STAY, DON'T GO
Arlecchino x GN! Reader Oneshot
how you unfurl Arlecchino content warnings/ info: angst, hurt/comfort, my interpretation of arlecchino's story quest (may be inaccurate), scenes in the beginning jump back and forth between time, lots of switching of povs, 6.2k words
“Pureure,” your love had stated abruptly, two years into the relationship on a terribly ordinary day, no prior context preceding her response. You missed it at first, oblivious to the gravity that her utterance carried; rather, you were more focused on preparing the cups of tea for you and Arlecchino. Absentmindedly responding with a curt hum, you finished pouring the tea into her cup before approaching her, beverage in hand, offering it to her. She took the cup in her hands, but she didn't drink.
“What was it you said?” You inquired.
Arlecchino remained silent, as if contemplative, as if hesitant. Something uncharacteristic for the Harbinger. Peeling your sight away from the cup, you lifted your gaze until you met her eyes, red pupils glaring back at you. Over the three years you had been with her at that point, you’re able to discern the smallest of details. That included the slight furrow of her brows, the pursed lips bordering on a frown, and the most marginal softening of her eyes.
“Arlecchino?” You gently encourage another answer, reciprocating the compassion she seldom held for anyone but you in your tone and your expression.
“Peruere,” she enunciated with an unseen faltering, and you suppressed the urge to question it. She elaborated no more.
You repeated the sound. “Peruere.” It was foreign to you, a word you've yet heard of before, yet it stirred some sort of ease inside of you–it felt right on your tongue for some inexplicable reason.
Her lips parted, but nothing but an exhale escaped from them. Her eyes widened to a barely noticeable degree, but it certainly didn't mean there was no effect on her. She pursed her lips tightly after, her stare on you never leaving, but you had the sense that there was something else she saw in that moment. The glow of her eyes weren't as bright.
“What is it?”
“My name. My name before her Majesty bestowed the name Arlecchino on me.”
‘Pereure,’ you repeated throughout your thoughts. Arlecchino shared little of herself, even with the growing proximity between the two of you. While your lover knew every intricate detail about you, there was hardly much you could say about her: her preferences, her upbringing, the source of her nightmares, and the reason for her frequent, blank, longing stares at you. You knew that there was no need to pry into her being, to pick out and uproot every bit of her that she meticulously hides away, just so that you could console yourself that you loved her just as she loved you.
But it gnawed at you, the knowledge that you could be knowing nothing of the person you loved. How could you call yourself her lover, when she couldn't confide parts of herself in you, when you couldn't even know her favorite flowers, when you couldn't comfort her after a nightmare, when you couldn't support her as much as you could? Insecurity had crept up your spine over the years, clawing at your insides as you tried to assure yourself you were enough for her, but how could you be?
But when she whispered her name, like an intimate secret concealed away from the world, just between you and her, it sparked a hope in you, and there appeared an irrefutable fondness in your eyes that made the Fourth Harbinger nearly stumble over.
“It's beautiful, Peruere,” you said to her, your eyes awfully warm for someone so cold, and the tenderness in your voice was enough to melt a bit of the ice encasing her heart. More than anything did it make her bleed out, the thumping organ in her chest cut open as she suddenly became sixteen again, her red-crossed pupils beholding a familiar carmine-haired girl for a moment that seems to extend farther than time. She blinked, and then you reappeared.
Arlecchino stated nothing. Instead, she leaned forward, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead.
For the Director of the House of the Hearth, nightmares used to be commonplace. That is not to say that they no longer haunt her, only that they appear in the still moments, flickering alongside shadows and phantom whispers that echo in empty rooms. Brief remnants from a past still claw at her at the back of her mind, anticipating vulnerable, opportune times to lash at her and rise to the surface. The mocking leering from a cruel Mother ghosts one ear, and the innocent, childish laughter of a girl that never grew up lingerie on the other ear. Peruere–because it is not the feared, reliable Knave that stands in the place of her–experiences a multitude of these dreams, some that tangle and warp her present and childhood altogether, and others that are more singular, more insistent on leaving her with a reminder.
It is this nightmare, the only one which she remembers so vividly, that haunts Peruere past beyond slumber.
