Harmony

◆ ◆ ◆

Initially, Octavia thought that she'd fainted. Lightheaded and dizzy, it took time for her eyes to adjust to light once again. She repeatedly squeezed her eyelids shut as heavily as she could, desperate to blink away the fog that had settled over her retinas. The world felt blurry, blighting her with a variable cloud she couldn’t dispel. She tried to blink, and yet her blinks were not her own--nor her breaths. Nor her movements, nor her words, nor anything but her own muddied thoughts and emotions that still hadn’t quite adjusted to her current reality. She was a spectator to the world before her.

Only briefly was she so much as able to recall the outside world--if it existed. It was a struggle to remember Stradivaria, her companions, and everything that came along with her life. Every part of her body felt heavy, too immobile and powerless to do more than float in an endless and unseen expanse of nothing. She was gradually becoming aware of the way by which her feet didn’t touch the ground. She was supine in an inexplicable abyss, and yet not plummeting to what would surely be a gruesome end.

Instead, she found colors she wasn’t quite used to. There came blonde locks draped in front of her eyes, swatted away on occasion by slender fingers she’d never seen before. There came an occasional laugh into a delicate palm that--for all intents and purposes--was placed where her own should’ve been.

This wasn’t her. This wasn’t her body. With how muffled her current existence was, the realization wasn’t quite as jarring as it should have been. She was helpless to do more than watch through eyes that didn’t belong to her.

What greeted her were flashes of a life that, just the same, didn’t belong to her, either. Snippets were strung together, a hastily woven tapestry of a world she’d never experienced. Every thread was largely innocent. None were notably striking, although they were somewhat extensive at times.

Were it truly a film, she might’ve grown bored during the mundane flashes, by which kisses with a stranger were exchanged. Rings, too, traded hands. The train of an ivory dress snagged upon cobblestone, trailing in the wake of joyous footsteps. A baby’s newborn cries. A child’s smile. A happy, standard existence that didn’t strike Octavia as particularly unique.

Still, she couldn’t fault the stranger’s satisfaction. She did what she could to be happy on behalf of a life well-lived. If she squinted, she could recognize landmarks of a familiar city--buildings, architecture, and shops that she’d passed by in Coda several times over. Granted, they were cleaner, sturdier. As to how long ago her stranger had walked the streets, she was left to guess. She recognized the flower shop. The florist waved, and the arm she borrowed waved back. He was lost from sight not long after. She couldn’t fix that much.

It was one more aggravating reminder that Octavia’s eyes were not her own, limited only to the view shared with another. When her eyes flickered upwards to the bold brilliance of the nearly-full moon, so, too, did Octavia’s. When they delved downwards to her uniform, sullied fingers swiping at grassy stains as she walked onwards, again came Octavia’s with them.

Even now, Octavia could make no sense of exactly what she was looking at. The sensation of immobility wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, instead neutral in a way that she soon stopped registering altogether. The passage of time was muddied, both for herself and the scenes that crossed her stolen eyes. She had no idea how long she’d been watching. It wasn’t as concerning as she’d expected.

For all she’d lost, she’d kept her emotions in the void. The violent screeching was all too familiar, and her heart could’ve stopped. Octavia couldn’t run. Her stranger, to their credit, tried.

There was no outrunning Dissonance. Her stranger couldn’t see it in the first place. There was always the chance of outrunning one who’d succumbed to the grasp of agony, by comparison. It was the first time since becoming a Maestra that Octavia had glimpsed the other side she’d once stood on so long ago.

The violet wisps typically born of either shoulder were absent, even with the unfortunate remainder of a horrible noise she’d grown used to. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. The speed of her assailant contrasted sharply with the sluggish demeanors she’d come to expect. They were fast. For one so Dissonant, it was jarring. Now more than ever, she cursed the limitations of her stranger’s eyes. No amount of effort could bring them level with the violent gaze that waited just out of reach.

Octavia was so distracted by her desperate curiosity of the pursuant, treading upon every footstep left behind by her stranger, that it took time to realize they were fleeing at all. She earned several precious moments of confused calm before her heart caught up with her mind, pounding feverishly against her chest. Fear was contagious, and that of her forced companion was seeping into her blood.

It took time to remember why she was here. It took more time to realize where this situation was going, more than likely. The manner by which the woman steered herself between darkened corridors and winding backroads of Coda was her folly. It was enough to make Octavia dizzy, even aloft in nothingness as she was.

Her inability to reach out was torture. She couldn’t jerk the woman’s head, nor could she force her gaze over her shoulder. She couldn’t catch sight of the pounding footsteps that had rapidly increased in pace and volume behind her. The only clarity Octavia earned came in the form of a face-first downfall onto hard cobblestone. Scrambling hands struggled to push her stranger to her feet. They weren’t faster than those which came from behind.

Octavia’s vision rolled abruptly to the left, cast suddenly towards the place she’d prayed for all along. It was a simultaneous blessing and curse. The fleeting silhouette of the man that she caught was vague, hampered by the meddling shadows of the weak moon. The long flaps of a suit. Neatly-cuffed sleeves. Stark-black locks that dipped messily over hiding eyes. Bolts of rippling blue fabrics that struck just the slightest chord of familiarity--though she’d be damned if she could place it.

