@gommaged : please. i need you to trust me.
please, please, please 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;
She does not want to think about it. She ought to be grateful to whatever power or magic has allowed the trembling, unsure breath of life to grace her being once again; chroma restored, blood and heart renewed, albeit skin remains marred by an hideous, white scar across the midriff — a sign of being impaled perhaps, or maybe stabbed repeatedly by something or someone she does not want to name. It's a miracle nonetheless — the perfect illusion, the certainty that most of what she remembers during sleepless nights and she relives through nightmares are nothing but harmless shadows of a distant past.
It's best to keep believing it all a senseless though gracious miracle, rather than to succumb to fear and paranoia. She's lost everything; the paintress who would spend her days in the atelier and would chase the sunset and dawn by the harbor, who would dance at festivals and laugh without a care in the world, drunk with nothing but simple love and affection, has no place in the new Lumière. And while, no, she's no relic of a bygone era yet — she does not want to remember what once was. Who she used to be and what to do. The inflicted pain and the immense grief, brewing for decades, in solitude.
So why ? Why torment her, still ? He must wish to say something important; one has no reason to indulge in the past, in its pain and misery without just cause. Oh, but she recognizes him — from somewhere, somehow, the two have met before. Long ago, up in the clouds of the continent. It's but a flash in the blurry tangle of memories and made-up images that crowd her mind and heart, but she is not wrong.
Her lips slightly part as if she's about to speak, but then Clea swallows it all down the moment she lifts her gaze to look into the man's eyes — oh indeed, she remembers them well. One seldom forgets one of the first pairs of unfamiliar eyes that peer from the bars of a gilded cage after years spent alone — her only company being fear and the cursed art meant to deliver only death. She blinks, a beat of silence. ❛ I do. I trust you. ❜
Her fingers stop plucking at the flower's petals, and Clea finally turns to face Gustave more openly. The street is almost deserted. No one would hear what he has to say -- better not to have others stir in agitation, nor to eavesdrop. ❛ Because I know Maelle does the same. ❜ Her sister in nothing but appearance, that girl — the girl she has to be grateful to. Her true sister is long gone now — as are her father, and mother too; Verso, the only family she has left in this new life, has less and less time to spend in her company, these days. ❛ But mostly, because I remember. I remember some other things— ❜ such as the compassion in his gaze, as she allowed Art to destroy her and release her from her endless duties.
She sighs, aware of what the conversation may veer towards. The perfect illusion ? The past ? ❛ Alright. ❜ She is not looking forward to it, but there's been something in his eyes that made her falter, and made her willing to listen. ❛ I can try and help you. And tell you everything I recall and know about — well, this. It may not be much, ❜ she breathes out, blue hues finally moving, traveling frantically around the plaza, with weary wariness. ❛ And some things do not make sense to me either, but it's a starting point to whatever truth you wish to uncover, perhaps. ❜