A blanket of white expands past what she can see on a flat, barren plain. The ground gives under her boots with a soft crunch and her fur coat shuffles as the wind moans. All that illuminates her path is moonlight, luminous and full, and the dancing lights in the sky overhead. She tilts her head up, observing as the viridian rushes forth and across, flowing freely like a fickle stream. Viridian, that of a similar hue to…
“Beautiful, isn't it, Perrie?”
Her attention is drawn away from the aurora, and when she turns to the side she is met with gleaming, emerald eyes. Clervie peers up, in a red stained white dress, an innocuous smile paired with starkly dead eyes. The lack of visible breath from her tells Peruere that Clervie is undoubtedly dead.
“Don't you want to see this with me?” She presses. Even with her sweet words, Peruere knows something sinister lies beneath them. Peruere must not falter.
At the lack of answer from the cursed being, Clervie continues. “You can see this with me everyday. You can be with me. I miss you, Perrie. Don't you miss me?”
She does. Everyday she does.
Peruere remains steadfast, stubborn and resilient as Clervie had always known her for. Even when her words are alluring, drawing something deep within Peruere that she was not even aware was alive, Peruere wills her mouth shut, in fear of what she might say, in fear of what she will not be able to take back.
The apparition changes her tactic.
“Aren't you tired?”
Peruere is.
It is this damning question that haunts her, latching onto her like a parasite in everything she does. Waking, breathing, moving, thinking, somehow they all carry an inescapable exhausation to them. Even when she tries to, the truth is forced out of her, a simple, raw, “I am” tumbles off of Peruere's lips.
“Does it hurt everyday?”
How can it not? Not when she carries the sin of killing her former lover, and her siblings. How often does she have to bury one of her children in her heart? Even for her own children, she cannot eliminate their suffering, less of all, hers. Her cursed blood surges through her body, aches and pangs that nearly consume her everyday.
Clervie offers a hand, kind and warm and everything that Peruere wants to surrender herself to. “You can come with me. I promise it won't hurt anymore. You can give up, Peruere. You outlived Mother. You don't have to live alone anymore.”
Peruere stares at the hand, small, pale, and most of all, unstained with blood–welcoming, even. She refuses to take it, even when her fingers itch to.
Then Clervie asks the most damning question of all: “Why won't you give up?”
There's no answer from Peruere. She cannot find the answer, even when it lies on the tip of her tongue. When she parts her lips, nothing comes out, and she wonders if she ever could answer.
There are a few things that you noticed when you first worked for her. All the miniscule details that you stored away mentally, for any future use that may allow you in her good graces. You weren’t aware of it then, but those details were what led to your relationship development–from boss to girlfriend. Arlecchino said early on in the relationship that one of your most alluring qualities was your attention to detail, always so keen on observing every bit of her until you knew all but everything of her.
In the first month after your transfer to her, you’ve narrowed down her favorite teas and which one to give her in accordance to her outward mood. Liyuen Black tea in the morning for energizing, Inazuman Green tea during midday for a more soothing feel, and Lavender Melon tea for the evening to unwind. In the third month of working under her, you’d leave a tray with a teapot and cup for her on the desk that she'd inevitably return to when the moon reaches its peak. She bathes in the moonlight, sipping Chamomile tea, even with the knowledge the blood flames that course through her veins will never allow her to rest.
She tells you only in your eighth month that the tea is a futile but appreciated gesture to cure her sleepless bouts. It does not deter you; instead, you often pair the tea with a small side of honey beside it. There is no harm in sweetened things, after all, when sugar cuts back the bitterness of reality.
There are other things that you notice about her.
Arlecchino claims herself as a strict and unfeeling Father. At first, you had believed it well into the second week. Piercing stares into her children, as if she were gauging them, inside and out for every imperfection and fault she could pry out. Words harsh like the creaking of a door that echoes through the house with sparing touches, as cold as the Snezhnayan snow. Her interactions with the younglings beyond Fatui-related matters are few and far in between.
Then there are the times when she observes. Unmoving, just like her expression, but her gaze never ending, always lingering. The observed never notice, but you do. It matters not what the children are doing, whether reading quietly among themselves, chatting boisterously, or even eating pastries, she watches. Sometimes you think her lips twitch a miniscule amount, but it is gone as soon as it appears, like a wispy ghost. It frustrates you, like deciphering a brick wall, evident of nothing but its unyieldingness. Like grasping embers that fade out of existence before your fingertips.