Try as she might to commit them to memory, the knife handle clasped in both strong, steady hands drew her attention above all else. Every effort to ignore it in favor of other observations was impossible. It was simple enough, acutely honed as it stared her down. Level with her stolen eyes, Octavia could drink in the steel shimmer. She’d seen similar knives in her own kitchen, and the plain methodology was almost striking. Logically, it probably took seconds. Right now, it took forever.

With the slightest twist of his wrists, he plunged downwards without remorse. Octavia assumed it’d be the woman’s chest. She was incredibly wrong. It was her throat, and the useless scream that precluded the inevitable was garbled so soon after. Octavia recoiled in every way. Struggling, flailing, and screaming noiselessly did nothing. Sounds she wished she could unhear instead burned themselves into her memory. Her vision, shared as it was, didn’t go dark quickly, even after the second attack jolted her stranger’s entire body upwards. There came no end by the third. Nor the fourth. Nor the fifth.

On the sixth, she found reprieve. Octavia blinked, and she found the scream she was looking for all along.

◆ ◆ ◆

It was instant. Octavia stumbled backwards, her hands shaking furiously as she collapsed. Soft grass offered at least some assistance with the physical impact. Her mental state, by comparison, was a disaster. She trembled forever, breathing so heavily she feared she’d faint. Even as her vision returned, the blinding sun assaulting her dilated pupils, acclimation to her surroundings took far too long.

“Whoa, Octavia?”

She didn’t have the energy, nor the foresight, to so much as turn her head at the moment. Renato’s words were at least enough for her to realize that she was still, in fact, screaming. It took effort for her to close her mouth, although stifling her panic was borderline impossible.

When her eyes finally focused in full, she found Viola. The Maestra was still standing as calmly as she’d last remembered. With Silver Brevada extended in two steady palms, only her expression moved, contorting with worry. Octavia watched the way Viola’s fingers curled inwards instead, giving up a gasp. Octavia didn’t have the coherence to be self-conscious about it. She did, at least, have the coherence to recognize five sets of eyes settling onto her burning skin. No one moved, momentarily. The silence was stifling, loaded only with her own desperate hunts for air.

“What…did you see?” Viola finally asked, her voice tiny.

It took immense effort for Octavia to shake her head wordlessly. That wasn’t enough.

“Octavia, what happened?” Viola pressed.

Octavia looked for an answer. She failed. Pushing herself off the ground was somehow easier, although difficult in its own right. Her hands still shook so severely that she questioned her efforts to dust off her dress. She was left watching with great discomfort as the grit and grime simply smeared along the fabric instead. It was her dress, and they were her stains. They were her hands. She was moving them. It wasn’t as grounding of a revelation as she hoped it’d be.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at Viola. Octavia could only cast her dizzied gaze at Silver Brevada instead, still silent and glistening in its partner’s palms as it awaited her second touch.

She’d almost forgotten. There was a second one.

Only the thought of another identical experience was enough to unclog the words in her throat. “I-I…I don’t know. I…died.”

Her answer wasn’t enough. That much was clear to see on Viola’s face, and it left Octavia feeling vulnerable. Even the meager words she’d offered had been too much already.

“But what did you see?” Viola repeated, her tone pleading.

Octavia’s palms were clammy. She wished she hadn’t seen anything, in truth. She still wasn’t certain as to what she’d actually seen at all. Trying to process it wasn’t getting any easier.

“You…don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to,” Harper said gently.

His words were appreciated. Still, the pain in Viola’s eyes was impossible to ignore. Octavia didn’t have the heart to look away. Through her haze, it took a moment to place the urgency.

“The highlights,” Josiah suggested. “Bits and pieces. Whatever you want.”

Octavia exhaled deeply. Organizing her thoughts in full was impossible. Highlights were manageable. Finding her words was a trial all the same, as was stilling the eternal tremble in her voice. “It was…I was someone else. A woman, I don’t know who.”

“What did she look like?” Viola pressed.

“Blonde hair, light skin, I couldn’t really see myself. I was seeing someone else’s…life, I think.”

“How did it end?”

“Viola,” Harper warned. The Maestra winced.

His scolding came late. She had her imagery back, largely composed of spilled blood and sounds she couldn’t block out. The end was far more memorable than what happiness had preceded it. Squeezing her eyes shut provided the blank canvas her poisoned thoughts needed to come to life once more. She cast her gaze into a fixed point in the grass well over Madrigal’s shoulder. She didn’t particularly want to answer.

“I told you, I died,” Octavia spat, her tone harsher than intended. Given the hurt on Viola’s face, she regretted it immediately. An apology would’ve been just as hollow. She didn’t bother. Viola mouthed a single syllable, and Octavia didn’t need the full question to cut her off. She’d been well aware that it was coming.

“Who--”

“You already know who.”

Viola’s lip quivered. Truthful or otherwise, Octavia had no idea how to avoid hurting her. This entire interaction was painful.

The pressure of luminous gazes bearing down on her from above was crushing. She didn’t have the heart to raise her eyes, nor to even look at Stradivaria. For more reasons than one, she felt small. “How do I do the next one? There’s a second one, right?”

“As you did before,” Stratos offered calmly. The warmth in his voice, ever present, was useless at the moment.

“Does Brava need to do his incantation thing again?”

“It must be done once, and only once. You may proceed at your ready.”

Her fingers twitched uselessly, resisting whatever signals in her head urged them to inch towards Silver Brevada. Beginning with Viola’s tolls was a terrible idea. For Madrigal and Harper, she wouldn’t be as confident. That wouldn’t have been a bad thing. Here, she knew exactly what awaited her touch yet again. A sick part of her was relieved over the lack of a third toll, however misplaced it may have been. She’d find it someday, provided that was how this worked. Someday was not today.

