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To Sow the Seeds of Love and Adoration

Tabatha knew that a doll that failed in her purpose must be discarded. She was flawed, with a voice that continued to halt and assess every syllable, with a body that refused to house the soul of the woman she was made in the image of. But Master Altessa, who smoothed over her skin and threaded her hair, had always favored broken things.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters/Pairing: Tabatha, Altessa, Lloyd Irving, Colette Brunel, Mithos Yggdrasill Rating: G Word Count: 8051 Mirror Link: AO3 Notes: Written for @tosrcountdown in a collab with @frayed-symphony who made the wonderful art! A Tabatha-centric fic exploring her origins and her relationship with her dwarven creator.

1

.

When Tabatha finally came to be, it was in waves, rising and falling.

There was no singular moment for her. Instead, fragments came together, pieces that would fit, that would meld until they were uniform. The first she ever knew was the very motion of her fingers. It had been stiff at first. Unyielding. It took the hands of another to set her own just right.

Calloused hands. Hands larger than her own. A voice that was so rough that it was like the grating of boulders against one another.

“The small joints are always the most difficult,” she heard, and she understood. Even with the voice’s grumbles, its half-whispers, its coarseness that could strain the ears—she knew. For the very runes of his language were carved into her body, invisible, but fully in existence. The dwarven artes were still a well-kept secret, along with the materials that were used to make her flesh, used to make her eyes, her nails, and her hair that streamed past her shoulders. This she knew over everything.

She was named Tabatha. This was not told to her. She woke, and found the name resting within her chest, as if it were her own makeshift heart.

It came in waves. She heard the tools that would correct her knuckles to bend the right way, heard focused breathing, so careful, it would barely disturb a thin coating of dust. Then she drifted far away, back into a space that was her own.

The wave pulled back, and finally she could open her eyes. It was an effort, for the light from a window would blind her, until she would only see spots of gray and black, touched with violet.

“Sensitive, it seems… The glass needs to be refined.” The callused hand once more, now over her eyes, to shield her from the light. She felt relief for the first time.

And she read such hands to be kind.

Time passed, but she could not grasp it just yet. She only knew that the sun had long set, leaving her with pitch black. The only light was from a gas lamp, hooked from a wooden pillar next to her. She finally saw who the rough voice belonged to; the firelight danced across his great beard, motes of silver swimming in deeper gray. So long it was that the end of it reached past his chest, held together in two separate bands. She could barely see his own eyes, sunken within a thick moustache and even thicker eyebrows.

He was affixing something to her wrist.

“Sight is good?” he asked her, or half-asked her. He raised his face to her, then nodded, going back to his work. She caught marks of lines down his cheeks, perhaps the brief glint of an eye. But he bent further down so that all she was met with was with the top of his head, shaved of all hair. “The glass should not have as much glare. Just needed the right tint.”

Tabatha said nothing, for she couldn’t at all. Just a slow blink, a soft understanding, followed by the bending of her fingers. The skin had not been fully molded onto her just yet. But what she saw was not bone in the exact sense of the word. It was hard and unyielding; it would only be broken by the greatest force.

The dwarf beside her continued to work. Every miniscule detail was manipulated to his liking. She could bend her fingers more inward now.

It came in waves. She fell back into a sleep that wasn’t sleep at all. Just a soft coating of black over her, like blankets tucked around her, to keep her out of sight.

She floated, but she didn’t dream. A being like her did not know how to dream.

The wave receded. Her eyes focused in front of her, for she was not sure she ever closed them in the first place. It was the workspace where she would see the dwarf bend his head to, scattered with tools she had seen before—and trinkets that she had never known.

It’s all in pieces, Tabatha thought.

There were metal bits, curled from ironwork, as bright as gold foil. They captured the firelight on their surfaces, gleaming over the woodwork like captured stars. She was curious, so she reached out her hand to hold one fragment. She could not feel it. Some of the metal gewgaws slipped between her incomplete fingers to clatter to the wood.

His gruff voice filtered through the warm summer heat. "Those key crests are worthless things," he muttered. "Prototypes. I’ve already used what little of the ore I had left."

She blinked, but she could not tear her eyes away from such sights. Some of the metal seemed to form certain shapes, but some were also twisted. As if a hammer had come down and warped it beyond recognition.

"Wondering about those, are you?" The dwarf walked up to her, a new tool in his right hand. She remained seated, (and she was only aware now that she was seated, aware she was more than just arms and eyes, but of legs and feet as well) her body limp as he held up her arm to his eye level. "Your voice box still needs some adjusting. We'll work on that next."

She opened her mouth. No sound came out, even though the words to form them echoed inside her. What you’ve made is beautiful, even when broken, she wanted to say, looking back to the desk. There were also remnants of other tools, of mold sets, of long threads of red, green, and blue, their ends frayed with bronze. You don’t toss them away.

