly. “One, where my old man never gave a single sh*t about me, and there was nothing I could do to change his mind, and two—” you fold your index— “where he DID care about me, and it’s MY fault for disappointing him SO much that he treated me like THAT.”

Voice cracking with the spikes of half-formed shouts, you stretch the corners of your mouth back up along your teeth and jawbone as far as you can.

“Eeny, teeny, greedy ghost,” you sing. “Guess which tale I like the most?”

Trick question, but it gets the point across— it shows in the way his eyes widen with such aggrieved horror.

“Magilou,” he breathes, finally getting it. “I’m so sorry.”

He is. You believe him. You just don’t care.

“Oh, I’m sure you had the best of intentions.” And you are, you really are. “You were happy to see the Earthen Memoria of your mother, after all— to know how she felt, to know that she never wanted to abandon you.” You cackle and shake your head. “But clarity— having a story without ambiguity— is a f*cking PRIVILEGE that not all of us get to have.”

You say it sweetly despite the peaks of bitter shrieking. It’s not fair to throw that back in his face when he’s actually sorry and just wanted to help, but you don’t care, you don’t care. You only care that you’ve managed to wound him, that it shows so plainly on his face past the divine serenity weighing down his boyish features.

Because it’s true, isn’t it? He gets to have that— the certainty. His mother loved him, and sacrificed everything to give him a better world and there was nothing he could have done to save her or ease her pain. And that’s its own kind of tragedy but you would prefer it to yours— to the memories you have to justify and explain away in order to reconcile yourself with the irrefutable result.

Fence-sitting. It’s defined your life. Ambiguity, half-truths, sweet dreams, blurred boundaries and a heart too weak to draw its own lines alone. A disappointed father, or an uncaring master? Exiled and disowned, or lost and remembered? Who knows who knows who knows?

Certainly not you.

“Let me out.”

The Empyrean of Balance takes a hesitant step towards you. “Magilou, I—”

“LET ME OUT—” you gather the entirety of your soul’s aether to start clawing at the veil, trying to rip open your own exit— whether or not it’d drop you in at the bottom of the f*cking ocean or miles underground— “LET ME OUT LET MEOUTLETMEOUTLETMEOUT—”

You scream, you wail, you slam your fists against the earth because— damn him. Damn him and his misguided compassion. You didn’t need to know. You didn’t want to know, and if there’s some way to burn the knowledge out of your skull you would gladly set all your bones on fire just to forget—

(Because you know you would have gone back to him. You know that if it hadn’t been a malak of five millennia sheltering you, he would have found you— he would have found you and you would have seen him like the light at the end of a tunnel, the sun rising again— you would have begged, sworn to never waver ever again, to never disappoint him ever again— emboldened, secure in the knowledge that he still cared about you—

And you would never have been a person. But you would have been happy, and isn’t that so funny? The burden of your own soul is so heavy, and if giving it up meant that you could be loved, you would do it in a heartbeat.

Pathetic. Pitiful. You haven’t changed at all.)

“Y’know,” Ophelia says as she sets the tray of tea on the table. “I was half-expecting to meet your friend today after hearing the children talk about her so much.”

Magilou sighs. “I’m surprised you waited this long to bring it up.”

“Well, you hardly eat enough to begin with— I didn’t want to start any… sensitive topics until you were done with your meal,” Ophelia says, setting out a tray of biscuits as well.

Magilou takes one and starts to nibble at it, even if only for show. “It was lovely, by the way, thank you.”

“You say that like you didn’t make half of it,” Ophelia laughs, taking a seat across from her at the little kitchen tea table. “You’re always welcome even if you don’t help out, you know.”

She does— and after five years, she should be used to it. But it still feels… weird, taking a free meal from a hardworking woman with basically nothing to give in exchange. Not that Magilou’s had much of a strong moral compass or work ethic to begin with, but still.

“And you know that I’m a petty little thing who despises feeling indebted to anyone,” Magilou drawls. “You’ll meet Noa later at the festival— she’s busy sending word back home about how she’s doing.” Taking a moment to gnaw on the corner of the pastry, she sighs as she decides to just blurt it out. “Also, she wants to go find nicer clothes to wear because she wants to make a good first impression.”

Ophelia blinks, then laughs.

“She knows I’m hoping to thank her for saving my son’s life, right?”

“That’s what I told her. She’s…” Magilou rolls her eyes, waving the biscuit in a vague gesture. “Very proper. Not judgmentally—” at least, not anymore— “but just… you’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”

Ophelia snorts. “Tell her to bring an extra sheaf of wheat and keep the goat, I don’t have the space for it.”

Magilou frowns. Wheat and a goat? "What are you talking ab—" oh. "Oh, ha-ha, very funny.”

The thought of Eleanor showing up with a dowry— ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

"Goodness gracious, should I actually start thinking about building a shed?" Ophelia laughs. "I don't think I've ever seen you get so pink."

Hell. Hell and damnation and other profane things.

She slaps her free hand over half of her scowl, closing her eyes. “I’ve had enough of this torment from Connor last night, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, so you’ll give him a chance but not me? Heartless.”

Magilou groans and drops her head on the table. “Ophelia…”

“Alright, alright, no need to be dramatic,” she laughs, acquiescing to Magilou’s pathetic plea for mercy. “It’s just nice to know that you’ve got someone looking out for you— you’ve never mentioned any other friends, I was starting to worry.”

“I—” she huffs, gesturing indignantly with her biscuit without lifting her head. “I’m perfectly capable of looking out for myself, thank you very much.”

“I never said you weren’t,” Ophelia chuckles. “But I know you, Aneirin, and I know what it’s like to prefer your own company. Sometimes it just… turns into a cage that builds itself, if you’re not careful.”

Solitude as a self-enforcing vice, of sorts. Magilou knows exactly what she means, because she hasn’t been very careful about it at all over the years.

“You’re making me sound like a recluse,” she complains into the wooden table.

Honestly. She spends at least half of her time entertaining other people— friends who know her by a different name, whose company she enjoys perfectly well. Her social life is completely fine.

(On a technicality, anyway.)

“Well, if the shoe fits…”

Magilou’s aggrieved groan only stops her long enough for a short laugh at her expense, again. Joy.

“I’m just saying— I know that you wouldn’t spend half as much of your time in Taliesin as you do if it weren’t for Magnolia. And it’s not a crime to hold people at arm’s length,” Ophelia adds, and Magilou hears her starting to pour the tea. “I certainly would be the last person to call you on that— but there’s only so many walls you can hide behind before it becomes a bad habit, you know?”

She does, all too well. And it makes Magilou feel as aggravated as she is appreciative that Ophelia understands her well enough to point it out like this.

“I worry that you spend too much time on your own out there, and I’m happy to know you do have people you can turn to when you’re not here.” Magilou hears the gentle clack of a teacup being placed in front of her head. “That’s all.”

The words fall with finality; Ophelia’s said her piece. This could be the end of the conversation if Magilou wants it to be.

And part of her does, she won’t lie. She grapples with the thought of just… letting it go and letting Ophelia believe that she’s had people like Eleanor in her life all along. People to turn to when she’s out there, as she said. It would be easier— and certainly kinder for Ophelia’s peace of mind— but it’s just…

(It’s misleading, and she knows it, and it makes her feel sick again.)

“I ran into her the night I left Loegres last week,” she says, lifting her head to stare down into her cup. “And that was the first time I’d seen her in eight years.”

Ophelia hums in acknowledgement.

“Eight years is a long time.” There’s no accusation or judgement in the mild comment— just curiosity. Good-faith, well-meaning curiosity. “How long had you known each other before that?”

“Just under a year.”

“I see.” Ophelia clasps her teacup in both hands. “She must have missed you very much, to come with you on such short notice.”

An understatement and a half, considering how their departure actually went— Magilou rubs her temples.

“She did.” More than Magilou would have ever imagined— but should have, maybe, after all that Eleanor did to reach out to her. “We… started seeing each other last night.”

“That’s wonderful,” Ophelia says. “I’m happy for you. She sounds like a lovely girl."

Scripted, neutral words— and if it came from anyone else, Magilou might feel a bit put off or brushed aside. But she knows it’s not insincerity, no. It’s something far more patient than that.

"She is. You'd like her."

"I already do, dear."

And she says nothing else as Magilou leaves her half-eaten biscuit on the side of her teacup saucer before burying her face in her hands. There’s another long, thoughtful silence, and it’s… it’s strange, how quiet the house is. The Wardes aren't a particularly large family, but they’re rambunctious enough to sound like one: between Bienfu and the two children, there’s usually some lively din of immutable warmth to be heard at any given time.

But Graham is out on errands, Magnolia is still asleep after staying up late practicing spells, and it’s just the sounds of the ticking clock and the errant bird passing through the garden. Ophelia sits across from her at the table, patient, wordless, undemanding—

And in the quietness, Magilou suddenly feels so small.

“Ophelia,” she starts, shaky and uncertain and despising herself for it. “Do you ever feel like… like you don’t deserve the kindness people give you, because you’re only pretending to be the person that it’s really meant for?”

It’s not a real question, obviously, what with the contrived and verbose way she’s so clearly describing herself. It's just a little trick of hers, to use the second person as an excuse to distance herself from the words she's saying— because ‘I’’ is an entity she's not on good terms with, never has been. To claim and express her reality in the ‘I’ is a terror she has yet to overcome, hiding behind twists of semantics instead because— her bravery is still a half-formed thing, and to project a convoluted reflection of herself is better than refusing to be seen at all.

(Maybe, probably, hopefully.)

The ‘you’ here is no one— just an empty silhouette that Magilou is hiding behind— and still, Ophelia steps forward and finds a way to surprise her as she so often does.

“All the time,” she says, so easily. “Not a week goes by when I’m not terrified that people will figure out where I come from, or what my life was like, or how I actually am beneath the pleasantries I keep up.”

Magilou doesn’t dare look up, though she hears Ophelia rise from her seat.

“Most days I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve fooled everyone into thinking that I’m a good person who’s of sound mind, or in any way fit to look after children of my own,” she sighs, shuffling about the kitchen to— to put something away, or bring something out, Magilou’s not sure. “That it’ll all catch up to me one day, and it’ll be my own fault for pretending to be someone I’m not— for tricking decent, innocent folk by pretending to be better than I am.”

Such a mildly delivered vivisection. Magilou tries not to shake as she hears the sound of— ribbons, and one of the flower baskets, maybe. She doesn’t look, doesn’t stop hiding behind her hands.

“But I try to remind myself that… everyone lies, if you really think about it,” Ophelia continues. “Everything is a choice, and everyone makes a decision that goes against our first or strongest impulse, says the opposite of our first or strongest thought, and so on— all the time.”

Magilou hears her sit back down, and the rustling of paper and leaves.

“And sometimes, we lie because we love someone. Because we know they deserve better, and we want to be the better that they deserve. Maybe we even want to be better to ourselves, before anything else. And if we’re the one making that choice, every time, every day, then who’s to say that we’re lying? That it’s not really who we are?”

‘We’, she says, and Magilou appreciates the ambiguity of it— it could mean anything. It could mean Magilou and Ophelia, it could mean Ophelia and others, and it could just be a way to describe the universal mortal predicament: the terror of being a creature who can love and feel pain.

“I think,” she says carefully, above the quiet noise of idle busywork, whatever it is. “That the person that we try to be, that we choose and want to be— out of a love for others or our own selves— is as much a part of us as the person we are at our weakest and worst. And that we deserve the good and bad of both.” A quiet laugh. “You know as well as I do that it’s silly to subject yourself to all the bad of anything without accepting any of the good, Aneirin.”

(And there’s— there’s something about the heavy-yet-soft, pointed-yet-kind way she says it that makes it sound like… like she knows it’s not Magilou’s real name.

But oh, what’s in a name, anyway? What does it even mean for a name to be real?)

“Here you go.” When Magilou opens her eyes, she sees spare ribbon and flower clippings strewn on an old news leaflet, and a corsage being offered to her across the table. “Something for you to wear to your show tonight. I know blue and yellow aren’t really your usual colors, but…”

But colors have meanings, and while pansies represent thoughts it is the yellow pansy that specifies loving thoughts. Woven together with the twilight blue of a few sprigs of flowering rosemary, the corsage is a simple statement—

Rosemary for remembrance, and pansies for thoughts. Remember that you are thought of, remember that you are loved.

Magilou swallows the sudden ball of misery building in her throat as she carefully accepts the gift.

“They’re not,” she admits quietly, cradling the flowers in her hands. “But I can make it work.”

(She can. She will. And in the end, she always does, doesn’t she?)

“No need to look so glum,” Ophelia laughs. “I can make you another one if it messes with your plans that much— you’d sooner fake your death than wear a clashing outfit, I swear.”

Magilou scowls as she dabs at her face with the edge of her sleeve, trying not to feel too humiliated for having to do so. “Must you always—” a quick sniffle that she tries to make as quiet as possible— “would you terribly mind letting me have my pathetic moment in peace, Ophelia, it’s not as if I’m having any fun here…”

Salt in the wound, considering the damn woman is the reason she’s crying in the first place. She half-expects a reprimand for the dejected, childish grumbling— but far from it, Ophelia just smiles wryly and pours herself another cup of tea.

“Feelings are a bit of a pain, aren’t they?” she says quietly, clasping her cup again. “Too bad life’s no fun without them.”