“How long did it take?” Octavia murmured aloud.

“It was quick,” Josiah offered. “Felt like I blinked. One moment, you touched Silver Brevada, and the next moment, you were on the ground.”

The thought was almost laughable. Her experience had been anything but quick.

“Do you want to take a break?” Madrigal asked, worry seeping into her words.

Octavia almost didn’t bother with an answer. She was more than preoccupied with the return of her pounding heartbeat. “No. I want to get this over with.”

She left no room for objection. That included the thoughts that again pleaded with her to run, hide, or do whatever would spare her from the same fate twice over. With both hands once more quickly grasping the flute’s body, she did what she could to steel her nerves as the blackened void swallowed her whole. She would take to the grave with her the manner by which, somehow, curiosity was its own motivator.

◆ ◆ ◆

The only thing that was instant in the way Josiah had described was the “fall”--a phenomenon she hadn’t been able to put into words the first time. Octavia could never pinpoint the exact moment she’d fallen asleep, nor could she ever control the content of her dreams. The shift between consciousness and not was an ample comparison to the contrast between her feet on the ground and her presence in the dark.

The fog and clouds in her head were still ever-present, and yet she could’ve sworn they’d cleared somewhat versus before. Her dulled senses were no longer as dull. Her body was somewhere between light and heavy, free-floating in nothingness unseen. That hadn’t changed. Still, the rush of emotions that orbited her brain wasn’t quite as overpowering. She was getting used to this.

It didn’t change the way her thoughts were muddied, the outside world a blur compared to the eyes she'd been assigned. She took mental notes through her haze. She couldn’t grasp at her own concerns, concepts as simple as the names of the others fleeing her instantly. Temporary as she knew the dilemma to be, it was terrifying all the same. What was to come didn’t ease her horror in any way. This stranger’s story was worse.

Her tale started off simple enough. Snippets of childhood took turns, painting a condensed and linear biography of a life cut tragically short. She found joyous family affairs, laughs with companions, occasions filled with love, and love that blossomed into romance. Octavia was happy for her, granted--again. Her most relevant memories seemed satisfactory enough as she aged.

Octavia strained her borrowed gaze for what pieces of identity she could assemble. Initially, she only earned brown waves and bangs that bobbed over her eyes from time to time. It took effort to find more, although it eventually came. Substantially tan. Well-groomed. Fingernails peppered with bright splashes of color that slowly changed over the years.

The presence of a mirror, for the first time, caught her off guard. She earned a brief second of clarity by virtue of vanity, and she scrambled for what she could steal. Freckles splattered above a dimpled smile. Barrettes lodged in a brunette sea. Sparkling bangles of radiant gold and sterling silver dangling from slender wrists. She found chocolate-brown eyes, big and round, that stared back at her. If Octavia looked hard enough, she wondered if she’d see herself in there.

It was the best opportunity she got. It was satisfying enough, and yet it still didn’t put a name to a face. Versus the sudden abundance of glass bottles in every scene, it was only one problem. They were nothing if not suspicious, constant in every way. They weren’t always full. Each time their tinted lips rose to touch her stranger’s own, chaos followed in her words.

Disagreements became arguments. Arguments became shouting matches. Shouting matches brought slammed doors, heavy footsteps, every building exchanged for the open air of the night. Frustration and pain was permanent upon recurring faces. The tavern was new, although it quickly became just as permanent.

Octavia didn’t enjoy where this was going. She didn’t particularly want to see more. Skipping to the ending wasn’t an appealing thought, and yet this was painful in another way entirely. Her last experience had already felt intrusive. This was worse by at least ten times over. Long-departed as this woman already was, she offered a silent apology for events not to be shared with the world.

She was able to take a rough guess as to when the conclusion was approaching in general, and being correct was in no way a victory. A slammed door and staggering steps were nothing new, nor was the den of poor decisions she’d more or less made her home. She was somewhat amazed this woman could navigate in any capacity in the depths of night, thoroughly inebriated as she was. Poorly-lit roads again took precedence, and the moon faltered once more. It was predictable enough.

Octavia’s stranger was devoid of companionship, painfully vulnerable, and wandering towards the end with a drained bottle to show for it. The fact that she’d brought it along at all was somewhat pitiful. When the screeching came, she didn’t run. Octavia loathed that she couldn’t berate her. At the very least, Octavia was no longer cursed with fleeting puzzle pieces. Drunken confidence was lethal, and yet it handed her the visage she needed. She regretted it instantly.

She already knew what she was supposed to be expecting in the depths of Viola’s tolls. Still, the sight of the man with her own eyes--stolen or otherwise--was crushing. A hand meant to hold that of a loving little girl instead gripped the handle of a knife. Where steel had once been stainless, deep red now claimed its luster. Long before it approached her stranger’s skin, it was already poisoned with violence past. Vibrant blues adorning a father once gentle were flecked with the same scarlet malice in turn. He’d taken three lives in the grasp of violet agony. Of that, Octavia was aware. She’d never known they’d happened all at once.

If she could move in her current state, the sudden sound of smashing glass would’ve left her recoiling. The bottle in her stranger’s hand was suddenly as sharp and jagged as the obscenities rolling off her tongue. Fear was as irrelevant as reason, in her stupor. Even in the face of the weapon that came level with her eyes, she didn’t back down. Dripping, pointed glassy teeth met the man’s gaze in turn, and her hostile intent matched his own. She never got far.

