Chapter Text
The world was not real.
That’s how Maelle Alicia felt.
She’d look out at the world, around her room, at the people, and be hit with the prevailing sense that it was all wrong.
The tower outside her window was straight, as it should be. Her room was big and fancy, as was to be expected of her family’s wealth and standing. And she shared her home with her family and servants, because she had those. Except that wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
The tower was meant to be bent over, like it had been melted. Her room was meant to be small and still baring evidence of once being her brother’s room before he gave it up for her and moved into his office. And she was meant to be an orphan, living with her adopted brother and his sister.
Logically, Maelle Alicia knew what the truth was.
She lived in Paris, not Lumiere. She was the youngest daughter of the wealthy and influential Dessendre family, who were still alive (except one). She lived in a large mansion, not an attached three-bedroom (if you counted the office) home. And her name was Alicia, not Maelle.
But knowing the truth did nothing to stop the subconscious expectation for things to be the other way.
She was haunted. Haunted by Lumiere, by her friends, and by Maelle.
Every time she opened her eyes eye, she was hit in the face with what she had lost. Though she never forgot what the Eiffel Tower actually looked like, it still somehow shocked her slightly to see it upright instead of bent. She’d think of something to say and turn, only to abruptly remember that no one was there to speak to and she could speak anyway. She never forgot that they were gone, she could never forget, but it still kept happening.
But perhaps the worst ghost of all was her own, was Maelle’s.
…
“Alicia.”
“Alicia.”
“Alicia!” A hand fell gently on her shoulder.
Despite the gentleness, Malle pulled away quickly once she registered who the voice belonged to, hand motioning to summon one of her rapiers while swinging around to face the enemy. But no weapon appeared in her hand and her burn scars pulled uncomfortably from the abrupt motion.
“Ah, sorry.” Renoir, father, the real one and not the painted duplicate she had instinctively thought of, held up his hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He tried his best to approach Maelle Alicia, her name was Alicia, from her left side, but he would occasionally forget. Before the Canvas, someone being in her new blind spot had been an inconvenience and a sad reminder of what she had lost. But now, she couldn’t stand it. The idea that something could attack from her right too overwhelming even though she knew that there were no Nevrons to attack her here.
Alicia just looked at her father, mind still on edge even as she forced herself to relax her posture.
“It’s late, you should be in bed.” Renoir pointed out.
Alicia didn’t respond, turning away to look back at the moon, then look down at the Esquie doll that she had dropped when Renoir had startled her. It would be a pain to pick it up. Her burns extended down her torso, making them pull uncomfortably when bending, to the point of pain when she bent too quickly.
Pain was a constant in her life now, especially now that she was being weaned off the morphine. Apparently, being on the strong stuff too long not only risked addiction, but also damage to her kidneys. The family doctor had promised that it would get better with time as her scars continued to heal and her body adjusted, though Alicia knew that it would never fully go away.
Thankfully, today it was a pleasant evening. The other day had brought miserable rain and cold, which had made the ache in her scars worse, though not enough for her to be allowed more than what pain killers her doctor had recommended.
Despite his own pains, Renoir knelt down and picked up Esquie for her, brushing off the dirt and holding it out to her. She took Esquie without looking and hugged him close.
She was too old for dolls and Esquie had sat on a shelf for years before the Canvas. But now this doll was the last thing she had left of Lumiere, her last bit of comfort.
She still remembered growing up on stories of Esquie, the Gestrals and Grandis too. In Lumiere, they had been almost mythological figures. Though, there hadn’t been any specific tales about them, just the ideas behind them.
She remembered debates on the playground on whether they were real, or if they were still there on the Continent. Playing Gestrals with friends. Arguing over whose turn it was to pretend to be Esquie. Everyone having their own view of what Esquie would be like and finding out that they were all wrong when she got to meet Esquie herself.
“Do you need anything to help you sleep?” Renoir asked. “I know that it must be a struggle to sleep right now.”
Alicia shook her head.
Often times she was in too much pain to sleep, but that wasn’t the issue right now. She just didn’t feel like sleeping.
Renoir sighed.
“I’m happy that you’re out of your room.” He said. “After…everything that happened, I was worried that you would lock yourself away as before. But spending so much time in front of Verso’s grave isn’t healthy.”
Alicia looked down at the grave that her brother lay under. A brother that she could hardly remember anymore, yet still grieved deeply.
Whenever she tried to summon memories of Verso, the real Verso, that painted copy would come to her instead. She tried to remember the happy and passionate brother that she had before, and she would manage occasionally, but then she would remember the tired hollow of a man who was willing to take the whole world with him if it meant being able to die. Real Verso’s smile would be followed up with the painted version’s glare.
