Harmony

Octavia figured out it was Sunday the hard way.

It was her fault for not keeping track of the calendar all week, instead ensnared in a million and one more prominent problems. The sound, like clockwork and on cue, pierced the fragile bubble of her dreams and jolted her from sleep. Her first instinct to throw herself out of bed was originally unavoidable. At the very least, it had mostly been downgraded to kicking and writhing. It had taken several weeks to stem the reflex, and it was absolutely not a point of pride.

No amount of bashing her head against the pillow time and time again worked. No amount of curling into a ball and clasping her hands over her ears worked. No amount of burrowing into the useless sanctuary of the covers did anything to block the relentless assault on her senses. Her breath left her in droves, and with its flight came tears. Heavy, heaving sobs wracked her entire frame, and Octavia's blood turned to lead.

Church service was starting. If there was a God to worship there that day, she never ceased to wonder why he hated her.

The one in Coda held a minimum of three services, if her agonizing math meant anything. She’d counted, many more times than she would’ve liked. She’d never actually stopped to verify how many tormentors she had, aloft and ringing as they were. She’d never go, and she’d never check. Still, audibly and with certainty, there was more than one bell.

They tolled in unison forever, and it was surely beautiful for anyone who wasn’t her. Octavia had never maintained enough focus to successfully time them. The furthest she’d ever gotten was two continuous minutes. It was definitely longer. For how long it truly was, it felt at least ten times longer than even that. No amount of bracing would prepare her for it.

Suffering was scheduled. Suffering was predictable. It left Sonata’s blistering hands, and the look on her face as she leapt to her death. It left Selena’s dead eyes, blackened and hollow as she raged until her dying breath. It left two acolytes bent and twisted in one clump of viscera on unforgiving pavement, crowned only by blood spilled in part by her own hands. Sometimes the bells came with screaming. Today was one of the days where the motion of covering her ears was enough to make her sick. It would pass, eventually. That did nothing to fix the present. This was Hell. This was Hell, this was Hell, this was Hell.

She was so used to the chorus of bells and her own sobs that the steady tap tap tap outside of her door initially didn’t register. At the very least, it caught her attention as it grew in volume, rapidly becoming a rhythmic pounding against the hardwood beyond. Octavia didn’t have any fear to spare. This was usually the point where dizziness settled in, for how quick every shallow breath came.

She could, if nothing else, spare a crumb of surprise at the sudden bang against her door, blown wide open as it crashed against the wall. Renato gave absolutely no indication of the possible damage he’d inflicted to the hinges, nor did he seem to care. Ignorant to the risk of a permanent indent in the wood from his violence, he hesitated on the threshold for a fraction of a second. It was long enough to cling to Octavia’s gaze.

Upon their teary surface, he found her fear. That was more than enough permission.

Octavia didn’t wince, nor recoil, nor so much as jolt at the way Renato threw himself onto her bed. The force of his full body weight flung suddenly against the mattress jostled the springs with noisy creaking. He cared little for the opened door behind him, his compromising position exposed to the world and any judgmental eyes who would pass him by. If the look on his face meant anything, nothing mattered at the moment. Deducing his singular exception should’ve been comforting in a way that warmed Octavia's heart and left her feeling safe. The panic that suffocated her and stole her breath away left no room for safety.

“Damn it, I told you to come get me!” Renato scolded softly, his voice firm and hurt all at once.

Even if she had the capacity to answer him, given the agony strangling every thought she could muster, the labor of sucking in oxygen was far too painful to form a single word in response. Her one and only request, were she to scrounge up the ability to make it, would surely be beyond his power. Inches from his face, contorted with frustration and worry, she didn’t bother to hide her distress. She fell apart before his eyes.

Crowned with a brief moment of hesitation, Renato raised his hands to her ears, cupping them on either side. The cool cherry oak pressing against her lobes was refreshing. Regardless, it did little to block the endless tolling. The way by which she raised her own hands to the back of his prosthetics was somewhat reflexive, torn between pushing them away or holding Renato close. Frozen without the drive to resist, she surrendered to the latter.