The dwarf took a long breath, moving her fingers, assessing their motor control. “It will still be some time before this is all finished… I don’t have all the necessary materials, but this will do.” His forehead wrinkled, those great bushy brows lowering, nearly hiding his entire face once more. But she saw the twisting of his lips, heard the barely audible catch of his breath. “Your next few power cycles will happen more frequently. You may be up at odd times, but it will be alright. A part of the process.”

Yet still, even as she felt herself sink away, she wanted to speak about those wonderful things he made.

It came again in waves. It pulled her down, carried her across unseen miles. She let herself, for the one who made her had instilled such currents. He foresaw the moments of rest she would need, to not let her be overwhelmed at all she knew, at all she was beginning to learn.

Tabatha woke in the middle of the night, a soft, azure light gleaming just at her collar bone.

Her fingers brushed against it, but only after the ordeal of lifting her arm, wrestling with the angle and weight of it. She was rewarded with a cold touch, and a soft, isolating sadness that she could not place.

Is this what loneliness is?

The feeling came to her, intimately. It was all-engulfing. The vast stretch of that loneliness was almost too much to bear. How could anyone stand such an emotion? It nearly made her want to close her eyes once more and drift away, her fingers still pressed over that stone within her skin—

Light illuminated the room. She was laying on one of the worktables, propped up by pillows and blankets. The dwarf slowly walked toward her, setting the gas lantern down to the side, the metal handle clinking as it fell.

Without even looking at her, he carefully reached out, gently taking her hand away from that sad, crying stone.

“Do not look into it too deeply, or you will only fall with it.” The dwarf pulled up a wooden stool to the worktable, seating himself in it as he took a chisel in his hand, the wood squeaking from the weight. “It was a necessary thing to keep your body stable and working.”

Even if Tabatha’s voice worked, she would not know what to say. The loneliness had nearly immobilized her.

A wave. Was it this that was pulling her away, dragging her down to sleep alongside it?

She wished she could grant its wish—somehow.

--

Exspheres, they were called.

“It should not affect you the same way it would to a living being,” her Master said. “This one has already awoken. It is there to help you move your hands and feet, to talk, and to think.” A sigh. “Still, there are always risks using them. Now, try to stand.”

Her body was no longer as stiff, and so she followed his orders easily. Even so, she paused as she balanced herself, her knees trembling with the weight of her torso. Her flesh was now fully molded over her joints. The knuckles on her hands were fashioned perfectly. Her fingers were now able to stretch, to curl, to grab.

There was a mirror on the worktable. A small one, for when her Master needed to examine a trinket from a certain angle. She caught her reflection, that of pale skin and hair that streamed from her head in verdant waves. It matched with the green dress that was draped over her frame, covering up her Exsphere, away from the light. The dress seemed to be old-fashioned from what she could assess, with flowing sleeves and the hem reaching to the floor. It was a dress that was made to be perfectly suited to her.

Or, for the one who she was supposed to be.

Her Master held out his hand, and she laid her own in his like a bird finding a place to rest. He walked with her, careful to count her steps, up the small stairs that led out of his workshop to the living area of his home. The sunshine streamed in through that one circular window to warm her synthetic skin.

“Thank you,” she told him, her words halting, stranding on each syllable as if she were hopping on stones across a river. “Master Altessa.”

The dwarf’s eyebrows fidgeted slightly. Perhaps it was because her voice, for all the work he had done, was still a disappointment. But even so, she could not find the rhythm that those living spoke with.

Or perhaps it was because she addressed him by name.

Altessa walked with her some more, teaching her the right number of steps, examining wherever a fault in her stance occurred. Eventually, he let her walk on her own until she could do so as naturally as her body would allow.

“Very good. Now, just do the same when we meet with Lord Yggdrasill.”

The knowledge was in her, writ upon her data, into the runic structures that Master Altessa had imparted on her. The creation of the doll that would house the spirit of Martel, all on the orders of Yggdrasill. A doll that could move, that could speak, albeit poorly, and could mimic the very features of someone who had lived and died so long ago.

And through all this knowledge, she was still named Tabatha. It was unconnected to everything else. An error. But she kept it within her like the greatest of secrets.

“Master,” she began to ask. A pause. Her voice struggled to keep in time with her thoughts that rushed through. It was slow and plodding in comparison. “What will happen if I do not meet with Lord Yggdrasill’s approval?”

Altessa did not answer. But the concern in his face was apparent, his brows furrowed once more. She gazed at his hands, seeing it riddled with scars from his work, from other injuries that perhaps he dared not name.

“Then he will have no need of you,” he finally answered matter-of-factly. “And perhaps he will have no need of me.”

In his voice, she heard the hope rise, just so slightly.