Worst of all was the betrayal. Could her real brother have been capable of all that his painted copy did? She hadn’t really reacted to it at the time, perhaps because she still believed that she could fix everything once she had control of the Canvas, but now she couldn’t fix things and she had all the time to think about what he had done. Painted-Verso could have saved Gustave and he didn’t, because he wanted Maelle, wanted Alicia, to be so angry that she’d be willing to go along with whatever he wanted for revenge unquestioningly.
And now Alicia couldn’t think of her real brother without thinking about how a version of him had hurt her so deeply for his own selfish desires.
So, why was she in front of Verso’s grave? She didn’t know really.
Perhaps being at his grave would help her remember the real him. Perhaps looking at the Eiffel Tower long enough would finally make her stop expecting the melted one of Lumiere. Or maybe she just wanted to wallow in her guilt and grief in somewhere that wasn’t the claustrophobic confines of her room.
“Let’s get you to bed now.” Renoir told her. “How about, in the morning, I take you to the book shop?”
It was an olive branch. Alicia loved used to love it when he took her to buy books, going in to see what new releases there were and talking to the elderly book shop owner. Usually, it was only for special occasions due to Aline’s disapproval of how much she read.
Did she still love going to the bookshop? For her, it had been sixteen years since she had last been there. And even in Lumiere, there hadn’t been a wide variety of books available to read between the busy schedule she took on from a young age. As the number on the Monolith counted down along with the number of adults there were to run the city, the more pressure there was placed on the youth to take on responsibilities.
Alicia allowed Renoir, (just when had she stopped thinking of him as papa?), to guide her back inside as though she was still a child. Both of them limping slightly along the way.
She was still recovering from a rolled ankle. Last week, she had vaulted herself over the banister to get down the stairs more quickly without thinking, barely managing to save herself from worse injury and her scars flaring in agony as she rolled over them. Back home in Lumiere, Maelle had frequently vaulted over the banister rather than use the stairs, the existence of Croma and her non-injured body making the drop nothing to her. Emma had frequently commented on how Maelle would give herself bad knees in later life doing that, as if her Gommage wasn’t to be on her twenty-fifth year.
Basic advice said to speak to people when sad.
Once upon a time, Alicia would have confided everything in Tristan.
For the past year of her out-of-Canvas life, he had been her closest friend. He had listened when she cried about the pressures placed on her and how she never seemed to be enough for her mama, and she had listened to his own similar complaints. He had indulged her love of reading and encouraged her desire to write, and she had taught him how to paint.
Their friendship had been unbreakable. Or so she had believed.
Tristan was the son of Writers. They had met at a gala, where the upper-class Painters and Writers had to pretend to not hate each other. Despite their warring families, they had struck up a friendship and Alicia had thought him different to his family. Any public event, they would sneak away together and just talk. They would exchange secret letters. A few times, Alicia had even snuck out the house to meet up with him, believing that he had also snuck out.
But it had all been a lie.
New Years Eve, Alicia had been kept at home while her family went to a New Year ball that she was deemed too young to go to. Tristan had shown up, begging to be let in as his family had discovered their friendship and disowned him for it. She had let him in under the noses of the servants. And then, while she had been distracted, he had unlocked the doors for his family’s followers.
Verso, the real Verso, had never liked Tristan. He had found out about their secret friendship and promised to keep quiet about it, but had warned her repeatedly to be careful, and had even threatened Tristan. She had written it off as him being overprotective and too influenced by the family rivalry.
But Verso had been right. And perhaps it had been that suspicion that had had him coming home early in time to save her from the fire.
Verso would have been her next choice. But he was gone.
Her papa would have at least listened to her, before. But now, even if she had a voice, talking to him was the least appealing option out of all of them. Not what after he had done.
Clea may have been the one to create the majority of the Nevrons, and had no empathy for the lives lost in the Canvas. But she did not believe those in the Canvas to truly be alive, thought them little more than painted puppets following a script, and had not stayed in the Canvas to see just how alive and deserving of that life they were. And beyond that, Clea had always been short on empathy, so Alicia’s view on her hadn’t changed much.
But Renoir. He had seen for himself just how alive the people of the Canvas were, their capacity for love, hate, fear and sacrifice. And yet, he had continued the Gommages, year after year. Committing genocide just to save one person. Even after he had won, he had still chosen one final Gommage, one final genocide, to make sure that Aline couldn’t return.