(Perhaps the world would be a nicer place if she didn’t recognize such a kindred spirit in Ophelia . Perhaps it would be kinder, better, if this pain was hers alone to know and a story that had never been lived before it happened to her—

But in all her selfishness, Magilou is grateful for Ophelia nevertheless.)

“Didn’t think you’d be the one comforting me today,” she says with another reluctant sniffle as she tucks the corsage into the lapel of her coat. “Graham made it sound like you’d fallen into a depression or something, it had me a little worried.”

Ophelia gives her a bemused look as she stands to clear the leaf and ribbon clippings away. “What in the world would I be depressed about?”

“Something about a big order from Loegres going sideways…?”

She snorts as she joins Magilou at the table again. “Oh, that.” She sighs. “The boy takes me too seriously, I swear— I was just disappointed, not devastated. It’s not every day you get patronized by royalty.”

Magilou raises a brow. “Are you sure you should be telling me that?”

“Well it’s not as if you’re about to go telling people, are you?” Ophelia says, smiling. “With all the trouble you get into, you would have found out sooner or later anyway.”

“Offended that you just assume I get into that sort of trouble without any evidence,” she grouses. Her adventures in other regions aside, she’s been nothing but the picture of a model citizen in Ophelia’s presence.

“Of course, dear, I’m sure your friends with the red scarves have nothing but nice things to say about you.”

Magilou scowls.

“What really happened with the order, anyhow?” she huffs, setting her elbow on the table as she pointedly ignores the smugly amused look she gets. “You’re not in the red or anything, are you?”

Because if she is, Magilou still has the stash of gald she stole from her old man’s office and her ‘friends with the red scarves’ would love nothing more than to be owed a favor in exchange for some quick laundering—

“Heavens no,” Ophelia scoffs. “The wedding was set for later in the spring. Hardly a loss for me, considering the flowers they reserved haven’t even bloomed yet.”

Magilou frowns. That doesn’t make any sense. “Princessias are in season now, no?”

Ophelia blinks at her for a moment, mirroring her frown. “Did Graham tell you the order was for princessias?”

“Well, no, but—” she shakes her head. “He said something about flowers that only grow here, so I just assumed…”

And that earns her an inquisitive smile. “There are more Eastgandian flowers in existence than your usual, little miss.”

“I know that,” Magilou grumbles, a bit defensively. “I just…” knew the person they were intended for personally, and had ample reason to jump to conclusions. “What did the prince order, then?”

“Hummingbird Fuchsias. Lucky for me— at the time, anyway— since I still have the patch that Connor asked me for last spring. You know how he tries new flowers for his bees every year, and all.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

She sees Ophelia reach for her hand.

“Aneirin,” she starts, carefully. “Is something the matter?”

Magilou makes a concerted effort to blink away the— the surprise, disbelief, resentment, and some such to just… process later.

“No, everything’s fine,” she says. “Just had a… moment.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and she doesn’t have to, because Ophelia lets her brush the moment away with nary a word. She just squeezes Magilou’s hand once before pulling away with a mild smile.

“If you say so.” She takes a sip of her tea, idly looking out the window. “You don’t think it’s going to rain, do you?”

A contrived change of topic— but Magilou is grateful regardless, so she just sighs as she picks up her biscuit to finish it off.

“I hope not.”

“Did I not forbid you from entering my office without permission, Magillanica?”

You recoil as his voice resounds from behind you— scrabbling to your feet, you hastily close the book you were reading and turn to him.

“I’m sorry—” he said that you are a Mayvin, and Mayvins do not cry like simpering little fools, so you try to keep your voice as steady as you can. “I’m sorry.”

He says nothing, only steps towards you— and you stare at the floor, shaking, willing yourself not to flinch away. You are the daughter of a Legate, now. You must act in a manner befitting your station. You will not recoil like a scared animal. You will not.

“Why did you disobey me?”

“I—” you grit your teeth and swallow back the hiccup in your voice. “I wanted to read the books in your office. I’m sorry, father.”

A moment of silence— you are so sure that he can hear your thundering heartbeat and that it’s only moments before he will demand that you stand still while he fetches a switch—

“Did I not leave you books to read while I was away?”

You nod. “I— I finished them.”

Another long, long silence, and you’re still shaking even though you desperately don’t want to be.

“All three?”

You nod. He says nothing for a moment.

“What were you reading just now?”

“The—” another stutter, and you wish you could just make your voice go away and replace it with something steadier. “The Asgardian Botanical Encyclopedia, volume one.”

“And why did you pick that book in particular?”

“I— I don’t know anything about flowers, and… and I just…”

“You wanted to learn more?”

You nod, thankful that he has not scolded you for your uncertain words. “Then I saw— m-my name in the table of contents.”

“Ah, yes. The Fuchsia Magillanica.” He hums. “What name is it commonly known by?”

You take a deep breath. “The— the Hummingbird Fuchsia.”

“For what reason?”

“B-because of its drooping shape, it— it attracts hummingbirds for pollination.”

“And what region is it native to?”

“T-that’s…” not a simple question to answer, and—

“Speak clearly.”

“That’s a trick question,” you say in one rushed breath, clenching your fists to your sides. “The plant itself is— is native to Southgand, but only flowers when e-exposed to the Eastgandian climate.”

“Very good. And why is it that it only flowers in Eastgand?”

“I-it— it has no need to pollinate in Southgand, because— it has no threats from the climate or the fauna.” You swallow, trying to even out your breaths and choose your words carefully. “The cold winters in Eastgand f-force it to undergo ‘top death’, wh-whereby the parts of the plant above ground wither to conserve energy for the— the roots to survive until spring. That's—” you resist the urge to wipe your sweating palms on your new uniform. “That’s why it’s sometimes called the Hardy Fuchsia.”

“Exactly so. However—” and you try not to flinch— “Northgandian or Endgandian winters are far harsher than in Eastgand. Why is it, then, that the Magillianica does not flower in those regions?”

“B-because the springs are not warm enough to allow for blooms. The— the plant adapts instead by— by forming a complex root system that supports surface level, lichen-like growths.”

You’re so sure you’re right. You can still remember reading the words on the page, after all, but he says nothing for so long you can feel yourself start to shake again and—

“I’m— I’m sorry, Father,” you whimper again, unable to help yourself, trying to— to appease him, somehow.

“What are you sorry for?”

Don’t hunch in on yourself. You tell yourself, don’t curl in, stand up straight. “F-for disobeying you. I— I won’t do it again.”

He hums again. “Do you know why the Fuchsia Magillanica is one of my most favored specimens?”

“N-no.” you’re not sure what this has to do with anything, but…

“Because that a single, unremarkable weed from a warm climate can survive any weather is extraordinary in and of itself— but that it can flower the way it does not elsewhere, when given the perfect balance of a challenging yet nurturing environment…” He trails off, and you see him fold one arm behind his back. “It is one of nature’s most exquisite designs. One that exemplifies the boundless potential held by living things, waiting to be unlocked by the right hands.”

Then he steps closer— you flinch, unable to help yourself, eyes wide in terror as he reaches out his hand—

And— and pats you lightly on the head.

“Remember this, child: you must never apologize for pursuing knowledge, for it is the only virtuous instinct of the human soul.” He then takes his hand away, holding his palm up before you instead. “Now, come with me.”

“Wh-where?” you ask, even as you place your hand in his and follow without question when he begins to lead you out of his office.

“To the library, so that you will be known to the orderlies. I had thought it too early to give you free reign of the Abbey’s texts, but I see now that it is far past the time that I should have. You must forgive me this oversight, as I forgive yours— but I will not force you to choose between duty and curiosity again, Magillianica,” he says warmly, squeezing your hand once. “I promise you that.”

There’s a knock on her door when she’s about halfway through finishing her left brow.

“Magilou?”

“Come in,” she calls, dipping the little brush in the powder again as she leans into the mirror. The door opens and closes, and she hears Eleanor’s dainty and cautious footsteps venturing closer.

“... Magilou?”

“I’m here.” She reaches up lazily to wave at Eleanor over the top of the wooden folding partition she’s pulled from the closet. “Make yourself at home, I’ll be done in a moment.”

“Oh— I can come back later, sorry—”

“It’s fine, love— I’m not indecent, I just don’t like being looked at while I’m getting ready.” Well— Eleanor might consider a thin camisole and shorts to be in the realm of indecent, but she’s not naked so her point still stands. “How was your talk with the Lord?”

“It was… good.” There’s the sound of the bed creaking as it’s being sat on. “Things are calming down a bit in Loegres— Percival and the legates decided to tell people that I’ve returned unharmed for now.”

Magilou snorts. “And people are buying it?”

“No,” Eleanor laughs. “Not really— at least, not until the Bloodwings started a rumor that I’ve taken a leave of absence to my hometown to recover from my injuries, and the Abbey is trying to cover it up.”

Smart, if people are willing to believe that the assassin was capable of wounding Eleanor in any shape or form.

“I suppose I should thank Tabatha for not setting the bounty hunters loose on me,” she sighs, reaching for her setting powder. “Could’ve made a killing.”

Magilou wonders if Eleanor’s rolling her eyes. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“Mhm.” She pats a thin layer of powder over her face, making sure not to miss any spots. “I like to think I’m far too valuable an informant, but you never know.”

The Bloodwings have never been allies. Magilou knows this— it’s been crucial to keeping a marginally friendly relationship with them, actually, because they don’t operate on logics of alliance and partnership. They have their people, and everyone else who is expendable for their needs— there is no camaraderie or loyalty to be had with the ‘everyone else’.

(But there is a sense of trust, maybe. Trust that they will always act in self-interest— trust that, at the very least, the den of vipers will not betray themselves and what they stand for.)

“He was happy to hear that you were doing well, by the way,” Eleanor adds quietly. Magilou closes all her little powder tins, chewing on her words as she starts to put her things away.

“Not planning on smiting me for making off with his champion?” She settles on levity for now. “That’s a relief.”

“More likely to smite me for taking so long to get away, in all honesty,” Eleanor laughs. “He’s… He’s been telling me I needed a break for years now. I guess I should have listened to him before I burnt out completely.”

And Magilou’s still angry at Midgand and Loegres and the entire court for the demands they made of Eleanor, at the Prince and Maotelus for letting it get this far— but maybe Eleanor’s made her own choices over the years, too, and there was only so much they could do for her.

(The stage was set long before they became her confidants. Eighteen years ago, now, when Eleanor entered a world where obedience and dutifulness were the only things that made her worthy of love and care. And what child in the world would choose such burdensome things as freedom over being cared for, being loved?)

“You know, he…” Eleanor says cautiously. “He seemed to be under the impression that he owed you an apology, actually.”

Well. Imagine that.

“Did he tell you what happened?”

“No. He said it wasn’t his place to say.”

Ugh. The stupid dragon with his killing kindness.

“He’s making it sound like some sordid secret,” she snorts as she brushes out her hair, carefully laying the strands in place. “It’s nothing so serious— he just showed me a memory of my old man looking for me when I disappeared the first time around, is all. I couldn’t reconcile with the fact that the old bastard didn’t actually abandon me without a second thought, so I lashed out at the wrong person in a fit of self-loathing,” she rattles off matter-of-factly as she starts to braid the small strand of hair just behind her ear. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Oh, I….” And Magilou scowls, because she’s being a buzzkill yet again. “I’m sorry.”

“What for? You didn’t have anything to do with any of it, darling.”

Eleanor sighs. “I almost wish I had, if it meant that I could’ve been there for you. That… that couldn’t have been easy.”

Her voice is so— soft, so caring, so warm, and Magilou feels that swell of undiluted adoration just under her collarbones again. Ugh. Hopeless.

“It wasn’t, but I got over it. Sort of.” She squints at the braid, pursing her lips— no, there’s not enough hair to make a fishtail braid look nice, dammit. “I was trying to tell myself that my old man didn’t give a rat’s ass about me just so I’d stop feeling like it was my fault that he abandoned me,” she sighs as she brushes it out to start over again. “But the simple fact is that whether or not he cared about me actually has absolutely no bearing on the fact that I didn’t deserve what he chose to do to me.”

(And that hasn’t stopped some part of her from chasing this fiction where he might have treated her like a daughter had she simply been good enough , but nevertheless.)

She ties off the braid and examines it closely, twisting her mouth. A simple three-strand isn’t what she usually goes for, but she supposes she should stick to it considering the braid is just a small accent to the rest of the hairstyle— can’t be too distracting, or it’d just clutter up the look.

“Anyway— I’ll stop the self-absorbed soliloquy,” she says as she starts to pack everything away into her wooden maquillage box. “Did you two get a chance to talk about anything less depressing?”

Eleanor sighs— and it’s a bit exasperated in a caring kind of way, as usual. “You’re not self-absorbed or depressing, and I always cherish the chance to hear your thoughts,” she says firmly. “But yes, we did talk about other things— mostly about how I’ve been doing. It was nice to catch up with him. How about you— how was brunch?”

“Lovely, as usual.” She clasps the box closed, then reaches to open the one holding all her jewelry. “Ophelia’s looking forward to meeting you after the show tonight— I told her we started seeing each other, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh, of course not, that’s— that’s perfectly fine, it’s not— it’s not as if we have any reason to be discreet about it.” A pause. “Right?”

There are a few that come to mind— the fact that it’s a brand new relationship, the fact that Eleanor hasn’t met Ophelia yet and might not appreciate it being disclosed, and etcetera. But if she doesn’t care, then neither does Magilou. She’d tell everyone she knows if she were a much less discriminate individual.

(Which is, again, kind of gross.)