You wonder why she watches, wonder what thoughts her mind conjures. Perhaps there is an underlying warmth to her actions, to the calculated callousness of her methods, or maybe that is just wishful thinking on your part.
It only takes half a year for her to stare at you like that too–somehow all of your mundane routines have captured her attention, whether it was interacting with the children or fixing something in the kitchen. You’re aware of her, painfully so, by the way her crossed pupils dig so deep into your skin that you still feel the imprint of her intent gaze when even after she looks away. Her behold searing as if she were burning you with her crimson flames.
(Every budding affection charred until ashes, pruned before it could blossom, and with that any thorn that may appear.)
What does she see when her eyes falter on your form? You suppose that you'd never know.
A year into your relationship, Arlecchino asks you to retrieve some files in her bedroom's closet. For as long as you've started sleeping with her in the same bed (give or take half a year), you've never explored the rest of the room–you felt that it wasn't right to. You find the wardrobe she detailed, and try to recall what drawer it was she wanted you to find. Was it the last one or the second to last one? Curse your poor memory.
You open the last drawer, expecting a file folder. Instead, you find two plush dolls, resembling bunnies, laying side by side one another innocently. On the left, a rose pink rabbit, with floppy ears, beady jade eyes, adorning a floppy bow tie and snow white headband. The tuft of what you assumed was hair stuck out from the head, and the tips of the ears were white, as well as the lower half of its face.
Adorable.
The bunny (or rather, hare, you realize) to the right is white and black in color. Bangs cover up the left eye, and even with the bow tie and cutesy appearance, it's easy to tell who this toy is supposed to represent.
You suck in a harsh breath, curiosities swirling in your head.
Quickly, you slide away the drawer and open the second one, finding the file folder you were sent here for and grabbing it. You shut the closet door resolutely, the image of the plushies never escaping your mind.
You can ask her at a later point.
Death comes for all, in the enemies she has slaughtered or in the lives of her children that slip past her. Even for Archons, death comes to, and Arlecchino knows that herself is no exception. Fate will come to her too, either in the agonizing, cruel way that catches the Knave off guard, or it will be in the way like her curse–slow and inevitable, a dull pain that swallows her surely. The curse will continue to rise past her forearms, and head towards her heart in a decade or two, she suspects. In any case, she believes that her death will come shortly, and there are many things that she cannot dawdle on because of that inevitability.
Before her demise, there must be one of two conditions to be met. A self-imposed goal. One, she finds a way for the House of the Hearth to be permanently freed from the Fatui, which in her remaining lifetime is unlikely. The second is that the House of the Hearth has a suitable successor to take her place, ensuring that the children will live safely and contently beyond her.
Lyney is already shaping to become an exemplary successor. There are some more lessons for him to learn, but it will not take long–a few years at most–until he is ready. She is no longer concerned with the survival of the House of the Hearth, as her son would be an even better Director than she is.
So, should death come to her in the near future, she would accept it graciously and without regret. She's fulfilled her purpose, protected who she could as best as she could, and while she has yet learned of what a family exactly is, she knows Lyney is brilliant enough to find the answer. And if not, Lynette, Freminet, and the rest of his siblings will show him the answer. She does not feel that the life Clervie gave her has gone to waste, and to some degree, she has seen and made the House of the Hearth into the ‘family’ and ‘home’ that Clervie had always wanted.
There is not another reason for her heart to beat longer.
Yet, her heart does. She’s discovered another reason for her heart to continue beating.
The Knave is not afraid of death, make no mistake, but when her gaze falls on you she despises that she wishes for her life to extend a second a longer. Thoughts of a longer future are discarded just as they appear, driven away with a mental swat as if they were nothing more than nuisances. Her death will surely approach soon, so why is it that she wants her end to delay? She has nothing left, she has accomplished everything, why must she want more? When her touch grazes you, why is it that all she can think is where next to touch invoke such a flustered reaction? Why does she imagine more of your future smiles towards her?