People Alicia had loved, people she had grown up knowing, all killed by her father’s hand. How could she speak to him again?
And Aline had always been unapproachable, even before the Canvas. And after the Canvas?
Alicia would have never had lived her second life as Maelle, would have never gone through all that loss, if her mama hadn’t painted over her.
But at the same time, without Maelle, she wouldn’t have known Gustave. Or Lune, Sciel, Esquie, Monocco, Emma, Sophie, the orphanage matron, her fencing instructor, the neighbour who snuck her sweets, and all the others who she had known in Lumiere. For all the pain that losing them caused her, she would never regret having known them.
She wished strongly that she had someone who she could talk about them to.
Alicia navigated carefully around the kitchen, grabbing the ingredients she needed. The family usually had cooks to make meals for them, but most had looked for jobs elsewhere after the fire. Only one had returned and he hadn’t come in yet, and he didn’t know how to cook what she wanted anyway.
Alicia stared into the fire on the hob in defiance as she started it, beating down the anxiety that fought to rise in her chest. She would not let her experience with the Fire get in the way of her cooking.
Soon, the food was simmering in the pot and Alicia was looking around for a substitute for the spice that was meant to go with this dish. Why did they not have it? Were they just out?
“What are you doing?”
Alicia started, swinging around to face Clea with an aborted motion to summon her rapier.
Unlike Renoir, Clea made no attempts to approach from Alicia’s good eye. She wouldn’t be surprised if Clea refused to because it served as punishment for letting in Tristan.
“Ah.” Alicia squeaked, motioning towards the pot.
“Yes, I can see that you’re cooking. But why? We have Ruban for that.” Clea folded her arms.
Alica elected to ignore her, adding the spice to the pot and stirring. The smell was comforting and familiar. Nothing fancy like Ruban liked to make, Lumiere didn’t have the luxury of fancy ingredients when sustainability was an issue. But as with any art, including that of cooking, restrictions could sometimes produce wonderful results.
Spooning the stew, along with some cooked potatoes, into a bowl, Alicia set it down to cool while she went about clearing the kitchen. When she turned back, she grunted in offence when she saw Clea taking a mouthful of her meal.
“Hmm. Not bad.” Clea raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Where did you learn to cook?”
It was an understandable question. Before the Canvas, Alicia hadn’t known the slightest thing about cooking. Why would she when she’d always had cooks to do that for her?
But Maelle had known how to cook. Emma had been the one to teach her, since Gustave had been hopeless at making anything other than sandwiches and Emma herself couldn’t always be home in time to cook for them.
Maelle’s relationship with Emma hadn’t been as strong as with Gustave, but they had still cared for each other. Those moments of Emma teaching her how to cook were precious and helped her finally feel at home.
Despite not viewing her as close as a sister, losing Emma had hurt just as much as losing Gustave, for that brief moment before she had regained her memories and decided that it didn’t matter because she could fix everything. With Gustave, they had at least known that his death would be a possibility, though that hadn’t stopped the pain. But with Emma, she had been safe in Lumiere and the Paintress had been defeated. Maelle wouldn’t have to lose anyone else. And then Emma and everyone else had been reduced to petals right before her eyes.
When Alicia had run from Renoir, she’d only had time to recognise and grab Lune and Sciel’s Croma, having spent so long fighting beside them. But even if she had managed to find Emma’s Croma, the older woman had never been a fighter. She would have been left behind while the others went to fight, only to disappear completely when the Painted-Verso forced her out of the Canvas and ended the world.
“From Emma.” Alicia mouthed, though reading her lips wouldn’t be easy with the damage done to them. So, she added in an eyebrow raise as if to say, “Where do you think?” to Clea.
“Ah.” Clea said, putting down the bowl, which Alicia quickly snatched away.
The stew tasted good, though different than usual. Was it because of how the fire damaged her mouth and throat, or because things just tasted different in the Canvas? Either way, it didn’t hurt her throat to swallow and was more filling than the soup diet she had been on after the Fire.
Idly, she looked over at the pot, which had two more portions left in it. Without realising it, she had made enough for three people like she always did. Her, Gustave and Emma.
The stew was Gustave’s favourite. He always praised Maelle whenever she made it, insisting that she was even better than Emma as making it, which he had been smart enough to say when Emma wasn’t around to hear.
She’d probably eat another portion for herself. She wasn’t usually very hungry anymore, the weight of everything stealing away her appetite, as it had done yesterday. But today, her stomach had decided that it was done being ignored and demanded food. Though, that still left what to do with the last portion, which would usually be Emma’s portion since she came late a lot.