A craftsman, she will later soon know, always puts a bit of his own soul in each thing that he creates. Perhaps that was why she knew to walk back to his workshop despite his puzzled expression. His tools lay scattered; from those that had threaded her hair onto her head, to those that fixed her joints, to those that had painted her eyes over with that familiar shade of green.

She knew these well, for the runes inscribed onto the insides of her wrists, along her spine, and around her Exsphere, where it lay cradled within her Key Crest, gave her all such data and information. A spell cannot be done without giving oneself over. Altessa’s hopes laid there, along with the name he had long ago given her.

She was a doll created to fail, and she was content in that fact.

Tabatha carefully held his tools to place them back in their proper spots, some within wooden compartments, and others that hung onto the walls. As she worked, she heard her Master stand beside her, then give a great sigh.

“It is because I gave you a name,” Altessa whispered. “I should not have done so.”

Tongs fashioned for handling hot metal were hung on a wooden column. They were well-worn with use, but sturdy as when first made. “But I like my name,” she protested. “For you gave it to me.”

It is what, for now, felt right to her.

Master Altessa’s expressions were hard to read, hidden within his beard. Yet, she suspected that she saw something lift, something like a smile.

She was happy to be home.

--

2

.

Tabatha knew that a doll that failed in her purpose must be discarded. She was flawed, with a voice that continued to halt and assess every syllable, with a body that refused to house the soul of the woman she was made in the image of.

But Altessa had always favored broken things; from the ruined Key Crests that he kept within a glove box on his desk, to his own rickety stool that continued to creak every time he sat in it. Even so, he still repaired what was needed. Sometimes Tabatha’s joints rusted over from use, or her vocal chords struggled from dust. Things that could be fixed, if only to break down again.

Though when all was said and done, he was an isolated dwarf, his home as secluded as the neighboring Ozette that slept within the giant boughs of its trees. Tabatha would walk outside after her chores, watching as the sunset coated the front side of the mountain, rock dust turning gold underneath the light. So calm and serene.

It was an adjustment for her Master to accompany so many new and lively voices.

“Please deal with them,” he would ask of her, his own voice a little hoarse, his tanned skin turning pale from exhaustion. She knew it was partly her own doing, unable to turn such people away despite his first requests.

And then one day, she noticed how Lloyd’s eyes kept straying to the flowerpots.

It was early afternoon, the sun hidden beneath the clouds to give the sky a grayish tint. Perhaps rain would fall soon, which would be troublesome for her body. Still, she stepped out. The dress she now wore was fitted over her loosely, dyed black with the hem no longer dragging at the ground, and with a cap that held in some of her now braided hair. Out on the doorstep, she turned to see the young man kneeling by the flowerpots that had been placed underneath the small, sole window of her Master’s abode.

“Is there something wrong, Lloyd?”

Lloyd started, immediately rising to his feet. He had distracted, a hand reaching out to touch the flower petals before he pulled it back. “Oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to like, poke my head into your stuff.”

“Not at all. Your head was at a reasonable distance.” Though she saw Lloyd blink at her words, she also strayed a gaze to the flowers; one with orange petals, and another with white. “But you looked concerned.”

Lloyd let a nervous chuckle slip out of him. “Well, it was just something I noticed… It doesn’t look like these guys have been watered for a while. Especially those daylilies. They kinda need it a lot.”

Tabatha stared at Lloyd, the wind shifting his hair. She assessed his words, stored them in her head, extracting all she needed. “Oh.” She paused, considered. “They need water? I was not aware. The Master did not inform me.”

Confusion was made plain on Lloyd’s face—whether by her admission of her lack of knowledge, or if he was still adjusting to her strange voice, she couldn’t say—before he spoke again. “Uh, yeah! It’s kinda like food for them? I just noticed because the soil seemed dry and the petals are a bit wilted.”

Tabatha felt a strange emotion she had never felt before. Was it…embarrassment? For not knowing such a basic task? She bowed her head. “I apologize, I neglected that flowers are living beings… They were given to me by a merchant. The Master said they could stay outside, but I was unaware they needed nourishment as well. Do they also like rice?”

“Well, no… I mean, I don’t think they do.” Lloyd put a hand on his chin before shaking it off. “No, they definitely don’t!”

The door to Altessa’s home was still shut, but Tabatha could hear the rest of the group moving around inside. The soft metal clinks of Regal’s handcuffs, a clumsy trip from Colette as she fell against the dining table, the worried tones of Genis afterwards. But no loud gruffness from her Master; perhaps he was finally getting used to them.

“Have you ever grown plants before?” Lloyd asked her. “Like those vegetables you have to make the food here?”

Tabatha shook her head. “No. I do not grow vegetables. I just purchase what we need from Ozette or traveling merchants, like potatoes and grain. I know food can deteriorate from oxidation, so they are kept sealed in barrels.”