“As far as I’m concerned, no.” She starts picking through her earrings— definitely cuffs and studs on the ear above the little braid, but should she keep it symmetrical on the other side? “And don’t sound so nervous— Ophelia hasn’t even met you yet, and she likes you already. Graham’s been raving about your heroics and Magnolia decided that she adores you, so it’ll be fine.”

“I… I hope so.” And it makes Magilou feel some kind of way to know that Eleanor probably held back some anxious thought or two. “How is she? I remember Graham mentioned her being in low spirits.”

Magilou’s a little surprised that she remembers that, considering the explosive argument they had just afterwards.

“She’s fine, she was just a bit disappointed. The boy’s rather attached to his mother and sister, so sometimes he can be a bit…” Magilou furrows her brows as she picks out a set of golden star-shaped studs. “Sensitive when it comes to them, is all.”

(She doesn’t mean anything unkind by it, of course. It’s just that painful childhoods leave their mark, and there’s only so much a loving parent can do in cruel circ*mstances.)

“I’m glad— I felt awful when I realized how much trouble I must have caused when I left.”

With such big plans in place, it was inevitable. The thought makes her gut clench, and she sighs away the gnawing discontent— Eleanor was never going to have princessias at the wedding. That would have been… inappropriate, for one, and uncharacteristically callous, for another, and Magilou despises that she was disillusioned and petty enough to believe that she would.

(Eleanor loved Velvet— more than anyone, more than Magilou ever thought a human could. Hells know why she ever doubted that, no matter how long it’s been.)

She pins her earrings in place, taking a breath before quietly choosing her next words.

“I didn’t know hummingbird fuchsias were your favourite flowers.”

A pause. Magilou tries not to worry about what kind of expression Eleanor might be wearing now.

“I suppose I never had a reason to mention it before, did I?” Her tone is light, neutral. “They always have been, ever since I was little.”

Huh. Magilou half-heartedly considers her assortment of rings. “I’m surprised. They’re not the prettiest things.”

Eleanor snorts. “Looks aren’t everything— and I think they look nice, regardless,” she says. “I haven’t had a chance to see one in person, but still.”

It would have been a bit of a rare opportunity, huh? The damned things only bloom in a two-month window in Eastgand, and it would’ve made them quite a pricey flower to get a hold of in other regions.

“I used to spend a lot of time in the church’s library before I enlisted with the Abbey,” Eleanor continues. “And one of my favourite books was this old-fashioned one on the language of flowers— I’d read through it over and over again, trying to see if I could recognize any from back home.”

Simple homesickness. Magilou says nothing as she picks up one of her golden thumb bands with a turquoise inlay.

“Fuchsias normally just mean ‘confiding love’ — which I really liked too— but the hummingbird fuchsia has always symbolized ‘perseverance’ because of the way it withers in the winter before blooming again. I… I don’t know,” she laughs quietly. “I’ve always found it really beautiful. And with how it’s originally from Southgand, I guess it just… resonated with me.”

(‘Perseverance,’ huh?)

Perfectly understandable. A charming sentiment, too, one that’s so very like her at the same time as it makes her that much lovelier: despite the suffocating overbearance of the church, Eleanor persevered.

She opts for double thumb bands, though the rest of her left hand will be staying bare so she can play her lute properly.

“You wouldn’t happen to know its botanical name, would you?” she asks casually, slotting simple golden rings onto the index and ring fingers of the other.

“I…” Eleanor trails off thoughtfully. “I might’ve read about it once, but I can’t really recall. Why do you ask?”

Magilou shrugs on reflex as she picks out a fairly unassuming signet ring to put on her fifth finger. “Just curious.”

And perhaps it’s a little… disingenuous to leave it unclear just what she’s curious about, but she’d rather not get into it. It feels a bit self-serving.

In any case. Magilou examines herself in the mirror. She cleans up rather nicely, if she dares say so herself. All that’s left is to pick out her outfit and rehearse until showtime.

“Well, that’s that,” she mutters to herself as she pushes the partition to the side, letting it fold into its usual place in the open closet; not all the way or very neatly at all, but she’ll fix it later when she’s actually clearing everything away.

And it’s— ugh, it’s disgusting how cathartically relieved she feels to lay her eyes on Eleanor. Her girlfriend is lovely and picturesque, and Magilou feels like it’s been days instead of a couple of hours since they last saw each other. The auburn of her hair, the elegant slope of her cheek, and her upright demeanor all feel like a soothing balm on her nerves and she’s not sure she can stomach her own lovestruck nonsense for much longer.

(So this is the infamous ‘honeymoon’ period. She’s really in for another six months of being this sickeningly pathetic.

Only granted if this relationship even lasts that long to begin with, but still.)

Eleanor’s eyes go wide. And, okay, Magilou was expecting (read: longing for) a reaction of that sort, but this is less breathtaken and more shell-shocked. She’s not usually the type to get self-conscious over such a small thing, but…

But she’s getting gawked at by her very first girlfriend, and not in a good way.

“What?” she prods, trying not to sound as anxious as she feels. “It’s not too much, is it?”

Not that she’s ever worried about being too much for anyone, because that’s everyone else’s problem and not hers. Not to mention, her makeup today isn’t even halfway as extravagant as some of her usual performance looks: bare minimum eyebrows and eyeliner, the tiniest bit of contour that’s not even very noticeable anyway, with no eyeshadow or lip tint or anything.

She looks down at herself, searching for anything that might elicit such a reaction. Is it the lack of extravagance? Sure, she looks a bit silly in all her accessories but still in her underclothes, but that’s hardly grounds to be so surprised.

“Your—” Eleanor slowly pushes to her feet, still staring. “Your hair…”

Oh, dammit. She frowns as she reaches up to touch the tips, turning around to examine herself in the mirror one more time. “I didn’t mess it up, did I?”

She’s had plenty of practice cutting her own hair over the years, but there’s always the risk of botching something at the back if she’s not careful; as exemplified by the very first time she took a dull knife to it in a fit of… deranged depression or something, she doesn’t quite remember.

(Small mercies that she was out in the wilds when she did that. She’s not sure she would have ever lived down being seen with the uneven window over her neck that she somehow managed to create.)

Taking her smaller hand mirror, she angles it behind her head to try and get a better look at the back of her hair through the double reflection. It seems fine, for the most part— more than fine, if she’s being honest. It’s not a simple task to give oneself an evenly layered short cut, much less on top of cleanly leaving a longer strand intact behind the ear for braiding purposes.

Magilou frowns as she touches where her hair ends just above the nape of her neck. The front, then? Not that she did much there other than cutting her bangs to rest over her nose instead of all the way down past her face. The sides have been neatly sheared to just around her ear without any inconsistencies, too.

“It’s all…” Eleanor’s halfway to sounding a little devastated. “Gone…?”

Magilou puts down her hand mirror and turns to see that she’s taken a few more dumbstruck steps closer.

“Not a fan of short hair, I’m guessing?”

Well. She can’t say she didn’t see it coming— one of Velvet’s greatest charms was her long silky mane, after all.

“No, that’s not—” Eleanor reaches out, takes a few hurried steps before stopping just short of actually touching Magilou’s face. “I just— that must have taken years to grow out, I don’t…”

Magilou squints, trying to understand just what Eleanor’s getting at until it hits her a second later— of course. For normal people it would be an irreversible decision for the next handful of years, Eleanor’s just a bit concerned on her behalf.

“My hair doesn’t actually grow, darling, it’s part of the whole not-aging deal,” she says, leaning back nonchalantly against the dresser. “I keep it long because that’s what I’m used to, but I made a potion to grow it back when I want to try something new.”

“Oh.” Some of the anxiety finally drains from Eleanor’s expression. “I…”

Magilou sighs, crossing her arms. “You can say you don’t like it, I’m not going to be offended.”

Well, okay— it’ll hurt her feelings a little, but only for entirely childish reasons that she doesn’t even believe in, so it doesn’t count.

“No, that’s not it at all.” Eleanor clasps her hands to her stomach, wringing them slightly. “I… I remember you getting offended whenever Eizen said that you should cut your hair to keep it from getting in your face, so I didn’t think that you ever… would.”

Oh. That. Magilou snorts. “I wasn’t offended that he was telling me to cut my hair, I was pissy because he had the audacity to say I should get rid of this,” she says, reaching up to touch the centre strand of her bangs. “My single most prominent identifier. My central charm point, if you will. I wouldn’t be me without it.”

She can stand cutting it a little shorter to suit a new look, as she’s just done, but it’s here to stay. Honestly, who did he think he was?

“I… I see.” And Eleanor doesn’t seem anywhere near pleased, but she’s calmed down considerably, so there’s that. There’s something gentler about the way her eyes roam all over Magilou, now, as if taking it in—

Then she bites her lip ever so subtly, and Magilou’s suddenly very aware that one strap of her camisole has slipped down her shoulder at some point.

“You look really nice,” she murmurs, reaching up towards Magilou’s face again. “Can I…?”

“Go ahead.” And even as she tilts her head as an open invitation she wants to slap herself, just a little bit. Why can’t she think before speaking? Yes, she would love for Eleanor to touch her hair but there’s something smoldering and a little breathless about the way she’s looking at Magilou right now and this is a bad idea—

Then Eleanor’s fingers brush through her hair just behind her ear, and she decides that she’s fine with not thinking at all anymore, actually.

“It’s so soft,” Eleanor says again in that low and awed, breathy cadence, her other hand reaching up to do the same on the other side.

You’re soft, Magilou almost says because it’s true; her fingertips are so very gentle at the back of her head right now, and she closes her eyes without really thinking about it.

(Well, okay, sh*t. Having her hair played with hits different when it’s her girlfriend doing it. And there’s something to be said about the ease of movement afforded by the shorter tufts, the freedom to caress without having to untangle every other moment—)

“What brought this on?” Eleanor doesn’t stop as she poses the quiet question, so Magilou has to concentrate somewhat to actually pick up on it. “Not that I’m complaining, it’s just…”

“Sudden, I know.” She’s really impressed with how normal she sounds. “I’m planning on wearing something on the dapper side tonight— long hair with a suit jacket has its own appeal, of course, but I wanted to go with something a little more—” she struggles not to stutter as Eleanor starts tracing her thumbs over the edge of her ear— “debonair, if you will.”

When she opens her eyes, Eleanor looks willing to do just about anything Magilou asks. “It looks really nice,” she says again, somehow even breathier than before. And Magilou doesn’t even get a chance to thank her before she leans down to kiss Magilou again, just like she did last night:

Gently, almost reverently, and with a barely restrained wanting. Magilou sighs into her mouth as she reaches up to grab the front of her shirt again— mostly because she doesn’t trust herself to not try and sneak her hands beneath Eleanor’s shirt if she lets them wander anywhere near there.

But apparently, she shouldn’t have bothered: Eleanor’s hands move down from her hair to her neck, then over her basically bare shoulders. For a second Magilou thinks she’s going to keep going downwards over the front, but thankfully-unfortunately, her palms slide down the sides of Magilou’s upper arms instead before settling on her waist.

This is— well, okay. She wouldn’t have complained if Eleanor did go straight for the tit*, but this is good. This is fine. She can handle a little bit of making out. It’s not as if it’s going to go any further than that, right? Eleanor may not be the blushing teen she once was anymore, but she hasn’t changed so much that she’d try to start anything in broad daylight—

Eleanor bites ever so gently at her bottom lip, and Magilou makes the critical misstep of letting a little whimper slip out of her mouth.

It’s like experiencing a chain reaction go off in slow motion: Eleanor makes a soft noise, dipping her fingers underneath the hem of the thin camisole, and when Magilou sighs those fingers slip under the waistband of her shorts instead, making her keen softly at the feeling of strong hands grabbing her hips like that, and then—

Then their kiss isn’t very gentle or chaste at all anymore. There’s teeth and tongue and quiet noises as Eleanor pushes forward to bodily press her against the drawers, the pace of her breathing picking up in tandem with Magilou’s as she presses her thumbs into the hollows of her hips.

“Mmph—”

One of Magilou’s hands fists into the front of Eleanor’s shirt as her other slaps down onto the corner of the wood in an attempt to steady herself, making all her stupid little boxes of cosmetics rattle. Eleanor responds with a longing sigh of her own, pushing even harder still, tongue swirling around Magilou’s as her thigh comes dangerously close to slipping between and her hands start to roam possessively over her ribs and— and— oh.

Oh, holy crap.

Eleanor might f*ck her right against this dresser if Magilou doesn’t stop her.

The opportunity to do so presents itself as Eleanor starts mouthing at her neck, and Magilou knows that she really, really should. She only has so much time to be dawdling around, after all, and she’s a responsible adult who knows how to manage her time no matter what kind of indulgences get in her way. So she takes a breath, opens her mouth, and—

“Ah—!”

Eleanor bites. Hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to have Magilou jerking her hips as she despairs. Oh, hell— Eleanor moans desperately into her skin, kissing down an inch to mark her again, fingertips starting to tease along the juncture of her ribs and breasts in their path ever higher.

God- f*cking- dammit. If she shoved one of her hands into Magilou’s shorts right this second, Magilou wouldn’t stop her. No, it’d take very little to have her begging Eleanor not to stop, in fact. She holds on for dear life, arching her back and panting as she starts to give up on being responsible—

But in the irony of all ironies, that’s the exact moment that Eleanor stops. Freezes, actually, dead cold save for the incredibly stiff way she pulls her lips away from Magilou’s skin and her hands from under her clothes.