Vincent Vacanti was relentless, if not calculated all the same. His methodology was identical, and his fleshy target was just so. A lunge, an extension, and a spearing blade aimed precisely at an exposed throat were all he needed. He hit his mark with sickening skill, whether augmented by unseen violet or not. For Octavia’s peace of mind, she prayed it was Dissonance alone that gave him the talent.

The finishing blow was a change, if nothing else. Gone was the thrusting, and the stabbing along with it. He slashed, carving through flimsy skin as he drew infinite blood. If he’d hit an artery, it showed--intentional or otherwise. Octavia felt no pain. Her stranger was upright, somehow. It wasn’t satisfactory for him.

Where he’d slashed left, he tore right. The diving knife ripped deep through wet viscera, clear in the opposite direction. Octavia couldn’t see it, and yet she could hear it with nauseating clarity. She thanked any god that would listen that her stranger didn’t have the physical capacity to look down. If she did, Octavia would more than likely never sleep again.

As it was, the splattering and choking alone were enough to threaten her circadian rhythm for the rest of her life. They were worse than the first time, maybe. Only now did her stolen vision drift upwards, stealing one last look at the darkened sky as the world faded to black itself. Where the deep reds of wine had haunted her stranger so viciously, it was the splashing reds ripped from within that followed her out. With Vincent Vacanti’s face burnt into her mind in the worst way imaginable, Octavia died for the second time that day.

◆ ◆ ◆

She didn’t regain her senses with a scream. Instead, she did so with her hands strangling her own throat.

She’d stayed on her feet this time, apparently, although not by much. It was by sheer luck alone that she didn’t lose her balance as soon as she could move again, the sun once more assailing her poor pupils. The placement of her hands wasn’t an immediate realization, coming to her only in tandem with an urge to scratch at sweat-pricked skin. Her palms covered as much as they could, her nails just barely clipping the soft surface as it bent. Only now did she find difficulty in breathing, and yet she resisted the urge to remove her hands altogether. Solely confused stares and uncomfortable glances of concern could convince her otherwise.

The starving curiosity on Viola’s face was as justified as it was infuriating. It was insensitive. She didn’t want to give the girl a chance. More than anything, Octavia wanted this to be over.

“Oct--”

“Is that all of them?” Octavia asked openly, louder than intended.

It took her a moment longer to give Stratos her attention. He responded in kind with a nod. “Indeed, it is so. Well done, Octavia.”

His praise meant absolutely nothing. It was still better than letting anyone press her on death itself. “Does that mean Brava is free? Like, he’s all done?”

The subject of her questioning took the lead. “It is as you say, Ambassador,” he said. “Even as such, I will honor the terms of our agreement.”

“You’d better,” she muttered. For all she’d just done, the ire that would come with the alternative would leave her reassessing more of her life than she would’ve liked to. “Can Viola still…will you still be partners?”

“Be at ease. I shall continue to lend her my strength so long as she bears her soul unto my own. I am gracious in this way.”

Octavia sighed. Somewhere between irritation and exhaustion, she almost didn’t have the effort to scoff inwardly at him.

“Who next will you choose?” Orleanna spoke instead.

Harper and Madrigal stiffened in tandem. It wasn’t subtle. Viola’s gaze was laced with dissatisfaction, if not watery in a way that left Octavia deeply uncomfortable. Octavia closed her eyes, battling what lingering dizziness still cursed her. She’d tried. This was too much.

“No one,” she answered. “I…I’m done for the day. That’s enough.”

“So soon?” Brava asked incredulously.

“Now, Brava,” Lyra interrupted, “peace was suggested. This was a first--and two in such short succession, at that. She has earned her rest. There is no hurry.”

“Among this circle, only three tolls remain,” Aste added lazily, their voice tinged with disinterest. “Unfortunately.”

“I’m really starting to think you two can’t make it through a single sentence without takin’ a shot at me somehow,” Renato hissed.

“We can stop,” Harper offered, forcing an awkward smile. “Lyra’s right. There’s no rush. Today can just be a day to relax. We don’t have to do every toll on the same day.”

“Maybe we can go out to eat,” Madrigal added, her own grin just as pained.

Octavia at least appreciated the effort. “I…just want to rest for a bit. Alone.”

Watching them deflate felt uncomfortable. At the very least, she was grateful that they didn’t push. Packing up was done in loaded silence, and Viola was perhaps the worst offender of all. Silver Brevada resheathed into its case wasn’t the victory Octavia had been hoping for, freed of tolls or not. Even Stradivaria back in her arms was devoid of warmth, and she laid her partner to rest in turn with no relief to show for it.

The second instance of the Muses dissipating before her eyes was less jarring than the first. Granted, Octavia was prepared for it this time. A wordless fizzle and a bright spark gave way to miniature bursts of brilliant color. Tiny supernovas burst into dazzling aftermath sixfold, flickering dust just barely present long enough for her to catch. Again, she could’ve blinked and missed it. She had peace in another way entirely, and her companions let her cling to that which was already heavy. She hoisted Stradivaria’s case onto her shoulders, doing what she could to tread carefully over the scattered floral debris underfoot.

Do not be fearful of your tolls, for they are a necessary evil that must be acknowledged.