“…Ox…Oxen?” Lloyd struggled. “Um, you just mean they can rot, right? Well, flowers can be the same way! You have to give them the right amount of sun and water, and make sure the soil is healthy enough for them too.”

Tabatha absorbed what Lloyd spoke of, the way she would when Master Altessa spoke of the different ores used for crafting, the way some metals could be shaped at a certain temperature. The elements, all of it coalescing to nurture something to being. But her Master could coax the lifeless, could shape them into different forms, as he had done with her.

But she had so little experience in living things.

“Can we still help them?” she asked Lloyd. “I do not want them to wither because of my failings.”

“Yeah, of course! We just gotta get them some water for now at least. I’ll show you.”

And when he grinned at her, there was something about his expression that reminded him of her Master. Both were as contrasting as day and night; a secluded dwarf who bent his nose to the worktable to fashion his designs, to the young man whose loud voice penetrated the walls of their home. But in both of their smiles, there was an honest kindness. She hoped she could smile as such one day.

--

“Petunias; a garden plant of the nightshade family. Brightly colored and funnel-shaped. Requires full sun for at least six hours of the day. Plant in the springtime for it to bloom in the summer. Light and fertile soil, pH levels 6 to 6.5.”

A turning of the page. The shadow of a butterfly shaded the words for a moment, flickering the sunlight.

“Sunflowers; a tall plant of the daisy family. Giant varieties can grow up to 16 feet tall. Requires full sun for at least six hours of the day. Sow seeds two to three feet apart. Plant in the springtime for it to bloom in summer and into fall. Any soil, including clay or silt.”

“…ey! Tabatha!”

“Daffodils; a bulbous plant of the amaryllis family. Bright-yellow flowers with a long trumpet-shaped center. Needs full sun, and can grow from 6 to 30 inches. In cold locations, plant in autumn after the first frost. Prefers well-drained soil.”

“Heeeey!”

“Lilies; a perennial—Oh. The writing has faded. How unfortunate.”

“…Uh, can you hear me?” Footsteps crunched on the grass, accompanied with a small exhalation of breath. “I can’t really…yell anymore after carrying this around…”

Perhaps this was the first time Tabatha could say she felt startled. How curious it was for her to be so engrossed in reading, but she finally was able to turn her eyes from the frayed pages to Lloyd. She was greeted to red, to hair sticking up in every direction (from his flight on his Rheaird?), to the giant sack he had been carrying over his shoulder with a bit of a wobble in his step.

His eyes strayed to the thin book she held, a blink soon following after.

Ah, of course he would wonder. She held it up. “Raine leant me this, so that I may learn about gardening.”

Lloyd made a face—the same kind of face he had made when he discovered tomatoes in his supper the other night. “Is that why you were saying a bunch of weird words? I’ve been planting stuff since I was a kid and I haven’t heard half of these!”

Tabatha tilted her head. “Is that so? I thought it was informative.” Tabatha shifted on her knees, still facing the grassy patch she and Lloyd had chosen earlier. It was a bit aways from Altessa’s home, the grass growing more freely than the rock by the hard cliffside.

“Eh, we don’t need books.” Lloyd said with a shake of his head. “My dad says it’s always best to learn through experience!”

She watched as Lloyd finally hefted down the great sack he had slung across his shoulder. Catching his breath, he loosened the drawstring on top. “I got the soil from Ozette’s forests. With all the trees there, I think this should be plenty healthy for the garden!”

Tabatha heard the word pass his lips. For a moment, she had nearly forgotten.

That’s right. She had suddenly wanted to plant a garden. That was why she was here. That was why she was reading a book about flowers.

But with the dark soil in front of her now, she had to put the book aside, leaning her head nearly inside the sack. “Why use this soil when we already have soil here?”

“Because some plants need better soil, you know? Kinda like…” Lloyd scrunched his head for a comparison until he snapped his fingers on realization. “Like when people need better food! A meat stew would fill me up way more over a plain sandwich. So, this is like the meat stew for plants!”

The comparison jumbled in her head. “Plants eat meat? Should I have made stew?”

“Uh, never mind. The point is!” Lloyd bent to the sack and cupped the soil with both hands, holding it up proudly to show off. “This will make your plants grow really big!”

As Lloyd said, one always learned best through experience. And it wasn’t until Tabatha placed her own hands in the soil did she understand.

The Ozette soil was rich in nutrients. She could assess this on the tips of her fingers, the nerves built there by her Master. A good pH level (as Raine’s book emphasized it should be), and enough moisture to last for the next two weeks. She understood now just how careless she had been to neglect this for her flowerpots.

She cradled the soil, her palms turning dark from the touch. It felt so alive to her. It was alive. Different from the Exspheres, from herself—yet so familiar.