And Magilou’s very— relieved and annoyed that she has a chance to catch her breath, feeling wobbly and dazed as she tries to collect her thoughts instead of whining for Eleanor to keep going.

“Wh—” she takes a shaky breath. “Eleanor?”

Eleanor tenses, pulling back; and when Magilou finally gets a look at her face, she’s gone a little blue. Eyes wide again, but with horror this time. She really and truly looks like she’s about to be sick, and—

“Magilou,” she says, sounding almost lifeless. “When you said you’d been fourteen for as long as you can remember, did you mean that…”

What? What does that have to do with anyth— oh.

“Yes, I did, but I used one of Grim’s artes to age myself up to my early twenties when I came out of my catanonia,” she says as quickly as she can lest Eleanor actually faint or something. “So please breathe.”

And breathe she does, almost bodily so as she slumps into Magilou with relief. Magilou just rolls her eyes even as she reaches up to trace soothing circles into the nape of Eleanor’s neck.

“I wouldn’t dress the way I do if I hadn’t.” She’s evil, sure, but even she draws the line at flaunting around a child’s body like that. “Do I look fourteen to you?”

“Well, no, but—” Eleanor resurfaces to give her a panicked look. “I just wanted to be sure that I wasn’t—”

She cuts herself off, unable to even finish the sentence and honestly? Fair. The thought’s pretty revolting to Magilou, too, and maybe she should have anticipated it coming up at some point.

(Though, if she’d clarified it earlier, Eleanor might have proceeded straight to doing very inappropriate things to Magilou, which… would have been a very good and bad thing.)

“Well, no need to worry,” she sighs, trailing her hand forward along Eleanor’s jaw to gently grasp her chin. “I’m physically younger than I am, but not by that much.”

“Thank goodness,” Eleanor murmurs emphatically just before turning her face towards Magilou’s thumb. And all she’s doing is kissing the pad of her finger, not even open-mouthed or anything, but somehow it— it feels obscene. Magilou feels herself getting jittery and kind of sweaty all over again.

“Eager, aren’t we?” she says, if only out of sheer nervousness. “Color me surprised.”

Eleanor stops, of course, looking back at her with concerned eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, should I…”

“I’m suggesting nothing of the sort—” she blurts it out so quickly, it’s pathetic. “Just— didn’t think you had it in you to be so… forward.”

And that has her turning her head even farther into Magilou’s hand, but mostly in a sheepish gesture of hiding her face somewhat as she averts her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says shyly— which is a bit rich considering what just happened— “I couldn’t help myself.” Deep green eyes flutter up to her. “You just look so…”

The thought that Eleanor found her attractive enough that she couldn’t help herself is so— maddening, almost. Borderline unthinkable, really, if Magilou’s being honest.

She lets out a shaky breath when Eleanor starts kissing along the lines of her palm while reaching up to gently hold it in place. “I take it you are a fan of short hair, then?”

“Not any more than I am of you with long hair, it’s just…” she trails off bashfully. “It’s just that this is new, and it makes your ears stand out more, and…”

And they both know how Eleanor feels about those. Magilou’s always found her fascination kind of cute, if a bit odd; and she’s certainly not complaining that it compels Eleanor to touch them at every opportunity she’s afforded.

“You know,” Eleanor says lightly, smiling. “You never actually told me how they got that way.”

Magilou frowns. "What?"

"The wager we made, remember?" She tilts her head. "You said that if we both lived through fighting Innominat, you'd tell me why your ears are like that."

Oh. That. Magilou twists her mouth. “I suppose I did.”

Eleanor’s quiet cheerfulness falters just a bit. “Oh, I… I’m sorry, I can drop it if…”

“No, it’s—” she sighs. “It’s fine, I’m not actually opposed to talking about it. It’s just…” She grimaces, though she pushes some hair out of Eleanor’s face and cradles her cheek. “Not a particularly happy story. I’m not sure you’d want to hear it right now…?”

Eleanor leans into her hand, eyes flickering with uncertainty. “I would like to— but only if it wouldn’t upset you to talk about it.”

Loving and considerate. Magilou’s never going to be over it. She sighs and takes Eleanor’s hand before leading it to her ear, coaxing her to touch the outer side of it.

“You feel the thin scar running from my head to the point?”

Eleanor takes in a sharp breath.

“So the circus troupe had a live-in doctor who travelled with them,” Magilou continues casually, tracing circles onto the back of Eleanor’s hand. “Patching up the daily stage injuries and whatnot. The thing is, no one in their right mind wants to be the surgeon for a travelling circus— the pay and conditions are horrendous, to begin with— so this doctor had to be offered another incentive to stay on board.”

She considers stopping there and tying it off with something vague, because Eleanor looks fairly upset. It would be the kinder thing, maybe, if Magilou didn’t know her so well. If she didn’t know that Eleanor would rather be aware of the upsetting truth, if only to be just a step closer to understanding.

“He was eccentric, to put it nicely. Had a penchant for making… modifications to the troupe members— sometimes to make them better at their bit, sometimes to just make them worth more to gawk at. I fell in the latter category.”

And she feels Eleanor tense all over: brows furrowing, jaw clenching, the tendons of her neck standing up in what Magilou can only assume is righteous anger.

“I—” she grits her teeth and swallows. “I’m sorry.”

Magilou just shrugs. “Don’t be. It happened while I was too young to remember, really, and it wasn’t until I asked that I realized I wasn’t born with them.” She grasps Eleanor’s wrist and runs her thumb up and down the inside of it, trying to be soothing. “Honestly, I’ve never been upset about it so much as grateful that he did such a good job. They’re cute, aren’t they?”

And Eleanor looks torn between loving sympathy and adoration. The look she gives is unbearably tender either way, and Magilou finds herself closing her eyes as she runs her fingers through her hair once more.

(Because… maybe it’s a little f*cked up that she likes the way they look, but she does. And she likes that Eleanor likes them too, so all’s well that ends well, right?)

“They are,” Eleanor murmurs ever so sincerely before leaning in to kiss the outer edge, and Magilou sighs. A gallant, thoughtful romantic to the bone, isn’t she? It’s sickeningly sweet, and might even be a little nauseating if Magilou weren’t also horrifically infatuated and—

And— and then she feels Eleanor nip at the point of her ear.

The noise she makes— loud, high-pitched, helpless and drawn out— her knees actually give out beneath her, and the dresser is the only thing keeping her upright as she tries to wrangle some coherent thoughts out of her shuddering breaths. Oh, hell, she hasn’t heard herself sound like that in a long time— not since that girl from Hellawes had her tied to the bedposts a few years ago, actually, and—

And Magilou can’t think. Magilou can’t think, because when Eleanor pulls back her eyes are so dangerously dark— pupils blown wide, intense and intent like a wolf sizing up her prey, and Magilou has never seen her look like that before.

“Okay,” she says, shaking like a leaf as she fists one hand into the front of Eleanor’s shirt and pushes lightly. “One: don’t ever do that unless you intend on taking me to bed immediately after.”

Eleanor doesn’t budge, her eyes still greedily raking up and down Magilou’s flushed skin. “Okay.”

That’s all she says before leaning in, hands moving to Magilou’s hips, the implication being that she is completely intent on doing just that, at this very f*cking instant; it takes all of Magilou’s willpower to lean away and push at her again, shuddering.

“Two,” she adds, trying to catch her breath, grateful that Eleanor does stop to listen. “That is not happening right now because I only have half an hour before I absolutely have to start practicing— and as titillating as time-sensitive trysts are, I don’t think we want to have one as our first time.”

(Oh, ew. Did she really just say ‘our first time’ like some over-emotional virgin?)

That seems to snap Eleanor out of her hungry stupor, at least. She pulls back, seeming sheepish and apologetic— and somehow so very adoring, on top of all of that.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “You’re right.”

Magilou lets out a trembling breath. “Glad we could come to an understanding. I’m going to ask you to leave my room now.”

“What?” Oh, please, not the puppy eyes— “Wait— I can behave myself, I promise—”

“Eleanor, my wonderful darling, believe me when I say I would love nothing more than to keep your company while I rehearse.” Magilou pushes against the dresser, trying to regain some of her balance and dignity. “But I’m about to start picking outfits, and I know I won’t behave if you’re in the room while I undress.”

"I…" Eleanor pouts, flushing darkly. "That's not fair."

Oh, she knows— the flowery endearment slipped out of her inadvertently, but nevertheless.

"Not exactly a paragon of virtue you're courting here, love, you know that.” Some semblance of functionality finally returns to her knees, so she uses them to stand up straight. “Seriously— I will try to pull you into bed if you stay here, and I’m asking you to take pity on me.”

Eleanor’s eyelashes flutter as she bites her lip, though she does take a step away to provide some breathing room. “You’re not making this easy, you know.”

The low and sultry murmur doesn’t help either, but Magilou braces both hands against the dresser and takes a deep breath.

“I’m hoping you’re up to the challenge,” she says, not quite steady but getting there. “Surely I’m not the first would-be seductress you’ve had to resist.”

That gets a soft and apologetic smile from Eleanor as she folds her arms behind her back and shifts her weight. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one doing the resisting right now.”

“And as you can see, I’m doing an absolutely gobsh*t job of it, so perhaps the lady hero should continue her role as the ever-stalwart voice of reason.” She takes another deep breath, and then lets out an even deeper sigh, feeling the worst of her shakes leaving her. “I am sorry to leave you alone for the rest of the evening— I’m usually better with my time, but…”

“But you didn’t account for me tagging along,” Eleanor finishes for her ruefully, looking apologetic. Magilou raises a brow, at which Eleanor perks up defensively. “Which, I am not berating myself for again,” she adds, half-laughing. “I’m only reminding you that you have nothing to apologize for to begin with.”

One day. Only one day, and Eleanor’s got such a better grasp on her worse habits. Because, of course, she excels so unbelievably when she sets her heart on something.

“Good,” Magilou says imperiously, if only to play off the… absurdly sentimental way it makes her feel. “I’ll try to finish early and find you before showtime—”

“No please, take your time— I would feel awful if you rushed yourself on my behalf.”

“Darling,” Magilou starts in a warning tone, “I’m the one who brought you here, and don’t intend on being a poor host—”

“To an uninvited guest?” Eleanor grins, a little lopsided in her exasperation. “Honestly, Magilou— I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself in an unfamiliar town.”

“I’m—” Magilou huffs. “I’m aware of that, and I’m not trying to patronize you— but I wouldn’t be seeing you until after my show as it is now.”

“Which is completely fine,” Eleanor laughs, shaking her head. Then, there’s just the slightest shift to her smile as she folds her hands in front of herself in that telltale fidget. “Well, except for one thing, I suppose…”

Oh, boy. Magilou braces herself with as much nonchalance as she can muster.

“What is it?”

“Nothing all that important, really, but…” she says, shy and nervous once more as she tucks some of her own hair behind her ear. “You said you’re still picking your outfit for tonight, right?”

“I have a few ideas, but yes.” Magilou answers evenly. “Why do you ask?”

“I…” She hesitates for a moment before reaching into her pocket to pull out a… small pouch of some sort. “I was planning on giving this to you later, but if you’re still getting ready…” The stuttering is as cute as it is worrying, because Magilou can’t quite see what it is that Eleanor’s got clasped so tightly between her hands. “Not that you have to wear it tonight, of course, I-I just figured that it might be a good time to give it to you before I lose my nerve, and—”

“Eleanor,” Magilou sighs, crossing her arms. “You could give me a rock you found outside and I’d still find it charming, please relax.”

Eleanor laughs a little wryly. “You know, it’s kind of funny you say that considering what it is.”

Then she finally loosens her grip on the pouch enough to open it and reach inside; Magilou barely has a chance to realize that the fabric looks somewhat familiar before Eleanor pulls out an earring. A nice earring, all things considered. Simple and elegant, consisting of a single teardrop-shaped yellow jewel with a smooth finish attached to the golden hook. Certainly to Magilou’s tastes, too.

Then a cloud passes over the sky outside the window, and the jewel glows subtly in the suddenly dimmed room.

Magilou raises one of her hands to press the front of a loose fist against her mouth.

“You made pendants to share with Velvet.”

She did. Magilou saw the necklace proudly hung around Velvet’s neck, the glittering jewel that complemented her golden eyes like a match made in heaven— and yes, okay, Eleanor didn’t wear anything with a low enough neckline to show it but Magilou always assumed there was a matching pendant underneath her shirt—

“I made a pendant for Velvet.” Eleanor cradles the earring hesitantly. “I- I meant it when I said I didn’t need it. It felt a bit silly to wear my own namesake, anyway, and—” she takes a shaky breath. “And in a sense it seemed too perfect to pass up, you know?” The rhetorical question comes with a nervous, stiff shrug. “There were two pieces of Eleanor big enough to turn into jewelry, and… and two people that I wanted to give myself away to.”

The most cliche play on words. Magilou doesn’t dare make eye contact, still staring at the earring.

“I know— I thought it would be too much too, considering we only started dating last night, and all, but I was talking to Maotelus and—” the earring is the only thing keeping Eleanor from wringing her hands, it seems like. “He reminded me that I made it back when we were only friends, you know, and— and that I was never really expecting anything to come of it, I just really wanted you to know how much you meant to me, and…”

And eight years ago, Eleanor looked at the wretched creature Magilou used to be and decided that there was enough of a soul there to care for so dearly.