Octavia froze, tilting her head. That wasn’t Stradivaria. That was where he was supposed to be, at least, gracing her from within. Orleanna’s voice was unmistakable, by comparison, and not a speck of glimmering scarlet touched the air. Her eyes flickered about the clearing. She checked.

“Orleanna?” she asked aloud.

The others stopped, and it was Octavia to whom their eyes fell instead. Their gazes left her uncomfortable. Her own darted to Harper instinctively, and he returned it with equal confusion.

“Do you…need to talk to her?” Harper asked slowly.

Orleanna was talking to her, actually. Octavia thought to specify, and yet held her tongue. Several strategic seconds allotted for the Muse to speak further were fruitless. She relented. “Nevermind,” Octavia said at last, shaking her head.

Four sets of roaming eyes set her free, fixated forward again. One didn’t. Harper’s own lingered for somewhat too long, and she was conscious of that much. He relented, eventually, and his steps slowed in turn. He fell behind her, trailing at her back as she walked. For how awkward the situation was, Orleanna’s words were unsettling in and of themselves. The less she had to think about her tolls, the better. To chase that line of thought, here and now, could’ve killed her.

It is true, there appears to be an insect upon her braids. The left one, I see.

Octavia recoiled. Slapping her braid was a reflex.

Rather, a mistake, it is the one on the right.

She nearly did so on the other side. Hurried fingers stopped short, and she grasped at the woven strands instead. She squinted. They were unblemished.

“Octavia!”

Harper, instead, had come to a standstill. Again, she did the same, and the others weren’t exempt. The volume of his exclamation, alone, was enough to make her jump. His expression fell just short of horror.

She winced, still clasping one in two nervous hands. “What?”

“A-Are you…can you hear her talking?” he stammered.

She tilted her head. The urgency in his tone was confusing. “I…I don’t know why she’s talking to me.”

He shook his head. “She’s not talking to you. She’s talking to me.”

Octavia blinked. “What…do you mean?”

“Are you in my head?” he asked, his voice small and fearful.

“What?”

“Like, are you listening to what I’m thinking?”

Octavia flinched. “No, no! Of course not! I just…I hear her, I don’t know why! I swear, I thought she was talking to me. I promise it wasn’t intentional.”

“I-I’m not particularly fond of the idea of someone listening to my thoughts,” he stammered once more, his voice wavering somewhat.

“Harper, I seriously didn’t hear anything. I can’t hear what you’re thinking. I’m just hearing Orleanna for some reason, and I don’t know why. That’s it, I swear!”

“It’s not the first time.”

Madrigal was an instant magnet for five sets of eyes. Tangled fingers atop the skirt of her dress matched with calm confidence and a bright smile. “You’ve heard Lyra before, haven’t you? Back then.”

“Back then” took a moment. “Back then” was almost a guess, for how Octavia had to sift for an applicable “back then” in the first place. She’d known Lyra’s voice before the blessing of ethereal viridian had ever graced her eyes. “Back then” was in the depths of a different Hell, tethered to the cold walls of a bloodied institution and a grieving Madrigal. It should’ve been private, a Maestra guided to salvation by her partner. It wasn’t.

Could you be the one?

Neither was that.

“Lyra told me,” Madrigal continued. “I heard her say it. She said you shouldn’t be able to hear her unless you were special. Now we know that you are special,” she spoke with a soft smile. “Maybe you can hear all of them.”

It is true, came Lyra’s voice in turn. This time, Octavia was fairly certain she was invited to the conversation. It is the gift of the Heartful that our forms, so long as the Ambassador has selected the form of manifestation, may be shared with others. However, it is the privilege of the Ambassador alone that they might observe our voices within. Indeed, in this way, there are no secrets to be kept.

“Can you guys hear each other? Like, for example, can Renato hear Stratos?”

“I can’t hear anything,” Renato answered in Lyra’s stead.

You alone are privy to our words unspoken, Lyra continued. Beware what you choose to overhear, for your own benefit, and know that it is only our words to which you are entitled.

“There you have it,” Madrigal concluded. “We can share, but you can’t read my mind, so everything’s fine. Let’s get along with Lyra together, okay?”

Harper let out a breath that Octavia wasn’t aware he’d been holding. Lyra’s words had been localized to a party of three, and yet the context was visible enough. It was one piece of a puzzle born of crisis that clicked neatly into place. It left yet more, as everything always did. She’d had more than enough crises for one day, to begin with. If nothing else, the privilege offered to her ears was far, far preferable to that which would curse her eyes for the foreseeable future.

Dying was exhausting.

Octavia didn’t have the heart to actually do anything of merit for the remainder of the day. In retrospect, that likely did nothing positive for her mental state. What space she’d asked for was earned without issue, albeit paid for with wandering eyes and curious glances. She was fairly certain they were handling her with unnecessary care, and she wasn’t fond of the idea. Murdered twice over as she’d been that morning, it was irritating that she couldn’t fault them for it.

It wasn’t particularly healthy to bind herself to her room, forgoing social comforts in full. At the very least, she skipped the sulking and self-loathing. Madrigal had recommended taking up a hobby. It hadn’t been the worst idea she’d pursued in several weeks. Technically, it was the third time today she’d dealt with a knife.