Lloyd was already going to the garden patch, rolling up his sleeves and using a trowel to dig a small inlet in the ground. “So, since we already cleared away the weeds, we need to loosen some stuff up for the soil. It’ll help grow better that way. Dad always said, ‘Ya don’t want it to be too firm that the leaves struggle to find that sunshine!’”

When he spoke, he had lowered his voice, taking on a raspy tone that she instantly recognized in her Master’s own voice. Tabatha marveled. Perhaps Lloyd had a bit of dwarven blood in him after all?

Afterwards, Lloyd cleared his throat, a soft chuckle leaving him. “A-Anyway! You have the seeds, right?”

She had momentarily forgotten once more. Quickly, she deposited the soil back into the sack, reaching for the small assortment of seeds in a small pouch she retrieved from her pockets. “Yes. However, I still do not know what flower will sprout from these.”

Another purchase from that same traveling merchant, yet she had neglected such basic information. She presented it to Lloyd who looked at it eagerly, the small, almond-shaped seeds nestled together in its small home.

“Hmm…” Lloyd looked at it thoughtfully, then nodded, and then scrunched his forehead. “Huh. I…have no idea either actually?” He scratched his cheek, dirt staining it immediately. “It kinda looks like zinnia seeds…but I don’t think that’s it.”

Tabatha looked once more at the pouch, an unassuming thing made from burlap. “Are these not the correct seeds then?”

“No. I mean, they’re still seeds…Hey, this just means it’ll be a surprise to see what grows from them!” With fervor, Lloyd gently picked up the pouch, depositing a few seeds in his palm. “Wanna start planting?”

Even when Lloyd didn’t know, he continued with their task in full confidence. Tabatha admired it, so she smiled, feeling a brief spark light within her chest. Perhaps this was excitement?

“Yes. Thank you for teaching me, Lloyd.”

--

“Dwarven vow #41,” Lloyd had recited to Tabatha. “It’s better to begin in the evening than not at all!”

Yet she sometimes found herself kneeling before the garden patch she and Lloyd had created together, wishing she’d started sooner. Beds of the Ozette soil were laid horizontally across the ground, in separate mounds and with enough space between them. Sunlight fell fully over the planted seeds, free from the shade of overhanging trees, the earth as dark as her Master’s tools.

Still, a week had passed with nothing so much as a sprout.

“Tabatha, did you need any help?”

Again, she had been caught off guard. But the voice that called out to her was gentle and warm, much like Lloyd’s. Much like her Master’s.

“Greetings, Colette,” she answered, halting on every syllable, including the girl’s name. “I am just watching the garden.” Watching, and waiting.

The footsteps of the girl were so quiet that Tabatha at first wondered if she was using her wings. But a brief turn showed no such violet shapes behind Colette. Instead, she walked along the grass carefully as she held up a giant metal watering can in her arms, greeting Tabatha with a smile.

“Sorry,” she instantly apologized. “I’m trying not to drop it again. It’s already cracked a little on its side…”

The closest thing to laughter nearly bubbled to Tabatha’s lips. The sound didn’t leave, for she could not form a breath to do so, but she smiled back in return. It was a marvel that the girl could somehow make metal crack just from a fall. “The Master can fix it if it should break. So please, do not worry.”

Even so, she watched Colette keep her careful steps—and still have her foot turn in an odd direction. The result was her landing on her knees in the dirt next to Tabatha, but still clutching the still intact watering can. “Oh, I didn’t know the ground dipped there!”

From what Tabatha could see, the ground didn’t dip at all. It was perfectly flat. But Lloyd had often told her that Colette’s trips were miraculous.

“What brings you here?” she asked.

Colette still held the watering can, the water gently sloshing inside. “Lloyd told me some plants get really thirsty, some more than others.” She then held out the can to Tabatha. “So, maybe we just need to water it more! Because…you’re worried why they’re not growing, aren’t you?”

Tabatha had no capacity in her to lie or hide her feelings very well. Still, she tried to change the focus. “The Master has told me some plants take longer to sprout than others. Perhaps that is all it is.” And it was truly something he said, patting her hand when he saw her worries plainly on her face. Even so, she accepted the watering can from Colette. Her Master had also fashioned this once he heard of the garden, and she could feel the care of his hands in each of its curves. “Was it difficult to get the water from the well?”

“Oh, not at all!” Colette clasped her hands together. “I almost fell in but Sheena caught me just in time! …But that was also when I dropped the can…”

Again, that feeling of laughter bubbled within her. Was it just Colette’s presence that instilled such warmth? “Colette, thank you for your concern. But please value your own safety. These plants…they are my responsibility.”

And if she can’t grow such plants, then perhaps that was just another failing of hers. Yet this time, she had wanted to succeed.