She does not need one more reason to continue living. And she realizes with a heavy heart that is the chink in the Knave's armor, what makes her most afraid: wanting to continue a future she does not have.
About eight months after she's revealed her true name, you learn of a second name.
A blackened hand raises, stroking your cheek with a rare tenderness that's only extended to you, and your eyelids flutter. Sunlight streams through the window, painting Peruere as an angelic being, and her white hair emits off almost a heavenly glare. Red crosses greet your drowsy gaze, softened by your appearance.
Like every morning for the past year, you've always awakened to the unmistakable warmth that belongs to Peruere. With the blood flames that course through her body, along with her Pyro vision, always on her person, she’s always hot to the touch. You find that you don't mind. On the more crisp nights, when she draws you closer underneath the covers and your bodies fit together like one whole, you can't possibly trade for another place to be. She is your hearth, a sanctuary that stokes the embers of your heart. You live inside of her heart, as does she in yours.
It always takes a while to break the comfortable silence between the two of you. With how busy the Haringer is, finding quiet, intimate moments like these throughout the day is difficult. Basking in each other's company makes it all worth waking up and trudging through the day, then falling into each other's arms at night. Words are needless now, not when every touch or gesture is enough to communicate what the two of you need. After some while, Peruere breaks the silence by recounting what must be done today. Today is no different.
“There's someone I’ve needed to see for some time,” she says, breaking your trance from admiring her lips.
“Do you need me to see them?”
She remains silent for some moments. “No. But I’d like you to.”
An unusual answer from her. Who is this person she'd like to meet? What kind of person are they, if Peruere wanted you to see them? What is their relationship? You could count very few individuals whose presence Peruere tolerates enough that she'd want you to see them. It's likely not Fatui-related in that case, not when she could hardly endure a minute with her fellow Harbingers, and her patience wore rather thin with other operatives. From her personal background then?
You try to recall what you've learned about Peruere’s past. A frown forms when you determine that it's very little. You knew not of how she became a Harbinger or her circumstance before taking the mantle of ‘Father.’ What you knew amounted to what she gave you about her curse, her real name, and the stuffed animals. You had never asked about, but occasionally the image of green buttoned eyes and the scarlett bunny flashes through your mind. If Peruere represents one of them, who was the other one? For now, you shove away the thought.
“Then I'll go, if that's what you want,” you finally answer.
Peruere nods, before wordlessly rising from bed.
Arlecchino treks the same path up the mountain as she has times before. Her feet move on their own, as if the pull to the ruins were ingrained in her very muscles. Every time she's visited, it's always a sullen journey, as alone and cold as what remains on top of the hill. With each step, the air seems to thicken, and the bloodflames lick away at her veins, daring to consume her. Her frozen heart hardens until it grows heavy, dense enough that she feels it sinks into her stomach and that familiar suffocating, oppressive weight settles inside like an insidious parasite.
Her heart is relieved by the most miniscule amount with your presence. One clasped with yours, and the other firmly holding the bouquet of Lumoudice Bells, she continues. She wonders if you can feel the way her heart thumps so erratically, so unlike the strict and unfeeling Father, the ruthless diplomat. How can one measly life disturb her when she's taken the lives of so many? She banished the thought away, because she knew her first love would never be just ‘one measly life.’
If you knew of Clervie, what were you to think of her? What were you to think, with the knowledge that her first–and only–friend died in her arms, her blood stained on her hands, and pierced by her sword? If you knew she had clung to Clervie beyond death and forced her day after day to wander, afraid, distraught, and alone, around a house whose walls haunted her, what would become of her in the eyes of you?
Perhaps, you would see her as the monster Crucabena raised–maybe you too would burn from her cursed flames, and she'd be left with the only fate she could not defy: being alone, like how a wretched monster is supposed to be. Her only company would be the curse that gradually chokes her until she is buried in the ashes of all those close to her, and her life too will be snuffed out like fading embers.
The blood flames nicks her, and she momentarily embraces the sting that spreads through her form.
“Peruere,” you softly call out, concern dripping from your tone, and oh, how you do inexplicable things to her heart. She opens her eyes, and for a moment, she thinks she sees a glint of viridian in your eyes, before it flickers out of existence in a blink.