Alicia indicated with her spoon to the pot, inviting Clea to take a bowl for herself. He sister shrugged and took a bowl.
“Thank you.” Clea said, leaving without any further comment. Unusual for her.
Alicia just scoffed as she continued to eat.
The fact that Alicia had learned how to cook from the Canvas, as well as fight, flew in the face of Clea’s belief that the people of the Canvas weren’t real people.
A painted creation could never start off knowing more than what their creator did. And Aline, just like Alica, had no need to know how to cook when she had servants to do that for her. So, the people of Lemuria should have also not known how to cook, or know how to properly fight any more than Aline did. (The fighting style of the Gestrals would not have translated into real life because young-Verso hadn’t known a thing about fighting despite his obsession with it when painting the Gestrals.)
And, perhaps at the start, they hadn’t. They would have just been painted to accept that putting things in a pot equalled cooking with no regard for consistency or taste. And the purpose of Expedition 0 had been search and rescue, not fighting killing the Paintress, after all. But after that, the people of Lumiere had developed and grown, adapted to the restrictions placed on them. When the danger of the Nevrons became clear, they taught themselves how to fight and wield weapons. And when the lack of ingredients meant that they could no longer create the “recipes” they used before, they created new ones.
…
Unfortunately for Alicia, her knowledge of fighting did not translate over to the real world as well as her fighting.
The basics were at least the same.
Using a rapier that was usually hung on the wall as decoration, Alicia went through her the forms that had been drilled into her by her teacher, Rembrandt. He had been a harsh and stern teacher, but also the best in Lumiere, and not just by default either. Many of his students have dropped out, unable to take his torment disguised as training, but Maelle had stuck with it. The first time she had won a duel against him, Rembrandt’s proud grin, hard won after so much effort, had warmed her to her core.
The day of his Gommage, Maelle had been the one to receive his rapier. She, and his other students, had sat with him as the end came. He hadn’t gone out in tears or in silence. He had gone out with a song. Which she and the others had tearfully continued to the end even as his own voice faded away.
Alicia wished that she could sing that song again.
Alicia moved through her basic forms a bit awkwardly at first. Outside of her scars pulling in uncomfortable ways, the movements just didn’t feel as natural anymore. Maelle had known how to fight from a young age. Alicia had never so much as wielded a sword before. So, while her mind knew the moves, her body didn’t.
Thankfully, things eventually got smoother. It was when she tried going further that she ran into bigger issues.
“Agh!” Alicia cried out as her attempts to do a spinning slash ended with her on the floor.
She lay there for a while, waiting for the pain to subside, crying quietly from the pain.
Yet again she had forgotten that this was not the world of the Canvas. Moves like the one she had just attempted were not possible in the real world, even if her body had been at peak health.
Huffing, Alicia got to her feet and went through her forms again to calm herself. As she worked, she mentally went through all she knew of fighting, cataloguing all the things she would and wouldn’t be able to do. The list of things she’d still be able to do was pitifully small.
It made her feel weak. And she hated it.
What she really needed was an instructor. Or at least someone to duel against.
She could only re-teach herself so much. Without someone to trade pointers, to provide resistance against her blade, and force her to think on her feet, she would forever stagnate.
She could ask for an instructor, but she didn’t have faith that her parents would allow it. A Painter’s weapon was their Croma and their Mind, not a sword, as her mother would no doubt say. Father would no doubt view it as her continuing to cling to Lumiere. And while Clea would probably be fine with Alicia knowing how to defend herself, she would claim that a pistol was far better at that than a blade.
Besides, even if Alicia did manage to convince her parents to allow her to find a fencing tutor, she severely doubted that anyone would take her. Not accounting for her injuries, Alicia was a girl. And in high-society, a proper lady did not fence, along with a lot of other things. In Lumiere, there had been much less of a divide between men and women. When faced with the end of the world, what was “proper” for a man or woman to do mattered a lot less than what they could contribute.
And that led to another issue that dug itself under Alicia’s skin. “Contribute.”
In Lumiere, Maelle had done her part for the city, just as everyone else. She had done her job as a courier across the city, helped with the orphans of the Gommage, and trained for the Expedition. Always a goal to work towards.
But now, she had nothing. She could no longer leave the house whenever she wanted, there were no jobs to do, and there was no enemy to fight. Well, there were the Writers, but they were a lot more nebulous of a threat compared to the giant woman planted in front of a monolith that could be seen in the distance. And Clea had made it clear that it was better if she didn’t try to help with them anyway.