“You absolutely don’t have to accept,” Eleanor says quickly, her hands half-closing over the jewel. “I just… I’ve spent so long wishing I’d given it to you when I could, and I…” Her shoulders droop. “I didn’t want to miss my chance again.”

There’s something so familiar about this conversation. They talked along the same lines last night, didn’t they? When Eleanor finally brought her feelings to bear and Magilou jumped halfway into denial out of frightened reflex—

Which isn’t to say that’s not what’s happening again, of course. Denial and disbelief and wild theories of how Eleanor must have made it recently fly through her mind; as if Eleanor blatantly trying to deceive Magilou in some murky attempt at wooing her is more plausible than that she would have felt this way about Magilou for so long.

But it’s the option that hurts far less, isn’t it? Far less than to know that Eleanor’s been holding onto this for eight years, wondering when she’d see Magilou again and then accepting that she never would, resigning herself to so many things unspoken; back then, and forevermore. It hurts, and it’s frightening, because when you care— when you truly, unabashedly let yourself care— it’s far easier to be the victim than to be the one who did the harm, no matter how unwitting.

So maybe— maybe she can do a better job of it this time around.

(Everything is a choice, Ophelia reminded her— to go against our first or strongest impulse— sometimes, because we love someone. Because they deserve better.)

“What are you waiting for, then?” She reaches up to take out one of her star-shaped studs, leaving her left ear bare. “It’s customary to put gifted jewelry onto the recipient yourself, you know.”

Eleanor’s frown blooms into something relieved and awed and grateful and maybe even a little bit hesitant, still. She steps closer, reaching forward with impressively steady hands to pin the earring into place— and when her hands fall away, there’s a new, small weight tugging at her ear.

“Well?” Magilou touches the dangling jewel lightly. “Does it suit me?”

“I…” Eleanor bites her lip, clasping her hands together in front of herself. “I think it does.” Magilou can’t quite tell if it’s giddiness or nervousness that she’s holding back, though it’s probably both. “If— if that’s not too self-serving to say, of course…”

Hardly. Magilou should be so lucky to be thought of this way. She should be so grateful, being given a token of such heartfelt significance. Not to mention there’s something a little... territorial about wearing her girlfriend’s namesake like a subtle mark that she’s spoken for. Eleanor certainly seems apprehensively enthusiastic to see it, as if she’s feeling a little guilty for how much she likes it, and…

And, sh*t. Magilou’s kind of into it.

(Then the stupidest idea springs to mind.)

“Well, yellow’s my accent color today, so I suppose we’re both in luck,” she says, pinching her replaced earring between her fingers before turning it into a flower with a small flourish. “Thank you, darling.”

She holds the single hummingbird fuchsia out for Eleanor to take.

(It’s trite and cliche and so very contrived, but what’s new?)

Eleanor reaches up, stopping just short of touching the flower as if afraid it might crumble if she does. “This is…”

“So that you can say you’ve seen your favourite flower in person, finally.” Magilou smirks as Eleanor’s hands hover around hers. “Go on, take it— it won’t scatter into nothing if you touch it, I promise.”

Eleanor still takes it so very carefully, of course, cradling it gently. “How?”

“A mix of transfiguration and conjury. It’s technically still made of gold and won’t wilt, but otherwise it’s as real as any flower so long as I’m still breathing.”

“I…” She reverently traces the edge of a petal. “It’s beautiful.”

A beautiful flower for a beautiful girl. Magilou doesn’t voice the horribly gauche thought, because it’s a low-hanging fruit of a compliment and she can do much better if she’s actually trying to flatter Eleanor.

(Besides. That would be more than a little self-serving.)

“You really have a taste for odd little things, don’t you?” she snorts. The colors are pretty enough, but, still… meh. It’s no sunflower, that’s for sure.

Eleanor smiles a little playfully, then, pressing the flower to her lips. “Well, obviously— I’m dating you, aren’t I?”

Wh—

Magilou feels her cheeks burning up. Oh, this— devilish little— brat. Just when Magilou thinks she’s secured the upper hand, she just has to go and— pick the worst-best moments to be bolder than usual.

“Alright, that’s it— out you go,” Magilou chirps, starting to push her towards the door with a hand on her chest.

“Wait—” Eleanor’s half-laughing at her expense, half alarmed as she stumbles backwards. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“Yes, you did, and I liked it far too much.” She punctuates the remark with a quick peck on Eleanor’s cheek before reaching past her to open the door. “So I’m kicking you out before I get even more behind schedule, alright?”

“I…” Eleanor chews on her lip, flushing lightly. “Alright. I’ll see you later tonight, then…?”

“You’ll have me all to yourself after my show, love, I promise. Now, get,” she says, pushing again.

Eleanor laughs softly as she steps backwards over the threshold. “Okay,” she murmurs shyly before leaning down to steal another quick kiss. “Bye.”

And with that, Magilou finally closes the door behind herself and finds herself alone in her room.

The silence is stark for a moment, before giving way to the quiet ticking of her pocketwatch on the nightstand. The softest tick-tick-ticks, muffled by its silver casing and the span of half a room away.

Well. She should start getting ready.

She wasn’t lying about being behind schedule, after all, and she’s still not sure what she’s wearing; but the ever-indulgent creature that she is, she just… slides down to the floor, hugging her knees to herself as she takes the moment in.

(People can fight pain, but they can’t fight happiness; and the terror of having something to lose is greater still.)

The earring is smooth to the touch when she reaches up to fiddle with it aimlessly. Eleanor, the common tongue version of the Old Southgandian word for ‘light.’ How fitting it is, how it so perfectly evokes the radiance of Eleanor’s being, as if the gem was named after the brilliance of her soul and not the other way around. As if someone had foreseen the shining beacon she would become.

(LIght, and then perseverance.)

Magilou closes her eyes and laughs as she lets her head fall back against the door.

Such silly little things, these words they call each other by.

“I’ll be back by tomorrow, so don’t worry, okay?” The Young Malak says cheerfully as he places a few flowers on the bed. “I’ll find the tastiest apples around, and we’ll have birthday pie like we used to!” He hoists himself up. “Be good to Grimoirh, Loulou, I’ll see you in a bit.”

Humming happily, he floats over to the desk and picks up the map of the region to tuck under his hat. The Wise Malak watches him, bemused.

“I have to ask,” she mentions. “How did she come by her middle name? You didn’t name her after yourself, did you?”

“What?” He balks. “No, of course not! I earned my Normin name while we were at the Abbey— if anything,” he says, adjusting his hat. “I think I earned it because of her.”

The Wise Malak hums. “But you were the one to name her, weren’t you?”

He nods happily, bouncing on his feet. “Yup! It was the happiest moment of my life— she gave me my first ever true name, and then asked me to give her one, too,” he says, pulling at the rim of his hat. “Said it was only fair that I got to decide something about her too!”

“Fairness, is it?” The Wise Malak chuckled. “Surprisingly gracious, coming from a human that young.”

“Right? That’s when I knew I’d follow her to the ends of the earth!” He declares proudly. The Wise Malak just regards him languidly.

“Even if she started treating you like a tool?”

And that finally cows him, just a little bit. He shrinks in on himself.

“Bieen… those were bad-bad days… but… she was trying so hard, Grimoirh, I couldn’t leave her. She’s had to be so brave, all her life— and I just wanted to be like her.” He hiccups. “B-besides, I knew it wouldn’t be like that forever— and— and I was right!” He shakes his head resolutely. “Now that she doesn’t have to be Lady Magillanica anymore, things’ll go back to normal, I’m sure of it!”

The Wise Malak just stares.

“I see,” she finally sighs. “Well, you should be on your way. The village with the orchard is quite a ways off.”

“Oh!” He perks up, then. “Right— I’ll see you tomorrow, Grimoirh, thanks for the map!”

With that, he flies off through the window, and all is quiet in the cabin.

“Lou… ‘brave’ in the ancient tongue. A bit of a lofty expectation to give in exchange for a name like ‘Cute Hat’, isn’t it?” The Wise Malak scoffs. “But I suppose it’s just like him.”

The candle on the desk pops quietly, announcing the turn of the hour. The sun begins to set outside, painting the room with a dusken shade, and the Wise Malak sighs once more.

“I hope you can forgive him one day— he’s not callous, just young. Though he was born a century ago, he hasn’t been outside our home for much longer than you’ve been alive— to say that he’s inexperienced in the ways of the world would be an understatement.” She flips a page of her tome. “He loves you, you know. Even if he’s not very good at it.”

There’s an errant call of a lark outside, and a gentle breeze whispers through the thick of the forest.

Then the Wise Malak closes her book with a sigh.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, or if you’re listening. But I hope you are, because you should know this—” she says heavily, turning towards the bed. “You’re dying, Magillanica.”

Another quiet moment. The small handful of flowers on the bed lies motionless.

“The infusions we’ve been giving you were made to sustain an unconscious being for a short period of time, not indefinitely— the fact that you’ve lived five years on them is a miracle in and of itself. But miracles don’t last forever, child,” the Wise Malak sighs. “There’s nothing more I can do for you. Do you understand?” she says, a bit more pointedly this time. “If you do not start eating and drinking of your own accord, you will waste away and die.”

Silence. The fireplace crackles quietly.

“I suppose he’ll have to learn to live without you someday,” she mutters under her breath. “I can only hope it doesn’t have to be so soon.”

But there is no answer, and the Wise Malak simply returns to her studies.

Ophelia was right in that blue and yellow aren’t usually part of Aneirin’s color scheme. But she’s not the type to let that stop her, and tonight’s look is a variation on a classic stage uniform: a swallowtail jacket over an embroidered waistcoat and a matching cape, all in midnight blue with gold accents. With Ophelia’s corsage in her lapel and Eleanor on her ear, of course— though it did take an extra moment of digging to find a matching set of cufflinks and tie pin.

And tonight’s tale? An old legend from Endgand’s lost kingdom put to song; she sings and plays the lute as well as other accompanying instruments with her artes, while Bienfu manages the visual effects. They even perfected a shadow puppet rendition of the story in the background, synced to the lyrics with diligent practice. By the time they bring it to a close with a few shorter songs as a finish, they’ve put another roaring success under Aneirin Howell’s good name— it’s a flawless double-act, as always.

(Save for the fact that he gets no credit for his hard work. Still, he seems content enough to be acknowledged by her alone— good job, she tells him, and his exhausted puffing turns straight into happy purrs as he blinks into her head to take a well-earned nap.)

With a wave of her hand, she dismisses all her conjured instruments as well and grabs the edge of her cape for a flourishing bow.

“Encore!” Connor heckles yet again, and Magilou rolls her eyes in a visible, dramatic movement.

“Come off it, you old bastard, that’s the third encore you’ve asked for,” she calls back to him, holding her lute by the neck and putting her other hand on her hip. “Your mayor doesn’t pay me enough to sit here all night and miss the fireworks!”

The crowd laughs, a couple of them half-heartedly jeering at Connor on her behalf as he grins and laughs with them. Magilou just smiles and shakes her head.

“Seriously, that’s all I’ve got for you folks— you’re going to have to talk to Rudraigh if you want a longer show.” She waits for another wave of chuckles to pass through the crowd. “So how about we all head off to enjoy the last night of the festival?”

Another round of cheers and scattered applause; she grins widely and raises her hand.

“Athbhliain faoi mhaise daoibh, Taliesin— here’s to rich harvests, fair winds, good health and even better wine!”

With the traditional greeting and a snap of her fingers, she conjures a twinkling starshower over the crowd; amidst the awed and encouraging cheers, she gives another bow for good measure before finally walking off stage.

And following her down the wooden steps is that ever-present guilt that always marks the ends of her shows. The applause is heartfelt and laced with familiar voices; it isn’t just for her showmanship, it’s for her. For Aneirin, a familiar and well-liked face, and these people— they adore her. They think they know her.

But for the first time, Magilou thinks: who’s to say that they don’t?

Yes, it’s a lie. Onstage she is not a person so much as a theme, embodying her art if only to keep her chest from caving in on itself out of fear— fear of judgment, of scorn. She is not a person so much as a performance that can be so callously liked and disliked, and every entertainer worth their salt knows it’s a masoch*st’s errand to put their undiluted selves on display like that.

And offstage— among the people, as their friend— the Aneirin they know is a lie, too, but by omission, and for the love of a lonely little girl who needed someone to look up to. Who deserved a better reflection of herself to look forward to, to give her hope that people like her can have a happy future.

Aneirin Howell is not a perfectly happy person, of course. But she is stable, she is content, she is wise and she is kind— she is worthy of being Magnolia’s role model in so many ways that Magillanica Lou Mayvin is so decidedly not.

But, well. There’s silliness, lies, and the insistence on subjecting oneself to all the bad without accepting any of the good; and Magilou thinks she might finally be getting the hang of telling her conceits apart from her falsehoods.

“Annie!”

Magilou laughs as she’s tackled into a hug the second her feet touch the cobblestone, though a little bemusedly when she finds that Magnolia’s trying to hug her without dropping the huge teddy bear she’s holding.

“You were amazing! Will you teach me how to play so many instruments at once, too? When did you cut your hair? Can I cut mine like yours?”

Magilou can’t help her wide grin.

“Thank you— yes, if you keep up your studies— just earlier today— and I don’t know, you should ask your mother.” She furrows her brows inquisitively. “Where did you get the stuffed bear?”

Magnolia steps back and hugs it fiercely. “Noa won it for me at the carnival stalls!”