Granted, it came bundled with a wonderfully square block of balsa. She’d never taken up wood carving at home, although the activity had been present enough in her household. Beyond Silver Ridge, it was nostalgic all the same, and pure little wood drifted with her through a sea of uncertainty. She made the first cut with more ease than expected. So, too, came the second, and the third in turn. The shapes she crafted were crude, although vaguely adjacent to the patterns she’d envisioned.

Octavia doubted her initial attempt would offer up a phenomenal work of art. It was still a better use for her hands than clinging to Stradivaria forever. She was no master artisan, and she surely couldn’t fashion two masterpieces of cherry oak bound to either wrist. She could get there, one day. Following in her father’s footsteps would’ve been a solid life plan after conquering the burdens of her Maestra responsibilities.

It’d be easier than following in her sister’s footsteps, at least. She cut deeper. Ideally, she could carve out every weighted thought that plagued her just as easily.

Several hours of quiet comfort with soft wood and her two hands for company was pleasant. Still, what refueled peace followed her through sunset and into the night wasn’t eternal. Her wet hair flat against the pillow was irritating, and peeking moonlight through gaps in her curtains did little to dry it. She would’ve been restless either way. There was the slightest hint of fear that came with the idea of sleep, for how she might carry death itself into true darkness once more. Still, there was more. Pulling the covers over her head did nothing. Pacing did nothing. They usually didn’t, to be fair.

Talking was a crushing urge. Her options were limited. She straddled a wish for peaceful isolation and a plea for companionship. As to what she’d do once she had it, she wasn’t sure. Octavia had one idea. It required an uncomfortable combination. A nightgown, wet hair, boots, and a violin in her arms felt awkward in conjunction. She chose the second floor.

It wasn’t often that she went up there in the first place, nor did any of her companions. The upper story of the Vacanti household bore mostly stray artwork and barren rooms, somewhat mirroring those she could access easily below. She still wondered exactly how many of them were ever necessary in the first place, for how small the family who’d called it home had been. The upper floor came with a balcony, and that alone was different.

Octavia fumbled with the latches of glass doors with care, tentative steps leading her into the star-kissed night. The rush of cool air that greeted her skin was refreshing, if not somewhat chilling as it tangled with hair still damp. If she peered beyond the railing, she could claim Coda below with her curious gaze--asleep as it was. In the still of the silent night, with only the soft songs of insects for companionship, she had the world to herself. She had another song to herself, in turn.

She played.

She’d stolen the idea from Madrigal. It had been painted as bonding, and she’d somewhat envied it. The vast majority of times that Stradivaria touched her shoulder, it had been a byproduct of chaos and misfortune. In that way, she may have done him a disservice. Priscilla was a musician in every sense of the word, and he’d been by her side in many moments far brighter. Octavia had little to offer but misery and hurt, given what she’d dragged him through. She was a decent Maestra, ideally. She was an awful partner.

“Stradivaria,” Octavia spoke aloud, as best as she could manage with his body pressed to her cheek.

What are you doing so late, Octavia? Do you not wish to rest?

“I want to talk.”

We may always do so. Of this, I am certain you are aware. Why do you play?

“I just…want to.”

He hesitated. Still, he didn’t object. As you wish.

She played onwards, her hands moving of their own accord. It was absentminded, as always, and she didn’t recognize the song that she spun into the open night. Still, it came with comfort in place of panic. That was new. She closed her eyes as she savored every note, swaying gently. “I have questions for you.”

You always do.

Octavia battled a smirk. He almost sounded sassy. “I’m…gonna try to keep them light. I’ve had enough surprises for a while, but there’s still things I want to know. Just…please don’t drop anything massive on me again, okay?”

Only now did his standard hmm of amusement finally bless her with warmth. I will endeavor to provide the answers you seek. No more and no less.

“Okay,” she murmured. With eyes still closed, she at least took solace in the feeling of her hair steadily becoming less congealed. Drying strands brushed delicately against her other cheek. With certainty, he wouldn’t care. She was still self-conscious about having her braids down around Stradivaria, regardless.

“Can you…feel it when I touch you?”

That which you hold in your arms, then?

She nodded, an awkward motion in the midst of her song. “Yeah.”

In this manner, I cannot.

Octavia breathed a far larger sigh of relief than she should’ve. It excused the caressing. “Does it ever hurt?”

Elaborate.

“When I play you,” she specified. “Or, like…anything. I know I’ve been kinda rough with you sometimes.”

This form cannot be harmed by mortal means. Fear not.

She tried not to count how many times she’d dropped him. She couldn’t help it. That, too, was perhaps a symptom of an awful partner. “Why do you call yourself Stradivaria?”

He was silent for a moment. I believe you asked only for simple truths to simple inquiries.

Octavia groaned. “Is this not a simple answer? Seriously?”

Perhaps for myself. On a grander scale, it is perhaps not so for you.

“Could you, like, sum it up? Give me the general gist? Short answer?”

I could attempt.

“Then please attempt.”

His pauses were always agonizing. Octavia was beginning to wonder if he was building suspense on purpose. An homage to craftsmanship unmatched, he finally answered. Before your time, in an age long prior to where you now stand. Knowing what I know of my own, you would appreciate that as well.

It was Octavia’s turn to pause. “What do you mean?”

You are the daughter of a woodworker, are you not? With a fondness for the art, as such.

“No, not that. An age long prior, what does that mean?”

I say unto you again, I believe you requested only simple truths.

Her groan this time was far more exaggerated, and yet she never ceased her song. It was a relief that her annoyance didn’t spill into her aimless melody. “I did, but now you’ve got me curious.”