Before it all, Alicia had been content in her room, reading books and dreaming vaguely of what lay beyond her home. Now, it just made her listless. Nothing to do beyond “get better”.
Maybe she could run away and find…something.
She and Tristan had entertained the idea once, back when they were friends. It had always been a vague thing that neither of them was truly serious about, a theoretical that they’d found comfort in when their families got to be too much. Though, Alicia had clung to the idea enough to start saving all the money she could get her hands on in preparation of supporting the both of them. It still sat waiting for her in her little hidey hole, thankfully untouched by the fire.
Alicia paused in her stances, giving her shaking body a rest, to really think over the idea.
“Could I go? Out there?” She mouthed to herself, looking out past the Eiffel Tower.
In hindsight, her and Tristan’s plan had been foolish and it was a good thing that it had only ever been theoretical.
They were both upper-class youths with no real-world experience. They could Paint and Write, and some other skills expected of gentlemen and ladies, but no experience in getting actual jobs without family connections or looking after themselves without servants.
But thanks to being Maelle, Alicia knew how to support herself. She still didn’t have much experience with money, Lumiere had functioned on trade and Croma by Maella’s time, but she could research and work it out.
Being a girl was still an issue. But she and Tristan had joked about her cutting her hair and pretending to be a boy.
“Maybe not that far.” Alicia curled a lock of her hair around her finger, feeling the texture.
Her hair had miraculously survived the Fire. It would be a shame to get rid of it now.
Besides, she’d need it to help cover her burns.
And remembering her burns threw a wrench into that idea. Who would want to hire someone with crippling burns? And they made her too distinct. Her family would be able to track her down if she ran away.
Alicia sighed heavily as her thoughts brought down her mood again. Still, the idea of running away would entertain her, even if it was even more theoretical than the one from before.
Alicia woke up, and then began to sob into her hands.
It hadn’t been a nightmare. In fact, it had been a wonderful dream.
She had dreamed of a mix of Lumiere and Paris, she had been Alicia but all of her friends had been there. By the logic of dreams, she and the others had acknowledged their deaths but happily accepted that they were just alive now, going about their day as if there had been nothing wrong. And she had been so happy.
In a way, Alicia wished it had been a nightmare instead. It hurt to see Verso burning away, Gustave with a hole in his chest, her family and friends dissolving away into petals, or even a mix of nightmares where her friends and family would instead burn away. But with the dreams, it teased her with something she so desperately wanted, only to cruelly rip it away when she woke up.
She couldn’t do this anymore.
She wanted Gustave. She wanted Lune and Sciel. She wanted Esquie to envelop her in a gentle and unjudging hug. She wanted Monoco to offer to fight her until she felt better. She wanted her real brother.
She wanted to run around and take out Nevrons, unbound by the limits of her body or this world.
She wanted to go back.
She wanted out of this cage.
She wanted it to all just stop!
Alicia took huge, gulping breaths. A numbness settled over her.
She could make it stop. Couldn’t she?
…
Alicia drifted through the day, not entirely there. Her mind constantly churning the dark thought over and over.
And the more she thought about it, the more it seemed like the only good solution. Just like in those tragic romance books she sometimes read.
If her family noticed her demeanour, she didn’t notice them commenting on it. Whatever they said wouldn’t matter soon anyway.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Alicia snuck into her father’s study and stole the key to the medicine cabinet. There, she grabbed every bottle of her morphine.
The bottles sloshed around in her hands as she idly rocked them back and forth in the way back to her room. Usually, she would be given a silver medicine spoon to take the morphine with, but she had left that back in the cabinet.
Alicia sat on her bed and looked around her room. It was depressing. Did she really want to do it here?
No.
In her dream, Paris had been by the sea just like Lumiere. But the real Paris was nowhere near the sea. She would love to see it again, one last time.
Before, the presence of her family would stop her, but the consequences for running off to go to the sea on her own weren’t going to exist. So, why not? She could make an entire journey out of it.
…
Of course, Alicia couldn’t just grab a bag and go. She would turn too many heads if she didn’t make herself look presentable. Which included forcing herself into one of the dresses she owned for going out in public, trying to figure out how to do up her hair without the assistance of a servant or Clea, and wearing a hat. At least wearing the hat came with some hat pins, which she could use to stab anyone looking to make trouble.
After that, she grabbed her savings and packed a bag of what she would need. Some spare clothes as the journey would take a while, some writing utensils, a vague idea had her grabbing her watercolour paints and inks (which she much preferred to using than the oil paints that the rest of her family used) and some other art supplies, and her well-loved copies of Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass to read on the way.
With that all done, it was time to, finally, escape.