“You should’ve seen her, Miss Howell,” Graham says as he jogs up to them, slightly out of breath as if Magnolia had run off a little too fast for him to keep up with. “Her shots were so perfect, she was knocking out her own arrows— I think she’d have been splitting them in half if the booth had a real bow!”

Miss Hero strikes again. Magilou snorts; if anyone’s able to win a blatantly rigged game of archery, it would be Eleanor.

“So you found her, then?”

“Not exactly—” Graham shakes his head. “She stopped by to buy flowers earlier.”

“For her ladyfriend,” Magnolia adds with a pointedly smug look.

Ugh. Magilou wrinkles her nose indignantly and pokes the little girl’s cheek. Magnolia wrinkles her nose too, sticking her tongue out defiantly like the rascal she is.

“Where is she, anyway? You didn’t leave her behind, did you?”

“No,” Magnolia pouts. “She’s over there— I told her and Ma that we’d come and get you, so come on!”

Then Magilou stumbles as the girl grabs her hand and starts yanking, shooting off towards the crowd still mingling around the square with her in tow.

“Careful, love—” she says, a little urgently. “My lute—”

“Here, I’ve got it!”

That boy is too polite, she swears. She barely gets to throw him a grateful look over her shoulder before she’s pulled through the throng of people, nearly crashing into Magnolia when she comes to a sudden stop at the fountain.

“Goodness, Magnolia, you didn’t have to drag her over,” Ophelia laughs. “She can’t keep up with you like Graham can, you know that.”

Okay, she is not winded enough to warrant the veiled jab.

“The vigor of youth, am I right?” She pants, straightening herself out. “I assume you’ve introduced yourselves already, in any case.”

Her intent was to gesture to Eleanor nonchalantly, but she falters when she actually looks over. Oh. She…

She looks really nice.

Nothing fancy, obviously: a flowy knee-length skirt with suspenders over a plain white shirt. It’s a very on-brand mix of approachable yet proper, what with the buttons done all the way up under a delicate ribbon tie and the sleeves neatly folded halfway up her forearm. Her hair is down from its usual ponytail with a waterfall braid that starts just beside her temples and—

And the hummingbird fuchsia, pinned over her ear.

(Magilou’s almost offended by how well it suits her.)

“I—” Eleanor seems at a loss for words for some reason, eyes a deep lakebed green in the evening light as they flutter over Magilou. “S-sort of, I went to…”

It’s only then that Magilou notices the bouquet of camellias that she’s gesturing haplessly with.

“She stopped by to get flowers for you and didn’t tell me who she was,” Ophelia laughs. “Honestly, if it weren’t for Graham popping in when he did, I would’ve charged her full price.”

“Well, that’s…” Eleanor looks at her feet sheepishly. “Exactly what I was worried about…”

Oh, boy. Ophelia might actually outmatch Eleanor in stubbornness. Magilou’s not sure if she’s relieved or disappointed that she wasn’t there to watch that particular contest of wills play out.

“You weren’t kidding when you said she’s proper,” Ophelia scoffs, shaking her head as she gives an amused look. “But I suppose I should just be glad you’re in honest hands.”

Magiou scowls— really? Right in front of the children?

“I’m glad you approve,” she says in a clipped tone, ignoring how her cheeks heat up and how Magnolia smugly pokes her in the side. “Though I do hope you haven’t been giving her a hard time.”

“What in the world could I be giving her a hard time about?” Ophelia snaps back in a facetiously scandalized tone. “Oh ye of little faith.”

Eleanor steps in, a little unsure. “She’s been lovely, really.”

Well of course Eleanor would say that. Probably was overcompensating the whole time to give off a good impression, even though Magilou told her it was unnecessary. Winning top prize at the carnival stalls very likely played into that, too.

“Of course, love, and I’m sure she hasn’t ribbed or teased you once the entire night,” Magilou deadpans.

“Magnolia did most of the teasing, actually,” Graham chimes in, hugging the lute to his chest. The girl unlatches herself from Magilou and turns on him immediately.

“Did not!”

He grins. “Oh yeah? What about when you were asking her when they were getting married—”

Oh, hell.

“Did not!” She starts wailing on his side with her tiny little fists, and he just laughs as he holds the lute up to keep it safe from her assault.

Magilou pinches the bridge of her nose and hangs her head because she’s certain she won’t survive looking at Eleanor right now.

“Okay, okay,” Graham laughs, dodging away from her torrent of indignance. “‘M'sorry— c’mon, stoppit, that tickles—”

“Children, please,” Ophelia sighs. “Can we at least try not to embarrass Aneirin in front of her new beau?”

Damn this woman and everything she stands for. Magilou puts her hands on her hips and levels a tired glare at her, giving up on trying to reign in the flush staining her cheeks.

“Is it too much to hope you were paying any attention,” she starts as she idly reaches for Magnolia's shoulders to pull the girl away from her brother, patting her head when she buries her pout in her teddy bear. “Or might I ask if you actually enjoyed the show at all?”

Ophelia rolls her eyes.

“Of course we did, dear,” she scoffs. “More than ever, I daresay— you don’t usually add so many special touches.”

Her smile is amused, but there’s a slightly grave sort of curiosity behind it; Magilou can’t quite tell if it’s intentional, or if her years of trying to read the woman have finally started to pay off somewhat.

Well. Either or; there’s a familiarity, regardless, and all that it entails.

(Down to the very root of the word itself, though that’s the unspoken bit.)

Magilou shrugs. “No point downplaying it after my display at sea last week, is there? If I’m to be locked away for heresy again, at least I’ll have put on a damn good show.”

“Well,” Ophelia laughs— though if her curiosity has been answered, Magilou can’t tell— “that you did in spades. You've outdone yourself.”

(She's no stranger to praise of her work, not at this point— and certainly not from Ophelia— and yet.

It's the little things that never do manage to change, isn't it?)

"Thank you kindly," she sighs. "For keeping Noa company, as well— I was intending on introducing you as soon as I was able, but…"

"I would tell you that it was a delight to show her around town, but I know neither of you would believe me over your fretting." Her knowing look is— vexing, to say the least. And the thought that she’s gotten acquainted enough with Eleanor to know her particular brand of anxious propriety is just… "If nothing else, I should be thanking her for giving me an excuse to close shop early."

Magilou raises a brow. "On the last day of a festival, when you'd be making a killing?"

"Not if the local tax man insists on re-doing my yearly audit that very day." Ophelia scoffs disdainfully.

"You're kidding. I thought you said he was swinging by next week?"

She shrugs. "Should've known he'd change his mind last minute just to be a nuisance, I suppose— it wouldn't be the first time."

Magilou frowns. She might be due for a little talk with this man soon.

"And don't you go getting any funny ideas, little miss, I know that look," Ophelia snaps, though entirely without any bite to her tone. "I was only mentioning it to say your girl did us all a favor, not to make you worry."

Magilou rolls her eyes.

(The fact that Eleanor actually is ‘her girl’ now doesn’t make it any easier on the nerves to hear. How frustrating.)

"I'm not worried, I'm annoyed," she scoffs. "Seriously— he knows you keep your books cleaner than he does, how does he keep finding a new reason to pester you?”

“By being a weaselly little c*nt,” Magnolia mutters under her breath, and—

“Magnolia!” Magilou hears Graham hiss in tandem with her almost immediately.

The girl pouts at them defiantly, scowling up a storm. “What? Ma says that about him all the time!”

“Well would you look at that, I think it’s bedtime for the children,” Ophelia says quickly as she checks the clocktower in the distance that clearly only says eight-thirty. “You girls have a lovely evening, now.”

“Ophelia.”

“It was wonderful meeting you, Noa,” she says, patting Eleanor’s shoulder as she completely ignores Magilou. “Why don’t you both stop by tomorrow for lunch, and you can tell us more about yourself then?”

And poor Eleanor looks perfectly stuck between amusem*nt, astonishment, and just plain anxiety. “Y-yes, of course, I’d love to.”

Ophelia laughs. “Perfect, I’ll see you then. Come along now, Graham, Magnolia—” she reaches and holds Magnolia’s hand as she starts to tug her away. “Why don’t we see if Jonathas has any candy apples left before we head home?”

Bribing the child for her silence now, is she? Magilou scowls and shakes her head with a sigh as she and Magnolia disappear into the crowd with nothing more than a cheerful wave.

“Tell her to be more careful, will you?” she says to an equally exasperated Graham. "And do let me know if you need any help— heaven knows your mother won't."

“Will do, Miss Howell,” he says with a rueful smile, polite as ever as he hands her back her lute. “Thanks again for the show— I’ll see you and Miss Noa tomorrow.”

“Take care, Graham.”

The boy jogs off after his family, and then there were two.

Magilou hangs her head. “Is it too much to hope that they haven’t scared you off already?”

“What? No, of course not—” Eleanor shakes her head emphatically. “Why would they?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Magilou says, beleaguered as she puts a hand on her hip. “They’re a handful, for one.” She rolls her eyes. “Though ironically it’s more because of the girl and the grown woman than the sixteen year old boy.”

And, well. Magilou’s well aware that she’s probably just as culpable for the quiet, nervously awed air about Eleanor right now.

“Not to mention us going off on a bit of a tangent there.” Couldn’t blame Eleanor for feeling a little left out or out of her depth, could she? “In my defense, I’d been planning on doing a better job of introducing you, but—”

“No, really— you have nothing to apologize for, Magilou,” Eleanor says, emphatic and yet still a touch too… meek, for a lack of a better word. “I— I’m perfectly capable of introducing myself, and— well, I tried my best, but—”

Magilou laughs. “That damned woman has a way of getting the better of any conversation, yes, I know.”

That finally gets a less cautious laugh from Eleanor, though still not quite carefree. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it. She’s… very good at putting people at ease,” she adds with a small smile. “Kind of like you.”

If only. Magilou bites back the reflexive comment, shifting her weight nonchalantly.

"Might I take that to mean she didn't pester you all night with questions about my life before Taliesin," she starts, "and you're not just exaggerating on her behalf when you say everything was fine?"

"Yes," Eleanor laughs. "They were actually telling me more about you, for the most part."

Magilou groans. "How did I know she was telling embarrassing stories about me?"

"She wasn't!" Eleanor laughs again. "It was nothing bad, I promise, I just…”

Then she does that thing again, where she bites her bottom lip and takes on this hesitant air of reverence, her eyes roaming all over Magilou. She looks as though she’s set her eyes on something so wonderfully beautiful, and—

And it’s ironic, really, that it makes her all that lovelier herself. Painted in dusklight and gentleness, she holds the bouquet of flowers to her chest and becomes a tableau of hushed adoration.

(Magilou has it so bad.)

“Just seeing a side of you I haven’t before,” Eleanor finishes quietly.

“Yeah?” Magilou tilts her head. “You like it, I hope?”

Eleanor nods. “Very much.”

The burgeoning warmth in her chest doesn’t hit with quite as much nervousness as it has before, and for a moment Magilou lets herself hope that maybe she’s getting the hang of this: this ordeal of being so ardently cared for while forcing herself not to turn away.

So she steps closer and leans up to give Eleanor a soft kiss.

“Thank you,” she murmurs as she pulls away, brushing the backs of her fingers along the line of Eleanor’s jaw. “You look wonderful as always.”

The dark blush that blooms over her freckles is complemented so well by the fuchsia that Magilou nearly resents how perfect it seems. The odd, misshapen little thing actually looks the part of a favored flower, as if it were meant to go with Eleanor’s loveliness; and isn’t that just the most disgustingly cliched thing?

“Well?” Eleanor smiles, tilting her face into Magilou’s touch. “Does it suit me?”

And Magilou goes to apologize for staring before she stops. Eleanor’s smile is a little mischievous, a far cry from her mood even just a moment ago, and there’s something so… deliberate about the way she asks the question. Something a little too reminiscent of the way Magilou had asked her the same earlier today—

Oh.

Magilou purses her lips. “You found out.”

“I asked Magnolia,” Eleanor says in that delighted sheepishness that’s so unique to her. “I couldn’t stop wondering why you’d mention it out of the blue, so…”

“Right.” Magilou laughs and shakes her head, letting her hand fall to her side. “Gave myself away with that one, didn’t I?”

The double entendre is unintended, but so horribly fitting nonetheless.

“I hope you believe me when I say I would’ve done the same even if it weren’t my namesake,” she sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “I really did want to show you your favourite flower, I just couldn’t come up with how to tell you the full truth without it being a bit… much.”

Eleanor just laughs quietly again. “Kind of silly to worry about that after I gave you my namesake, isn’t it?”

“Which, might I remind you, was something you were fretting would be too much for a one day-old relationship to begin with,” Magilou shoots back with a smirk. “So don’t you start.”

A light jab, meant to carry on the banter and flirting that Magilou’s enjoying like a lovelorn teenager, and yet. Eleanor falters, her smile turning melancholy.

“One day for you,” she murmurs. “A little longer for me.”

A little longer, yes. The reminder is hard to swallow, catching in Magilou’s throat. Eight years that she’s kept Eleanor waiting, and one day to make up for it. Hopefully many, many more, but—

“Not that I’m trying to make a competition out of it or— or make you feel guilty, I’m sorry I—” Eleanor stutters, a little frantic. “I didn’t mean it like that at all, I just wanted to— to reassure you, really, just logically speaking, it’s quite impossible for you to do anything that might be too much for me given that I’ve felt this way about you for a very long time, and…”

And as she grasps for more words, Magilou just thinks it’s all so very silly. Quite impossible, she says, and it makes sense: after eight years of waiting, nothing short of a ring and a proposal on the spot would be pushing the envelope too far.