I warn you that this is a…sufficiently sizable truth. I would not fault your decision to defer to another evening.

Octavia rolled her eyes behind closed lids. “Out with it.”

What do you recall of your encounter with Lord Ramulus?

She raised an eyebrow. “Wait, who’s Lord Ramulus?”

I…apologize. You would know him by another name. Would it trouble you to remember Rani?

It did trouble her. It troubled Octavia enough that she nearly stopped playing, the bow slowing to a crawl across the strings. She’d clung to flashes of her encounter on surreal shores, mired in agony as they’d been at the time. For once, they were accessible, and his words were the key.

She fell. Violet claimed her. A child cleansed her pain, and a name was offered in a voice too different. There came a story, and a moniker for her partner in turn. She’d awoken in Viola’s arms, enraged and betrayed. What bloody crisis followed her waking dream had been far more urgent. There was, if she strained, a Rani. Never once had she heard the name Ramulus.

“I remember,” Octavia half-lied. “A little.”

To you, he told a story of great importance. Do you recall?

This time, she shook her head. The violin bounced uncomfortably against her face in the process. “I know there was one, but I’d be lying if I said I remember it.”

Eventually, it is imperative that you hear it again. So, too, is it imperative that you learn it well.

“I mean, I’ve got the time. You might as well tell me now. Do I at least get to ask questions? Last time I was told to just stand there and take it.”

You may ask whatever you would like, so long as you are prepared for the lengthy truths that you wished to avoid.

“You know, this is a lot of work just to explain where your name came from.”

Then do you ask that I cease?

Octavia sighed heavily. “No, go on. Start from the beginning.”

Stratos did as instructed, his voice soft and inviting. She took more comfort in the smooth warmth of his tone than she should’ve. She kicked herself for it, given that she’d asked the question in the first place. It took cognitive effort to focus on his actual words.

Where once was none came all. From nothing, light cut through the black and brought life into being. He of all above spread his reach far, his legacy a mark upon the world he created. The spirited winds ravaged the mountains so carefully crafted. Upon the green, fire raged with a will untethered. Atop the highest peaks, ice born of the soul coalesced. The lightning struck the earth, its essence a testament to shining grace. When they who remained sang, the strength of their sound could move the earth. Above all, the light of the heart watched onwards. From his blessing came those who would guard they who existed below.

That much was fine, almost. One part bothered her. “I’m taking a guess that ‘he’ is this Lord Ramulus guy? And this above and below stuff. If you guys live ‘above’, does that make us ‘below’?”

You are correct in both of your assumptions. It is to our Lord that each of us answer.

“And the guarding part? Who’s guarding what?”

It is the Heartful who are destined to act as the bridge between the realms of ourselves and your own. Such is your burden most of all, oh Ambassador.

Octavia nodded, her discomfort with the word ‘burden’ notwithstanding. “And that consists of…what, exactly?”

You already serve as a fine bridge. Fret not. Continue as you are.

Blushing beneath his praise was a reflex. It took extra effort to stifle it in favor of focusing. “There’s more, right? Keep going.”

He was quiet. Eventually, he relented.

Man flourished. Man blossomed into a force of its own, walking upon his world. From the hearts of their own came love, thrust upwards ever higher. Peace settled upon all. But it was she who brought the world to ruin, enamored with the charms of man. Malice in the hearts of--

“‘She’? Who’s ‘she’?” Octavia interrupted.

Patience, he chided.

His tone was somewhat sharper than she’d expected. She winced, nearly blushing for a different reason entirely.

Malice in the hearts of few dragged her from the throne above, clawed to earth with powers unfit for this realm. In her sorrow followed the agony of men, given form. Splintered, they above could not remain, tears beating upon the earth as they fell to mortal hands. The ninety-six took refuge within, until the chosen time should come.

When he fell silent, the soft tones of her aimless melody felt out of place as she awaited his words. Octavia waited. And waited. And waited.

You may speak now.

Octavia cleared her throat uncomfortably.

“So, uh, I was asking, who is ‘she’? This person, the one who…brought the world to ruin?”

Again, he hesitated, as he had so many times before. ‘She’ is--rather, was--one of our own, victim to an error of passion. In fewer words, this is…one who made a grave mistake. Now, in her stead, it is you and I alike who pay the price.

“That’s…not good. Who is she, exactly? Have I met her?”

I assure you, you have not met her. Have you other questions as to the words of this segment?

“I mean, I figured out some of it awhile ago. ‘The agony of men’ is the Dissonance, right? ‘The ninety-six’ is you guys, and I’m taking a wild guess that ‘the chosen time’ is now, if we’re doing all this. You were…dragged here? Pulled? From ‘above’?”

His usual hmm, even in affirmation, was utterly devoid of warmth. She didn’t like it.

“And then…you still haven’t answered me. Who is ‘she’?”

Octavia, he answered softly. Her name alone, unaccompanied, was confusing.

Octavia tilted her head, and the violin came with it. “Yes?”

There are pains that I know, with my heart pained in turn, that you do not wish to speak of freely.

Her stomach twisted into a knot.

There exists that which keeps you awake in the deepest hours of the evening. There is that which brings tears to your tired eyes. There are subjects you force into the depths of your soul, pressed into darkness where you pray prying gazes will not follow.

Her fingertips trembled against her bow. She still battled to play, cobbling together whatever semblance of stability she could offer her eternal melody. “Stradiv--”

Know that ‘she’ is one such subject to myself. I trust you to understand.