She shakes her head to dismiss your worries, before looking ahead. The ruins come into view, and she wills the blood flames passive. Her forearms itch.
It's been nearly four years since she was last here, these crumbled walls and the overgrown stone floors make the resting place for both Clervie and her shadow. The sun–the same sun whose warmth Clervie had always wanted to feel–beams over Arlecchino just as it had done on the shadow.
(Arlecchino wonders, when she held the dying girl for the first time, whether the warmth of her cursed flames could ever replace the sun's warmth. Would Clervie have been just as content, just as free for even a second, were she in Peruere's arms? For as cursed as she was, were her flames enough to be Clervie's Hearth?)
Twice, here, she had said her farewells. Now, it's the first time that she's greeting Clervie since they first parted.
She doesn't remember when or how she made her way here. Before her is a crude gravestone that she made after Clervie's death, hidden behind some rubble. She can still recall the way her hands terribly trembled and ached, as she hand-carved every letter and number onto the stone. She could barely register the pelting of the rain as she dug, and dug for what seemed like an eternity, but the weight of her body as she raised and lowered her seemed etched into her muscles, and–
“Peruere,” you say, and it is your warmth that jolts her when you intertwine your fingers with hers. “You're shaking.”
Indeed, her hands are trembling by her side, the bouquet bunching tightly. Inhaling deeply, she recollects herself, willing her hands to stop.
“This is Clervie. She was…” Arlecchino begins but just as quickly pauses. She detests how difficult it was to grasp onto words when speaking was just as effortless as breathing.
‘Everything’ she almost wants to say, and even the admission makes her chest churn agonizingly, her heart compounding into itself as if it wanted to hide from the truth. Those words are far too vulnerable, too revealing. Arlecchino attempts to find an appropriate substitute for the word but for once, she is at a loss. In an effort to reclaim some of her composure, but when she spots your gentle eyes, she sees a patience unfound by her from anyone before, an empathy that would swallow her whole if she continued staring into the abyss. A look that completely disarms her, that loosens her lips, that cracks her hardened exterior, and the emotions that have been welled up inside of her for years thrashes against its restraints, barging against her throat to escape. Peruere finds herself at the center of ravaging waters–waves of buried memories, of reserved sorrows–and even the cursed flames underneath her skin threaten to sear her. But even as the tides crash over, Peruere stands steadily. Here is not the place for her to crumble, not the time yet for you to see all of her walls peeled back. So, for now, she beckons the currents back into the well of her being.
Her eyes flick away from yours, instead, looking up at the expanse of the sky. Peruere sees white clouds, reminiscent of Clervie's dress. “She was dear to me. She was my sole companion for much of my lifetime.”
You do not say anything for a few moments, long enough that Arlecchino starts doubting herself that you were even there until you finally say, “Do you miss her?”
Miss her. Those two words can not attest to the amount of longing she has had since Clervie's death. Even now, a pang strikes through her, the bittersweet image of an adult Clervie–a Clervie that had the chance to grow up–appears at the forefront of her mind. If Clervie was here beside her, she would describe all the things the clouds resembled. “I do. But I would imagine that she would be at better peace now than with me.”
Another bout of silence. This one is shorter than the last, cut with a simple question. “Would you like to talk to her?”
She has never once thought of talking to Clervie's gravestone. What could be said to someone who could not respond? Arlecchino supposes, however, that there is no harm in doing so. She glances back down onto Clervie. Even if they never reach the intended audience's ears, it will act as a release for all of the unsaid words Arlecchino has. “Yes, I would.”
“I'll wait for you. Take as long as you need, Peruere.” The grass crunches behind her as you walk away, the sound growing quieter until it fades away. Once it does, she crouches down to place the bouquet of Lumoudice bells.
“Clervie,” she addresses softly to the gravestone. “It has been a while. I apologize for not visiting sooner. I hope that you are faring well.”
What should she say? Arlecchino does not often converse with the dead.
“The House of the Hearth remains lively as ever.” She stops, recalling the more memorable events that occurred. Clervie would surely be amused.