“Even if you are growing them, it’s fine to ask for help.” Colette bent her head slightly towards the patch, the dark soil absorbing the sunlight in its depths. “Lloyd was happy to help you. I’d like to do the same, even if I don’t know much about growing plants like he does.”

Tabatha heard the note in her voice—a kind note, but one that wanted to be useful. How familiar that was. She shifted the watering can in her grip, pouring one end of it over the patch. Water drops spilled out like rain, darkening the soil even further.

“You are right, Colette. It has been a rather dry week. Perhaps more water is needed.”

From Colette’s expression, she had done something to make the girl happy. Also, there was something truly invigorating about tending to the plants this way. Surely, at least giving them water was better than simply watching, waiting, and wishing for the plants to sprout.

While moving further into the patch to water another soil bed, she heard Colette gasp out a name in eagerness. “Oh! Hi, Lloyd! You’re back already?”

Looking back, Tabatha saw Lloyd rush to them. Once again, he held another sack in his arms, this time bigger than the last. “I got…I got more soil!” Lloyd huffed loudly, struggling with his burden, nearly losing his balance as he ran towards them. “It just…probably needs more! I think? More food always helps! And then we can—uh oh.”

Lloyd wobbled on his feet. His white neck ribbons fluttered in the breeze as he tried keep his balance. But seeing his predicament, Colette rushed to him quickly, her wings sprouting from her back in an array of violet.

“I got you, Lloyd!” she said, quickly hefting up the sack from his arms in her own grip. She held it up high over her head with ease. “There!”

And the result? The open end of the sack now facing Lloyd from above, so that an avalanche of dark soil poured right over his head. “Waaammff!”

“…Oops!”

Tabatha watched as Lloyd spat out the dirt, laughing as he did so while Colette fervently apologized, her wings flapping so quickly that it seemed she would have flown away at such speed. Yet after a while, she joined in his laughter too, a mix of high and low tones, complementing each other like two parts of a whole.

Tabatha could still not laugh—laughter was not natural to a non-living being. But hearing Lloyd and Colette’s laughter was enough, making her feel so oddly light on her feet.

--

3

.

It took several weeks for the first seed to sprout.

By then, Lloyd, Colette, and the others had already left Altessa’s home. They would come by with the occasional visit, but always quickly, and always with an urgency now in their movements. Barely could they stay for dinner, let alone a trip towards her now sprouting garden.

Soon, it was just her, her Master who was always diligently working at his bench, and the young half-elf named Mithos.

“It looks so frail,” he had commented once seeing it. He had helped carry along a sack of the mulch she requested, so that the weeds could keep from invading the soil beds. “And it doesn’t look like any flower I’ve seen. There are no petals at all.”

Tabatha gazed at the new growing plant. It certainly lacked the colorful petals she had seen from the those in the flowerpots. Yet even so, she found herself content as she knelt beside it, carefully sifting the soil so as not to uproot the small seedling. Green leaves extending from a growing stem, catching the color of the sun, painting it a vibrant green.

“But it is healthy,” she said. “And with enough care, it should grow.”

Mithos was silent. Still, he went about to help her prepare the soil, sifting in the mulch where needed, watering the soil just enough, eyes glancing towards the other sprouts that had also just begun to finally peek through the earth.

“But it’s not food, or even medicine,” Mithos said as he now sat by her on the ground, watching Tabatha adjust the leaves to fully catch the sun. “What purpose is there in growing it if it won’t help at all?”

Tabatha, surprisingly, didn’t have to take long with her answer.

“Because I want to see it survive,” she told him. “Do you not want the same, Mithos?”

Silence again. He could barely even look at her, his eyes fixated on the watering can, lips pressed firm. Tabatha felt she had done something truly grievous then.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t, it’s…it’s fine.” Mithos finally faced her, his smile back on his face. Yet such a smile didn’t match the lines around his eyes, or the nearly rigid motions of his hand as he helped pack in the new soil. “I was just remembering my sister. She liked planting, too.”

There are certain notes in a living being’s voice that Tabatha could detect, like a tiny vibration or a barely heard hitch. She knew how Mithos’ voice tightened as he spoke, and even more so when he looked at her. It was hard for him to be around her, she realized.

And yet, he always followed her into the kitchen when she prepared their meals, or into the workshop as she watched her Master at work, and even out into the garden, like a shadow that trailed at her heels.

“She used to grow her own gardens back at our home,” Mithos continued. His eyes were fixated on that seedling, the wind shifting his hair against his cheek. “Flowers, but also fruits and vegetables. Then we had to leave, but…as we traveled, she liked to nurture the flowers we found along the way, to try and keep them alive.”

“Your sister sounds like she was a very kind person.” She smiled. “That is why Mithos is very kind too.”

Silence again. Sometimes, such moments would stretch for hours. She did not wholly mind, for she was never truly adept at conversation. But something simmered underneath the quiet, making even her synthetic limbs feel a bit tense.

