“Vagnild? Seeking salvation at last, so late at night?”
The Harlequin cocked her head towards the door. A stalky frame cast heavy footsteps up the chapel steps and filled the doorway like an eclipse, blanketing the pews with its shadow.
She could hear them breathe.
“Harlequin.”
Vagnild was a polite face with a stern tone — in all their encounters, they were cordial, no matter the friction between them. But that word hung in the air as if from a noose; it was said with an unfamiliar, uncomfortable tension. Said like a verdict.
The Harlequin breathed deep and turned to face them.
“Is this the crescendo, so soon? I’d expected this arc to last longer.”
Vagnild stepped forward. There was no flinch from her words — no eyes shut closed to temper a flash of rage, like usual.
“Can’t you see that this outburst is wasted? It is art. Two enemies, one finally snaps, a murder in the church; it is fulfilling. You could’ve taken comfort in that.” The Harlequin paced backwards, stumbling to push a podium aside, a bead of sweat rolling down her cheek as she tried desperately to keep the distance between them. “We could’ve made this scene more beautiful.”
“How long have you contorted yourself for beauty?”
Vagnild stopped their approach as the Harlequin pressed herself to the far wall, a handshake’s length between them.
“I bend like a grass to the wind. Like paint to the brush.”
“It’s stifling, Harlequin. I see it. I see you stifling yourself.”
“I’m making myself something better.”
“Better? A better you would be a purer you, can’t you see that? All day, in the court, you bare down on me about… ugliness, about unnecessary pain, when you bloat with the potential you push down into your belly. For the sake of “beauty””
“So you plan to kill me?”
The Harlequin’s breath was caught in the pits of her lungs. She was paralyzed. Vagnild extended a hand and placed it on her sternum, beneath her neck, their palm warm, freezing hot, blisteringly cold.
“I plan to free you.”
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
“They say great disciples of Deragon can… ignite your heart, somehow. Is it true?”
Wydoda poked at the fire before him with a cooking skewer, his head rested on his knees. Kaligon snorted.
“If a disciple of Deragon was great, they wouldn’t.” She huffed, shaking her head. “It’s called Heartrending. It’s not something anyone should ever go about doing — what we do, reaching down and becoming one with our feelings, is personal. Dangerous. A very private experience. To have it done to you, rather than it being something you choose yourself…”
“What happens?”
“I… hm.” Kaligon paused. “It was a very long time ago. The last person to be heartwrought was the last Harlequin, I believe.”
The general averted her gaze from the fire.
“They did not survive.”