“We saw another addition to the family just a few months ago. I had taken in another child, Claude. He appears shy, but I believe that he will soon find his place among the rest of his siblings. Like you, he is an avid reader. Lyney has expectedly made earnest attempts to befriend him, but Freminet, with their akin quiet nature, would likely be more successful. Speaking of which, Lyney and Lynette's magic show has been prospering, and Freminet is included in some of the shows as well. He is becoming an increasingly beloved performer among the fans, and I do hope this will boost his confidence.”
She ponders for a moment of what else to add.
“The children persuaded me to allow them to keep another stray cat, an abandoned kitten they found in an alley. I believe they called it Pumpkin, though I am certain it is a cover name for a more crude title. Two weeks ago, while I was working in my office, I was disturbed by an explosion. It appears that Foltz and Heloir were baking cookies, or what I can assume they were with the charred remains of their efforts.”
Arlecchino lets out a huff of amusement, before continuing, “[Name] scolded the two quite thoroughly. They did not take to their given punishments so graciously, or at least less graciously as they would have had I issued the reprimand. [Name]’s generosity grants them that freedom, yet I cannot find myself especially irked with this. It is a welcome addition–[Name] is a welcome addition to our lives. The children have grown quite attached to [Name], and I…”
A beat of silence, an instant to formulate adequate words.
“[Name] is precious to me. They remind me of you, Clervie, in their kindness. You would have loved them. I had thought I would not find another person that would stay. But [Name] did. They are still here, and they do not intend on leaving. I cannot be any more grateful. They are attentive, gentle, and protective of the children, and to me… I cannot tolerate being without them. I could have never thought I would long for another just as I had for you, Clervie.”
A deep inhale then exhale.
“I had always wondered why you had given up your life for mine. Was the life I had lived worth yours in exchange? As of recently, I feel content with my life. Not yet satisfied, you know I am far too selfish and greedy to be entirely satisfied with this, but this is a life that I do not regret building. I am closer to the family we have wanted to build together as children, and… I think [Name] would be a good ‘Mother.’ Is it okay to ask [Name] to take your place? To be the ‘Mother’ we have always wanted?”
There is no answer, nothing but the moan of a wind, but Arlecchino is satiated.
“I should part soon with you. The children will wonder about my whereabouts, and [Name] grows anxious when they are away from the hotel for too long. I will visit you again. Next time, I promise a slice of cake so I ask you to wait for me until then.”
“Farewell, Clervie. Rest well.”
Arlecchino stands up, but stops before she fully turns around. “I nearly have forgotten to tell you. The aurora was just as beautiful as the ones in the pictures.”
It starts with a red rabbit and a white hare. The children are all largely asleep, and in the comfort of your shared bed on a quiet, intimate night Peruere takes out two plushies, the same two that had mystified you ever since you discovered them in an obscure drawer. Finally, you knew of who the other plushie belonged to.
“I met her at the House of the Hearth. We were both raised there for as long as I can recall, underneath the former Director, ‘Mother.’” Peruere sharply inhales, running her thumb over the face of the Clervie doll.
“Clervie was Mother's biological daughter, and she was the only one of the other children that could see past ‘Mother's’ facade. Mother liked to sweeten us as if we were candy, only to spit us out when we could no longer satisfy her. However, our siblings never saw beyond her cloying words and faux affection. From the very beginning we were trained to fight each other. Mother isolated us from our peers, so naturally, a friendship grew between us.”
“I spent every breathing moment alongside her, despite ‘Mother's’ attempts to separate me from Clervie. ‘Mother’ favored me because I was her strongest among my siblings, while Clervie was the weakest. But that did not dissuade Clervie, even when my other siblings feared me. In fact, my lack of companions only emboldened Clervie to become my friend. Clervie was my sole companion for years. Much of what we had was shared: meals, books, beds, clothes. Whatever I had was Clervie's, and what was Clervie's was mine. And so were her dreams.
“One day when we were six, she came up to me, bright-eyed and determined despite the numerous bruises she gained from ‘Mother's’ punishment, with a declaration. Clervie wanted to make a real family, one that shed no tears or blood, one where she would be a mother that loved her children equally, and her children would love each other. She wanted to make that family with me.