Just logically speaking, of course. But how to explain that it feels so very impossible for Magilou, too?

(How to explain to herself how she fell so hard in barely a week and a day?)

“So,” she starts, putting her free hand on her hip. “Does that mean I shouldn’t worry about sounding too desperate were I to invite you to watch the fireworks with me on the clocktower roof?”

It takes a moment for Eleanor to catch up, blinking away the apologetic mortification before she breaks into a small, shy smile.

“Of course not,” she laughs quietly, and Magilou just grins.

“Lucky me, then. I just have to pop by my room to drop off my lute and put those in a vase,” she says, gesturing lightly at the camellias. “If they’re still for me…?”

“What? Oh! Yes, of course—” Eleanor offers them to Magilou properly, if a bit abruptly. “I nearly forgot, I’m sorry—”

How she forgot while holding them in her hands is rather endearing, but Magilou doesn’t press her on it. “Thank you,” she says, taking the flowers with her free hand in return for a kiss on the cheek. “Will you walk with me, or shall I meet you at the tower?”

“I…” Now free of anything to hold, Eleanor’s hands wring themselves nervously. “I’d like to meet you there, if that’s alright…?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” This bashfulness is cute, almost nostalgic; and of course, the petty side of Magilou can’t help but indulge in a little payback for the harrowing flirt Eleanor was yesterday. “Gives me some time to calm my nerves, anyhow.”

Eleanor clasps her hands behind her back with a weak laugh. “Funny, you don’t seem nervous at all.”

“I’m a performer, darling, and a good one at that— but I’m still only human.” She grins. “Not at all immune to the jitters of going on a date,” she says, leaning closer and getting quieter with every word, “with a very, very pretty girl.”

Dropping to a whisper before punctuating with a kiss; the playful maneuver has its intended effect, and when Magilou pulls away she delights in the flush that blooms over Eleanor’s face once again.

“Wait for me in front of the locked door,” she says cheerfully, too happy to be properly smug. “I won’t be long, I promise.”

And Magilou isn’t one to rewrite history to suit the whims of the present, but it’s worth considering that maybe it’s been a little longer for her, too.

Because the truth is: people don’t fall like this. Not in one day, not in one week, not unless there was something already there. And it wasn’t that she secretly returned Eleanor’s feelings without knowing it, no, it’s always been something much more insufferably vague than that.

Par for the course, really. The more she tries to define her own feelings, the more she learns that the human heart is a needlessly complicated thing; it feels more than any language can account for, these strange amalgamations of nuances that need paragraphs upon paragraphs of nauseating prose to even begin to explain.

(Fence-sitting as an inherent pitfall of being alive. Isn’t that a thought?)

What she felt— it wasn’t love, not the way it is now. But Magilou has no other word to attribute to that horribly tangled knot of resentment, envy, spite and adoration— of longing and fear and aspiration.

Because Eleanor and Velvet, they— they were blinding, the both of them, stalwart and unyielding and so, so very alive. They felt so fiercely and lived so brilliantly and it hurt to watch them— it hurt, it vexed, it burned Magilou with anger and sickened her with jealousy. She wanted to be like them. She wanted to be with them, on that same plane of vivid existence, to be alive alongside them. They scorched away her numbness with compassionate cruelty and cruel compassion, made her suddenly so conscious of how cold solitude felt, and she—

She wanted to be free. She wanted to be better.

Eight years spent chasing their example, and she didn’t even realize that Eleanor was a part of it too. That Eleanor hurt her as much as Velvet did; she was just nicer about it, is all. Took such pains not to leave a scar, waited so very patiently, asked for permission, and now…

And now, Magilou is determined not to leave her waiting any longer. Lute in one hand and flowers in the other— with familiar cobblestone beneath her and the fireworks scattering above her, she can’t help but feel that this is her chance. To show that she has been getting better, to prove that everything she’s worked so hard to become wasn’t all for show. That she is capable and worthy of standing beside the person she wants and building something better with her, to make her happy and be happier for the fact—

With a day’s worth of anxiety finally unraveled, eight years of reverence so readily transformed into adoration, she recounts all her promises to herself once more. No more running: not now, not ever.

This time, she will be brave.

She tries not to run like a giddy child on her way to the lighthouse, but seeing Eleanor waiting for her at the top of the stairs kind of takes her breath away anyways. Tall, dark, beautiful, like something out of a painting again and again and again; a true heroine, if Magilou ever saw one.

One who is, incidentally, hugging her arms and trying not to shiver visibly. It is getting into the later evening, after all, and what little afternoon warmth there had been has long since dissipated.

Magilou just smiles as she hops up the last few steps, unfolding the extra shawl she’d brought after ditching her cape in her room.

“Thought you might need this,” she says, draping it around Eleanor’s shoulders. “Your outfit looks very very lovely and not remotely warm enough for the weather tonight.”

Eleanor’s surprised look turns to a quiet laugh as she lets Magilou tuck the soft fabric securely around her neck. “We can’t all be masters of form and function like you are,” she says, taking the ends of the shawl in hand to hold it closed around herself. “I never could quite figure out how to copy your warmth arte.”

Right, that. Magilou sighs as she lets her hands linger, running her thumb along the woolen edges. Eleanor had asked her multiple times for the formula, of course, but Magilou made every excuse under the sun not to divulge it; Eleanor would simply have to figure it out herself or hold Magilou’s hand to have the arte extended over her as well, and that was that. What had begun as a simple excuse to frustrate and embarrass Little Miss Exorcist had become routine in cold weather, and…

(And Magilou actually convinced herself that was all it ever was, long past the point when Eleanor would scarce give her more than a roll of the eyes and a fond smile at the prospect.)

“I could teach you later if you’d like,” she says with a shrug. “It’s a simple trick, I doubt you’d have much trouble picking it up.”

Eleanor smiles wider. “Really? What happened to keeping your patented formulas out of the hands of Abbey spies?”

Magilou snorts. “A piss poor excuse to hold your hand without admitting I wanted to.” Not even to herself. “I don’t need it anymore now, do I?”

And there’s that gentle surprise again, that softly awed look. Magilou admires her very pretty girlfriend as she makes a resolution to have it done away with by the end of the night, this… this way that Eleanor’s so taken aback at the simplest gestures of affection, as if she’s not expecting anything in return.

No more of that, now. Eleanor deserves better and more: to know what is already hers and to enjoy it without inhibition, as is her right.

“Well, the show’s already started,” Magilou sighs, letting go to reach into her pocket. “Shall we get a move on before we miss the good parts?”

“Yes, but…” Eleanor eyes her hand a little warily. “You’re not going to break in, are you?”

Magilou rolls her eyes. “Hardly breaking in if I have the key,” she says, pulling it out and flourishing it once. “Did the towermaster a favor a while back, got free reign for divination practice and what have you.” Clicking the lock, she pushes the door open and gestures towards the pulley inside. “C’mon, ladies first.”

Eleanor stops halfway through the threshold and gives her an amused look. “That includes you, you know.”

“Usually yes, but I’m playing the part of a princeling tonight.” She puts her hand at the small of Eleanor’s back and tilts her head with a lazy smile. “If you’d indulge me, darling.”

Magilou will never tire of that blush. And she knows it’s somewhat childish, but she can’t keep the self-satisfied grin off her face either, the entire way up to the top.

It’s not long before they step out onto the balcony attached to the gable roof, ducking under the low doorway. The chilly air finds her again just as the fireworks come into view, exploding from the docks to the sky in bright patterns that seem to paint the entire town in starry hues.

“Wow,” Eleanor breathes, putting her hands on the railing. “It’s…”

“Incredible from up here, isn’t it?” Magilou knows preening isn’t very attractive, but she can’t help that she’s very happy with herself for being able to provide the best view.

The best for the best, right? But she manages to keep the over-saccharine thought to herself as she happily watches Eleanor take in the sights.

“It is.”

She turns to Magilou with that sweet, dark and warm look again, leaning in to give a small kiss. It’s soft, gentle, quiet, as Eleanor has been tonight, maybe even a little bit ardently hesitant—

But when she pulls away and opens her eyes, she’s not looking at Magilou with that tender awe. She’s looking away, turning away wordlessly, and suddenly that quietness that’s taken over her all night seems like reticence. Reluctance. Something reserved that Magilou has been simply trampling over, blinded by her own giddiness, unthinking, selfish—

And as she puts her hand over the corsage on her heart, she thinks to herself what a ridiculous creature she is. To be so afraid, after all that's happened, all that she's seen; she touches the soft petals and remembers. That wavering, adoring look, the way Eleanor held her like she never wanted to let go, the way she tasted like desperation and aching and long, long overdue sweetness.

This sudden tension, seeming trepidation in contradiction to what she knows to be true: it’s just her imagination, she tells herself. She’s just overthinking things again, putting herself down, looking for the forewarnings of a worst case scenario that won’t come.

And if she's wrong— if the truth was an illusion and the illusion was not, if her rights and wrongs fail her all over again? She'll just have to figure it out. She always does. She always has, so far.

“You seem out of it, love.” It’s a quiet start, a light one. “Something bothering you?”

She sounds so steady for how scared she is, and maybe that’s something to be proud of; just last night, she trembled and shattered under the terror of caring and being cared for. Tonight, she holds the frightened parts of her with all of her might and stands her ground.

“N-no, not exactly…” Eleanor trails off, staring down at her hands instead of the fireworks throwing kaleidoscope patterns across her face. “I just…”

She hesitates, and Magilou can almost see her struggling to pick through her words. Something serious enough for that, huh? Magilou swallows down the rising anxiety.

“Girl trouble?”

A bit of levity, to lift the burden of such seriousness from Eleanor’s shoulders. Lighten the conversation. And it works, thankfully; Eleanor laughs quietly, bashfully, tucking her chin once before shaking her head.

“I… I guess you could say that.” She’s still not looking at Magilou, but the words seem to come easier, so Magilou turns around to lean back with her elbows on the railing in a cavalier slouch.

“I knew it,” she gasps in a mock scandalized tone, tilting her face towards Eleanor. “Who is she? Is she prettier than me?”

That gets another laugh from her, a little more whole-hearted this time; enough that the silence doesn’t squeeze at Magilou’s lungs so much. “No. She’s just about as pretty as you— which is very.”

She playfully glances at Magilou with that last remark, finally, with just the littlest quirk of her lips. It’s really the chance to compliment Magilou that eases her up somewhat, isn’t it? Figures.

“Mm. Good answer,” she murmurs imperiously, nose turned up. “So, what’s the problem? She’s not giving you a hard time, is she?”

“No, not at all. It’s just…” She grimaces slightly, pressing on her own hand between her index and thumb. “Well, it’s… me.”

Her words stumble again, but— but it seems the pretense is giving her just enough momentum to continue, maybe. Magilou waits as she wrings the words from her palm, worrying along the lines and creases.

“Today, I met her… well, her apprentice’s family, not hers, but…” she pauses again, brows furrowing just the slightest. “It… It was kind of like…”

“Like you were meeting her family, for all intents and purposes,” Magilou finishes for her, sighing as she counts the old and rusted roof tiles. “They’re the people she’s gone home to for the past five years, after all.”

And it occurs to her idly: what if that’s all it takes, then? To make a family; just a sense of home. And home, then, constructed by nothing but a sense of fondness, a reciprocated familiarity.

(Ophelia would gladly claim her as family if Magilou only asked. She knows that.)

“Y-yeah,” Eleanor says softly, though the slightly awed look she gives falters when Magilou glances over at her, and she looks away at her hands again. “They… know her better than I do, I think, which…” she laughs at herself quietly. “Is only natural, given how long it’s been.”

Magilou watches her say it like she’d admonishing herself, with furrowed brows and some attempt at a laugh, and… and she doesn’t know what to make of it, really.

“Does that bother you?”

“No, not at all, I—” Eleanor shakes her head. “I’m happy she’s had people to turn to, it’s just… I— I suppose I was just… surprised. For lack of a better word.”

Her stuttering settles with a heavy finish. She looks up at the fireworks for a moment, jaw set with frustration; at herself, most likely.

“At what?” Magilou asks, trying not to sound anxious. She still doesn’t quite understand the sudden melancholy, or why any of this would’ve brought it on.

Eleanor starts with a deep breath. “I suppose it’s how… much she’s changed.” She looks down at her hands. “How little I actually understand her.”

Oh, but that’s not true— how could it be? It was Eleanor’s attempts to understand her that taught her how to open up to begin with, it was Eleanor’s kindness that she wanted to live up to.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, a lot of things…” A forced laugh, an attempt at a casual shrug. “Just something I’d been feeling as I spent more time with the Wardes, but…” her eyes flicker. “But I… I guess it really sank in when… Her apprentice was talking about how she’d tell stories about her father during their lessons.”

Oh. Right. That.

“I was… when I knew her, she never talked about her father unless she had to.” Eleanor’s worried fidgeting gets a touch more stressed, though she’s still not looking at Magilou. “For good reason. It wasn’t a topic she brought up lightly, I just…”

“Didn’t think she’d ever start telling stories from her childhood so easily?” Magilou looks away, too, studying the cracked windowpane. “Understandably so, I suppose. But one often speaks of their own schooling when mentoring others— I imagine it would’ve been unavoidable at times.”

For all his faults, the bastard was a good teacher. And Magnolia is such an emotional learner, there’s nothing quite like an anecdote from her own adolescence to grasp her wandering attention span.