Instead, Mithos chuckled softly. “She was the kindest person I’ve ever known.”

They stayed within the garden for a while, until Tabatha finally relented, knowing other chores needed her attention. Still, she kept her gaze on the seedling, Mithos’ words floating within her head. If it was frail, would it survive the night? If it was useless, would her devotion to it simply mean nothing in the end?

“How did you get the idea to start growing a garden?” he asked her then. He gathered the gardening tools in his arms, the trowels and gloves that he had used himself, stained with dirt. “Someone told you about it, didn’t they?”

She knew just how she would answer his question would be important. And yet, she could not lie. Besides, Mithos was only curious.

“Lloyd taught me. But my Master gave me the idea.”

Mithos made a small noise, one she could not place. But as he moved, she saw a slight tremble from him, and rushed over to carry one of the tools.

“Are you still hurt from your injuries?”

“I’m fine. I promise.” He shook his head, his smile up once more. “Let’s just go back.”

Perhaps she felt a debt was to be owed after he had saved her from her own carelessness, but she also still felt a certain sadness from him. Familiar. Overwhelming, even. It reminded her of the loneliness of the Exspheres.

So as they went back to the house, she never minded him trailing after her every step, even long after the sun had set. If it made him happy, then she was happy, too.

--

4

.

A failure of a doll will eventually break, as all things do.

She could not feel pain the same way a living being could. Many times before had she accidentally cut at her fingers when dicing carrots for her Master’s stew. It would always be a small fix, her hand still as her Master would retrieve his tools and mend her skin, whole again, new again.

Her bones shattered at her spine when she was thrown to the wall. Her skin cracked and spiderwebbed from her eyes, across her knees, trailing down her arms. Pieces of her fell to the ground. She could not move her fingers, and her voice box was stuck in a loop, the force of the impact jarring her data, misaligning vital keys of her moving parts.

She fell into the dark. She remembered Master Altessa falling over in pain. The pain of living things is too much to bear, and could do nothing to stop it. For a broken doll can’t do much of anything.

--

Mithos saved me.

Welcome. How may I help you?

Mithos is kind.

The Master is busy.

Mithos hurt me.

My name is Tabatha.

Mithos. Mithos.

Where is Master Altessa?

…

Lloyd taught me.

Colette is kind.

The Master gave me the name—

“Tabatha.”

When she came to be once again, it was in waves, rising and falling.

She saw the light of the gas lamp above her. It was dirty. The soot in it needed to be cleaned. But she could not raise her arms.

They were still broken. The flesh had come apart in pieces, jagged at her forearm. Yet even as someone called her name, she could not call back. Of course. Her voice box had been shattered as well. Broken. It needed to be replaced. Or thrown out. It would be better to discard her, for she was nothing but waste. She was a failure, was she not?

And yet, callused but gentle hands placed themselves on her ruptured arm. They paid no heed to her jagged ends. They simply molded her flesh over bone, stitched together with care.

Tabatha’s vision blurred. Her eyesight must have deteriorated—how much more broken could she become? She could not be fixed. How many hours had been wasted on her, just to make her function again?

Even so, she didn’t want to be forgotten, to be left alone. She closed her eyes.

The Master taught me.

The Master is kind.

The Master gave me the name Tabatha.

--

Again, it came in waves. But soon enough, Tabatha could rise from it quicker than before. She was not on a worktable like she had expected to be, but on a bed, with a pillow set beneath her head, and with blankets tucked around her frame.

A quick examination of her arms told her that no cracks lined her flesh. No broken fingers. No misshapen limbs. Her spine was shaped back into being, reformed to support her once more. Even her clothes had been mended, catching the light green thread formed by a needle into the hem of her dress.

But where was her Master?

Her memories were hazy and fragmented, but she remembered Altessa’s cry of anguish when he had been attacked. How he had crumpled to the ground, when before it seemed nothing could ever shift him from his stance without his permission. Her beloved Master, who felt pain differently from her.

Something compelled her then to go outside.

The house was empty and quiet, and the spare bedrooms cleared of any occupants. Once, they had been filled with the sounds of so many voices, of Lloyd and Colette, of Raine and Genis, of Master Altessa and Mithos. But the silence was overpowering, and when she left the room, she saw the front door slightly ajar. It was night outside, and it brought back memories of that same night when violence had shattered the calmness of her Master’s home.

But as she went out, there was no one around. The dirt road was undisturbed, and laundry still hung on the clothesline—she never had a chance to retrieve it earlier. But there was a familiar shadow to the far right, out in the grassy area where her garden was made.

A closer look and a steady tread revealed it to be her Master, watering the plant that had now grown into a sapling. A great hand reached out to touch a leaf, gently so. Even from the dark, she could see how the once fragile stem had become a trunk, how the leaves that had been few had grown into multiple.