“I do not know of what a family looks like, and I do not suppose that Clervie knew either. But even when ‘Mother's’ cruelty shed away her naivety in the later years, she still held this dream dear to her. Clervie took to fantasies much more than I did, but I played along. We would imagine ourselves as parents of our pretend family, Clervie, the gentle ‘Mother,’ and I, as the stern ‘Father.’”
These,” Peruere holds up the plush version of herself, “were the results from that. Our ‘children.’ Children often take on the appearances of their parents, so we likened them to ourselves. My look-alike was Clervie's, and hers was mine.”
“But that dream did not last. As our time inside the House of the Hearth grew, Clervie realized that making our home into a true family was impossible. So, Clervie began to dream of freedom. Freedom for not just herself, but for our siblings as well. When she became shy of a teenager, she made attempts of escaping. ‘Mother’ would always stop her and make an example out of her to dissuade any attempts from the other children.
“At sixteen, we finally learned why we were being taught how to fight. From the very beginning, ‘Mother’ had been grooming us to be participants of our very own death game– we had to fight each other to the death. Only the strongest would arise alive, and would be crowned with a meaningless throne over the mountain of their siblings. Clervie had always tried to get the others to draw, to reduce as many deaths as possible, but ‘Mother’ had always made sure that there can only be one victor.”
“Clervie and I were the last alive out of our siblings. One by one I dominated the duels and slaughtered our siblings. The night before our duel she said to me that she sought freedom, and the only way she can achieve it was in her death. I granted her that freedom and became the sole survivor. I trained nonstop everyday after her death to be strong enough to kill ‘Mother’ and I had achieved that a year later, in the exact same place I last held Clervie.”
Peruere finally stops, silence filling in the space between you. You are breathless, trying to piece together her past. What could even be said after that?
She sets down the plush on the bed, silently offering it to you. You take the plush with delicate hands, as if the toy would shatter upon the slightest touch. Knowing the history behind its owner makes it feel heavy, dense with the foreseen tragedy you know appears in Peruere's and Clervie's story. You cannot imagine the current Knave holding such a cutesy toy, but the vision of a smaller, baby-faced Peruere cradling the plush to her chest like it was the only comfort the world would grant her… it clenches your heart agonizingly. Knowing that she was so small but endured so much… you wish that you could give that tiny Peruere and Clervie all of the care and love they deserved.
Pushing back the tears that emerge from the corner of your eyes became difficult. When Peruere noticed your tears, a blackened hand came up to your face to wipe them away. You lean in against the warm hand, your sobs coming in more rapidly. Oh, Peruere, you can not help but think, how is it that she is still so full of love? How is it that the child that grew up to be the love of your life, someone who would dedicate her entirety for each of her children, suffered so much? How could fate be this unjust to such a kind soul?
Nothing held you back from practically lunging at her, grasping onto her and sobbing into her chest. You look up at her through a blurred vision, and even now there is hardly a hint of affliction on her. For how stoic she was, your entire body wracks with sorrow, for all of the emotions she herself could not express, you experience two fold. She holds you the entire time wordlessly, and never stops wiping away your endless tears.
“You were so small,” is all you can comprehensively babble when your sobs begin to recede and you start hiccuping. “It’s not fair. It's not your fault. It can never be.”
Peruere's eyes widen by a fraction at your statement, her lips part in a stunned silence, and her body tense, as if she was in disbelief. As if you had just healed a broken part of her that had been that way for her entire life. Her hand twitches, and her expression smooths out when she brushes away the last of your tears. “I apologize for making you cry.”
You shake your head, refusing the apology. Sinking further down into her embrace as if trying to weld with her, you cling onto her, assuring her that you would never leave. Your hiccups ebb away, and the two of you lay together, bound by one another's entangled limbs. Your ear is pressed against her chest, listening to the rhythmic drum of her heart.
There is one more break in the silence before the two of you succumb to slumber.
“Would you like to see the aurora with me?”
Author's Note:
please don't let this flop please don't let this flop please don't let this flop
sorry for not uploading anything for 2.5 months. does this make up for it? i've had this idea worked on since last year, if I'm not mistaken, since at least august, and I only had just recently started working on it after I gave up on it for a good while. after this ill work on whatever i feel like. but it might be slow.
if you like this please talk to me through my inbox im very lonely also i spent forever on this. 😓 feeding my ego will motivate me to write more btw