“Might I suggest you not take it too seriously?” Magilou sighs, letting her shoulders fall slack. “It’s a light enough subject without the weight of the context— and this sweetheart of yours does like to spin her stories, no?” she laughs, shaking her head. "Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was taken in by a great wizard who raised her as his own. To this day, she still loves him very much,” she admits, and it’s only her own facetious tone that keeps her from stumbling. “And there has never been a reason why this would ever indicate a lack of self-respect."

In some unspoken way, Aneirin is a lie that she tells for herself: to indulge the fond memories without having to explain herself to anyone. To let those sad parts of her exist, that little girl who loved her father so very much—

Because, in the end, how could she not? He was a sh*tty parent and worse caretaker besides; but in a world full of people who called her an abomination— fellow exorcist or no— he was her only bastion.

And maybe that child who still loves her father doesn't deserve to be reviled for the very fact.

(A lie told in omission, for love of a little girl who deserved a better future.)

“Though I suppose I couldn’t blame you if you thought less of her for it.” Magilou shrugs flippantly, tilting her head to the side. “It’s a little more than off-white, as far as lies go.”

“Does it matter?” There’s a slight rasp to how Eleanor murmurs so, so quietly. “If it’s a lie by omission, she’s still using it to be more honest with herself and it’s so… it’s so perfectly like her.” Another weak laugh. “She’s incredible.”

Such earnest praise for such a mundane thing. But there’s the caveat of reticence now, and Magilou doesn’t get it. Just when she was getting used to the idea that Eleanor really and truly just sees her like this, too.

“Why so anxious, then?”

“I—” Eleanor’s mouth stays parted, her breath held, as if she’s still planning on saying something before she sighs and grimaces. “I know I shouldn’t be. It just… I—I don’t know. She’s come so far since we last knew each other, I can’t help but feel… lacking in comparison.”

Magilou nearly scoffs. “Lacking? You?” She raises a brow. “Am I or am I not speaking to Exorcist Magistrate Eleanor Hume, saviour of the realm?”

And it’s just the quietest laugh that slips from Eleanor, disappearing into the splashes of color still falling through the skies.

“That’s just the thing, isn’t it?” Her smile is bitter again, as it had been last night, at dinner— and this time, there is nothing staying Magilou’s hands than the way she turns her face away. “That’s all I am. There’s not much else to me, not anymore.”

That’s not true— that’s wholly incorrect, Magilou wants to insist, but if she wasn’t willing to believe Eleanor last night when their positions were reversed, why would Eleanor believe her now?

“That sounded really melodramatic,” Eleanor laughs, looking back out at the fireworks with a smile. “I’m sorry— I just mean… she’s built such a wonderful life for herself, you know? And I’m still just… the same little soldier I’ve always been.” A strained shrug. “I work so much I’m not even sure I even know how to do anything else. There’s maybe two people I can call friends who aren’t technically colleagues, too.”

“You say that like it’s a failing on your part, and not what was demanded of you.” And Magilou is maybe a little sharper than she should be to Eleanor in such a vulnerable moment, but she can’t help it. “Isn’t keeping the world from falling apart accomplishment enough for eight years?”

It’s a rhetorical question, tinged with anger; enough is enough. After all she’s done, Eleanor should be the last person to have to doubt herself like this.

“For a commander, maybe,” Eleanor snorts. “I don’t think it makes for very good girlfriend material.”

“I—” Magilou stares, trying to think of an appropriate retort. Eleanor’s not looking at her, still, but— good hells, how does that even compare? What does it matter, when Magilou’s already bending over backwards to try and actually earn her affection?

Eleanor grasps the railing, as if to stop herself from wringing her hands any more— she leans back, straightening her arms and bunching up her shoulders once before untensing with a deep exhale. “Sorry I’m being so down on myself,” she laughs. “I just, um… I was too busy being happy to be with her that I sort of forgot how we got here.” The lightheartedness is so, so brittle, even as she casually drums her fingers against the old metal. “Chasing her out here was the first thing I did purely for myself in eight years, and… that doesn’t exactly paint the most promising picture about what I have to offer in a relationship, you know?”

No, Magilou doesn’t know. Yes, sure, it would be true enough for anyone else— but Eleanor isn’t anyone else, she’s… she’s Eleanor. Velvet’s Eleanor, prim and proper little miss exorcist who embodied true purity of soul— who dedicated herself to honesty and kindness and had mastered the art of the compassionate truth instead of the absolute, despite having been indoctrinated in it for years—

“I get really bitter about my childhood, sometimes,” Eleanor laughs again, gaining some sort of anxious momentum. “I feel like the Abbey took everything from me— to the point where the only thing I have left that’s still entirely mine is how I feel about her, but… but the more I learn about her, the more I realize there’s only so much blame I can shift elsewhere. I mean, we were both raised by the Abbey— and she had a much harsher upbringing than I did, to be honest, and still, she… she managed to become so much more than what they tried to make her, while I… didn’t.”

There’s a forcibly glib lilt to her voice, coupled with the slightest tremble that tries so hard not to be there.

“So I guess I just…” Eleanor laughs, and there’s something a little frantic to the way she shifts her weight in an approximation of nonchalance. “Can’t shake the feeling that I’m being unfair somehow. As if deep down, I know that she could do a lot better than me— that she deserves a lot better than me, someone who’s able to do right by her, who actually has a personality to speak of and…” she smiles derisively, sarcastically. “Who isn’t too afraid to admit all this to her properly.”

She turns to Magilou with that same harsh and defeated smile, so tense with the effort of trying to be unworried; and not for the first or last time, Magilou just doesn't know what to say.

Once upon a time, Eleanor used the pretense of some unknown mutual friend to carry her adoration, to lay them at Magilou’s feet in hopes that they would be accepted one day. It was for Magilou— it was to offer her everything that Eleanor had to give without tearing down the walls that protected her, without crossing the lines that guarded her, without hurting her any more than the world already had.

Magilou wonders: what happened? When did it change? When did this mysterious, unknown, well-loved girl become a vessel for Eleanor’s doubts and fears? Since when had Eleanor needed such a conceit to pour her heart into, to put a distance between her feelings and the person they were meant for?

Eight years and one day. And somewhere inbetween, Eleanor picked up everything Magilou tried so hard to leave behind, as if still chasing after her in any way she could.

“Eleanor,” Magilou says, reaching out to grasp her hand— she flinches, but Magilou doesn’t let go. She’s done. She’s done making Eleanor chase after her, making her wait, letting her become afraid of wanting. “The only person who gets to decide what I do or don’t deserve is me.”

(The ‘I’ is an entity she's not on the greatest terms with, never has been— but she’s tired of cowardice. She’s tired of the distance she creates by refusing to claim her own words.

If terror is the price to pay for the chance to hold the person she wants, then so be it. She’s already sworn herself to being better, hasn’t she? This time, she will be brave. She will. )

“I—” Eleanor finally looks at her— with wide eyes that almost look afraid. “Of course— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to patronize you, or—”

“I know.” Magilou wraps her hand over Eleanor’s, coaxing her into letting her fingers under her palm. “You’d never think to do anything of the sort, you just worry.”

It’s strange, how calm she feels in the wake of such an extended moment of tense anxiety— but even with Eleanor staring at her so fearfully, as if she’s done something terribly wrong, Magilou only runs her thumb over her knuckles gently.

“I’m sorry.” Eleanor’s hand shakes ever so slightly in hers. “I just— you’ve had to take care of me this whole time, I’m— I’m scared I’m being too much.”

And Magilou can only laugh. Not unkindly, not dismissively, but because it’s just so perfectly like Eleanor to say that. “Why be scared of being too much when it’s the best thing about you? Darling,” she sighs in utter fondness, tugging at Eleanor's hand, "you've always been too much. Too kind, too honest, too hell-bent on doing right by every life you touch." Gently, she pulls Eleanor's hand from the railing to stand face to face, laying her hand over her heart. "It's what drives you. It's what makes you who you are."

The look that Eleanor gives her almost hurts; lips parted, wide eyes flickering all over Magilou, she nearly looks wounded. Is this what Magilou looked like, back then, when Eleanor insisted on her cruel, compassionate affection? Maybe, probably, but no more— none of that, for either of them.

"Can you tell me I’m wrong?” she laughs, tilting her head. “That in another life, where you're not taken by the Abbey," she says, one hand on Eleanor's chest and the other entwined with one of hers. "You haven’t found some other terribly thankless and heroic job to sink yourself into?"

A shaky look, furrowed brows, as if she wants to disagree with all her being but can’t find the words that would still be true. Magilou takes both her hands in her own, then, raising them into the space between them.

"You love people, the world they live in, and the work of making it a better place— just as much as I love magic,” she admits evenly, letting the heavy words fall, “and it was the Abbey that turned them into shackles— but we're free now, Eleanor." She holds her hands tight, looking right into those wavering eyes, asking her not to look away. "We're free. Free to do as we please, free to take back everything they stole from us— so take it back," she pleads. "Save people the way you want to, not how you feel you have to— walk away from the Abbey, burn the damn thing to the ground, whatever you want, however you want.”

“I…” Eleanor shakes her head, lashes fluttering as her face crumples, bowing her head. “I don’t— I don’t know. I don’t know how.”

In the trying, she lost the ability to think for herself, she said; how daunting would it feel to try and forge her own path now, believing that she has none of herself left? Believing that this is her burden alone that she's already failed in? Her voice trembles, her grasp tightens, and Magilou holds on just as fiercely.

“You’ll just have to figure it out, then, no?” she says, smiling as she touches their heads together. “There’s hardly a need to catastrophize something so mundane as simply not knowing, darling, everyone loses sight of what they want every once in a while. People are weak like that. That’s why we need each other, and I…” She pulls one hand loose and reaches up to cradle Eleanor’s cheek, palm settling over her falling tears. “I’m here,” she murmurs, her thumb swiping away the next teardrop. “I’m here for you, I don’t mind if you’re a little lost, and you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Just as Magilou takes Eleanor’s. How terrifying and so very easy it is to trust, to believe— to remember that you are thought of, to remember that you are loved. But as Eleanor’s frame shudders with another restrained sob, Magilou reaches up to hold her face in both hands and swears herself to it once again.

“I’m here,” she says again, softly kissing Eleanor’s forehead. “I’m here, love, if you’ll have me.”

Then Eleanor laughs; weakly through her tears in half an exasperated scoff, but laughs nonetheless. Gently holding her wrists, she looks up at Magilou with her brows furrowed over reddened eyes, mouth curled in a small but genuine smile.

“If?” she teases with her trembling voice, and her playfulness is all the lovelier for it. “After everything I just said, how is it still a question?”

“Because we’re both ridiculous,” Magilou says again, laughing softly as well. Ridiculous creatures both, a perfect match if only in anxiety and insecurity alone— but if they want to be more than that, what’s stopping them? “So let’s stop going in circles. Let’s just give it up.” She shakes her head. “No more talk of worthiness or deserving or being good enough— we make our own decisions and we live with them. We do our best to act like the people we want to be and treat each other the way we want to treat each other. Nothing more, nothing less. Okay?”

Because that was the answer all along. To want to be someone better, to want to do right by someone you want in your life, to lie despite your failings and because of your failings— that’s all it takes. That’s all it’s ever taken, this loving selfishness.

And Eleanor— darling, darling Eleanor, smiling radiantly through her falling tears, could take anything and everything of Magilou if she but wanted to.

“Okay,” she says, leaning into Magilou’s touch, “okay.”

A perfect, sweet end to their trials and tribulations.

So it’s to be expected that the moment Magilou leans in to seal the deal with a kiss is the exact moment the sky decides it’s going to rain after all. One droplet, then two as Magilou squints up at the clouds, raising her hands just in time to catch the downpour before it catches them.

But the festival goers aren’t quite so lucky, and chaos erupts as the sudden squall hits the streets. The fireworks are extinguished immediately, and even above the roaring rain Magilou can hear the commotion: the shrieks of surprise, the groans of dismay, the yelling, the complaining, and among it all, the laughing. Bright and genuine laughter in the face of sudden misfortune—

Then suddenly, the rain seems so appropriate. Of course, of course. Magilou couldn’t have told it better herself if she tried; with how the story’s gone so far, why wouldn’t it rain? Magilou just laughs as well, winding her free arm around Eleanor’s waist as Eleanor puts hers around her shoulders, huddling close together under her little invisible umbrella, grinning at each other almost feverishly.

“You’ll have to teach me this one, too!” Eleanor yells over the storm.

“Maybe!” Magilou challenges, because she can. “What do I get out of it?”

And Eleanor doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed to go along with the bit; she just tugs Magilou closer and leans down, touching their noses together.

“How about a second date?”

Magilou laughs again.“I’ll have to think about it!”

She won’t, of course, but that’s the joke. Not even a funny one, mind, but they’re still laughing as they kiss each other, unsteady for how tightly they’re holding each other but refusing to let go, like teenagers so deliriously in love—

Maybe that’s what they could’ve been, in a happier life. But they still made it in the end— eight years older and against all odds, but they made it in the end. They always have. And maybe, with enough diligence and enough luck, maybe they always will.

And she's no heroine, but this is a story worth telling every so often, isn't it? This neverending paradigm of bravery and foolishness:

Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved with all her heart, and lost every time she did— abandoned, betrayed, and left behind thrice over—

And still, and still, and still.

When next the opportunity came,

she all but leapt at the chance to love again.