“It’s growing faster than a typical tree,” Altessa muttered. He placed the watering can on the ground, doing so with a small grunt of exertion. “We may need to move it to a bigger location, or it will grow over the others. But doing so should not be too difficult.”

She saw him shudder, one of his knees giving way that nearly made him fall. Tabatha rushed to him, holding him up with both arms. His great beard tickled at her hands, and she felt his heart beating steadily.

“Master Altessa, you’re still injured.”

It took her a moment to realize then how her voice had changed.

No longer did she halt or sound stilted. The words flowed from her throat and off her tongue, to move along to the rhythms of her breathing. Yes, she was breathing now. To take the air in her makeshift lungs, to give her words cadence, and pitch, and sincerity.

Altessa patted at her hand, the skin around his eyes crinkling with a hidden smile—pride at the success of his own work. “I’m alright. A doctor from Flanoir came to treat me. I needed to get well as soon as I could.”

Tabatha felt the pace of her breathing increase, a sign of worry. Difficult to adapt to this new aspect of her, but she would never reject it. She grabbed at his hand, holding it tightly between hers.

“And it is only by your skill that I am also still alive,” she said. “I am so sorry, Master Altessa. I have been nothing but a burden. We can go home and just go back to how things were before.”

To her surprise, her Master shook his head. “It can never be as it was, Tabatha. You know this.”

She did not understand, but Altessa gently brushed away her hold to once again go to the sapling. It had already grown so tall, nearly as tall as he was. How it had sprouted from such a tiny seed made her marvel at its progress.

“You were made for a purpose,” he said.

Tabatha hesitated. Another human action, one she had never known herself. “But I am a failure.”

“Now, that’s just not true.” He gestured to the sapling, its thin boughs reaching wide, its leaves rustling in the night breeze. “You were never meant to stay here forever. I’ve been selfish. I’ve kept you here because I was a foolish and lonely old man.”

But Tabatha understood loneliness more than anything.

“Lloyd and Colette have already gone to break Origin’s seal, or so I’ve heard. Those strangely-dressed friends of Sheena’s have shared with me what they know. I don’t believe it will be that simple, however. Not when it comes to Yggdrasill…”

Mithos was the name unspoken, but she understood. She remembered the look in his eyes when he faced her. He was still so very lonely.

“There will be more work to be done after. There is always more work.” Altessa heaved another sigh, straying a look to his scarred hands. “Even for my kind, I am getting old. But I will still do what I can. And you will have your own part to play, I am sure. Something more important than taking care of a washed-up dwarf.”

“Master Altessa,” she whispered, reaching for his hand again that had only ever shown her kindness. “I was always happy with you.”

Tears left her eyes. They slid down her cheeks, like the water that nourished the sapling. Another human action, one gifted to her by her Master. She watched as he rubbed his knuckles against his own eyes. “Yer making me sappier than I’ve ever been.”

His grumpy tone bled through, but it was warm, as it always was. She wept quietly as a smile stretched across her newly-repaired face. Perhaps she understood now. The sapling behind her Master grew healthy—but it would not survive long in a world bled dry of mana at every given turn. Change was needed, and was necessary.

Yet still, she told him, “I will miss the name you have given me.”

Perhaps it was a final plea. Even once the sky changed, turning from a soft darkness to a strange and unbecoming violet. It gathered over them like storm clouds that would never dissipate. The presence of it already pulled her towards the very center of the world.

But how she will miss those once calm days.

Altessa squeezed her hand gently and nodded. “It will always be in safe-keeping here.” He tapped the side of his head, a soft rumble of a laugh leaving him, even with Derris-Kharlan looming over them. He already had so much faith in her. “Us dwarves have a good memory.”

And when she left the place that had been her home, mana gathering at her feet to whisk her away to familiar faces, she truly hoped her Master—her dear friend—would keep remembering it in her place.

--

5

.

It was routine for Altessa then; to note the sun at its zenith, to take the watering can to the tree, to take care of it all in her place.

The afternoon sky was patched with clouds—a true sky now, free of the Tower’s machinations, which had also crumbled to dust. And as the seedlings still took their time to grow, absorbing both mana and sun, Altessa made sure to visit the young tree he had moved to be nearer his home. It cast its shade over his doorway, where birds already perched on its boughs to rest. Stakes were built around it to keep it standing, but it would already no longer need it quite soon.

Taller than him, and would only grow taller still. The dwarf had no green thumb, but one was never too old to learn.

“Strange, but even now, it doesn’t feel quite as lonely anymore,” he said to himself. A small sigh as he sat at a nearby bench that he had fashioned, enjoying the shade, and the way the sun filtered through the leaves. “Is it the same for you, Tabatha?”

The tree’s leaves rustled in the wind, satisfied.

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