It was Octavia who fell silent. Curious words that had once eagerly clogged her throat now died on her tongue instead. She found no replacements. Instead, it was her violin alone that spoke on her behalf. Her song filling the gaps did nothing for her heart.

I shall continue, he spoke unprompted. It was more of a statement than an offer. Octavia didn’t dare object.

But there are those below who would yet receive their grace. Upon them, the struggle may still meet its end. In time, their pain will be witnessed, and they shall return to the throne at last.

That much was simple, particularly in light of recent events. “No questions there,” Octavia said.

With all I have said in mind, so much as it may be, I have not forgotten your earlier inquiry. I wish each day that passes upon this world that I alone could undo what wrongs have been done. Mortal destiny has so sharply drifted from the natural course it once carved. To you, if no one else, Octavia, my apology is true. Your world of old is not that of now.

She blinked. “What?”

Were we not to interfere, your world would be far different, following the path upon which it was intended to travel.

Octavia blinked again. It wasn’t clicking in full. That was absolutely her fault, for how she’d granted permission to heavy truths. She was starting to regret it. “Stradivaria, exactly how long ago did all of this even happen?”

By your own measurements, I could roughly estimate two hundred years.

“Y-You’ve been down here for two hundred years?” Octavia stammered, nearly dropping the bow. “All of you?”

Octavia, you ask of my alias, and I answer to you that it is an homage to craftsmanship gone long before your time. I am not the only Muse to pay this tribute of regret and apology.

She wouldn’t have the patience to ask the same question ninety-six times. She’d already given herself a headache simply asking the question once. She made a mental note not to ask him anything for a while, after this.

Now, Octavia, I offer a question of my own to you instead.

Her fingers stiffened against the strings. “What is it?”

When do you intend to open your eyes?

She’d forgotten that they were closed. For how long, she had absolutely no idea. His words triggered a reflex, and Octavia opened them instantly. It was to her detriment. The harsh moonlight and chilling breeze that beat down upon her dilating pupils was annoying. She was far, far more distressed about the interloper peering up at her from the doorsteps. Even one bouncy bow shorter and one plain nightgown richer, the silhouette was unmistakable. Octavia yelped, flinching as her absentminded harmony screeched to a halt.

“You didn’t have to stop,” Viola spoke, cradling her chin lazily in both of hands. With knees tucked up to her chest, she looked much too comfortable. Self-consciousness settled in immediately.

“H-How long have you been there?” Octavia asked, her voice harsher than intended.

“Ten minutes? I don’t know. Didn’t count. I got up to get a glass of water and heard music. Went upstairs. Came outside. Stayed for the light show.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow. “The what?”

One casual finger unfurled from Viola’s hand, pointing just above Octavia’s head. Octavia followed the gesture. It led to sprinkling stars, soft and abundant. Gentle, pulsing golds flanked her on every side, hovering aimlessly as they rebelled against the darkened sky above. They were warm, and the tiny balls of luminescence birthed a comfortable heat so close to her skin. How she hadn’t noticed them was beyond her. The twinkling lights were as peacefully gorgeous as they were confusing. She hugged Stradivaria to her chest.

“How much did you hear?” Octavia murmured.

“Like I said, about ten minutes.”

“No, not the music. The other stuff.”

Viola tilted her head. “What other stuff?”

Octavia blinked. If the question had to be asked, she wouldn’t dare. “Nevermind.”

With only a raised eyebrow of her own offered in return, Viola dropped the subject in favor of a shiver. “What are you doing out here? Aren’t you cold?”

“It’s nice, actually. I don’t mind it.”

“Couldn’t sleep? Why’d you bring Stradivaria?”

Octavia smiled. “Madrigal gave me the idea a while ago. Worked pretty well. You should try it.”

The look on Viola’s face was disdainful enough to make her laugh. “No,” she deadpanned.

Even so, Octavia’s laughter was a deterrent for continued disgust. A fatigued smile instead settled onto Viola’s lips. “Still not tired? We have warm milk, tea and honey, books, things that aren’t freezing.”

“It’s seriously not even that cold. It’s only August.”

“I gave up a big, fluffy blanket to be outside in this flimsy little nightgown. It’s cold. I promise.”

Octavia sighed, albeit not without a smile of her own. “I…think I got everything out of my system, at least for now. I’ll come back inside.”

Viola’s head flopped forward against her knees. “Oh, thank God, let’s go. I miss bed.”

Every step towards the doors left her haphazard stars crackling and bursting in her wake. At the very least, they were quiet about it. She was still somewhat embarrassed. Octavia never lessened her hold on Stradivaria, nestled closely to her heart as his accidental light fled the evening.

Fatigue was a shield, if nothing else, from whatever inexplicable truths he’d offered in return for one question alone. Overthinking was beyond her at the moment. Ideally, she was slightly less awful of a partner now. That would’ve been the sweetest truth of all.

Viola was swept up in the breeze, her clothes and hair in tandem rippling in the chill of the night. With her back alone given to the Maestra, she served to bar the path between exterior cold and interior warmth. Octavia waited for her to move. She was more or less blocking the way in altogether.

“Octavia.”

“Yeah?”

Viola paused. “You look good with your hair down.”

She hadn’t noticed the way one hand had left Stradivaria, tangling absentmindedly in her freshly-dried hair. There were more important things to overthink, anyway.