“Octavia,” he tried, tapping his forehead delicately against hers.

Her response came only in the form of the same endless sobs. She couldn’t help it. Every time she blinked, it got worse. That was sickeningly normal.

“Octavia,” he attempted again, somewhat more frantically.

His voice trembled, and she realized what he was searching for. It took every ounce of her strength to so much as murmur beneath the deafening noise choking her on every side. Even then, it was as haphazard as it was mired in helplessness.

“R-Re…nato,” Octavia wept.

Validated, he didn’t let up. “Octavia.”

Try as she might, she couldn’t do it twice. Sonata had called her name so desperately, once. Four syllables had been enough to plead for her life. It was a wasted effort, in the end. In a perfect world, the acolyte would still treasure the Blessed City. In a perfect world, she would’ve died instead. It should’ve been her.

“What?” Renato asked, abruptly parting his forehead from her own in surprise. Ever so slowly, his own eyes were beginning to flood with their own unique flavor of panic.

Oh. She’d said it out loud.

She could feel his hands begin to tremble against her hot skin. “Oct--”

“What are you doing?”

The speed with which Renato’s head snapped towards the door was, finally, enough to startle Octavia. His hands stilled, pressed somewhat more firmly against either side of her head with renewed conviction against their intruder. It didn’t hurt.

“Are you insane? Get off of--”

Renato twisted his body at just the right angle for Octavia to peer over his shoulder. Viola, fists curling against either side of her nightgown, immediately fizzled out in the face of Octavia’s unwavering distress. She watched the way Viola’s expression of abject rage melted away, replaced rapidly with pain and confusion. Her hands, fuming of their own accord just moments ago, unfurled in turn. Their shimmering eyes were about to match.

“Either shut the damn door or do something!” Renato snapped, glaring daggers at the Maestra.

Viola did neither. Instead, she darted, leaving the door opened wide and the room just as vulnerable. Octavia fell somewhere between relief and bereavement, for how her suffering had been so suddenly dismissed. It was one less person who’d see her crumble. It was one of the worst people who could desert her, all the same. Her entire existence ached. The constant warmth of Renato’s body heat radiating so closely meant little. Everything meant nothing.

She loathed the way the room was spinning, her vision steadily blurring further and further with the bong of every bell. Logically, it couldn’t have been more than a minute by now. Inside, it had been hours. It had been years. It had been Octavia’s fourth eternity in the span of a month. With her eyes, futile as she knew the gesture to be, she hurled her usual plea at Renato. She wasn’t used to sharing it, nonverbal or otherwise.

Make it stop, she begged wordlessly. She knew he couldn’t.

Renato doubled down instead, huddling closer as he united their foreheads once more. “I’m not gonna leave ‘til it’s over, okay? I told you. Just hang in there, please, I’ll--”

For how intolerably every bell could ring, there came something louder, sudden enough to make both of them jump. The surprise movement left their foreheads colliding somewhat painfully, and she winced. The shrill sound that pierced the air took precedence, abundant and rich as it scraped every corner. It was crystalline, if not wildly disorienting. The noise stung her skin, and the sharp melody it came with tore through her heart. In every conceivable way, it was overwhelming. Each sense failed her at once.

Her blurring eyes wandered. For what haze she could conquer, it left a stagnant bow and a glistening flute. Silver Brevada waged war against roaring bells, screaming back in its own right as Viola did the same. Even dizzy, Octavia didn’t once look away.

Renato’s iron grip on her faltered, his arms falling loosely to his sides as he rested on his heels. She hadn’t realized how tightly he’d embraced her in the first place. He, too, could only watch as a raging song exploded from beyond relentless lips. Never once had Octavia witnessed the Maestra play so viciously before, her face splashed with red and her shoulders heaving.

It didn’t stop her fingers from flying along every key, her feverish song ravaging Octavia’s eardrums almost painfully. Every sharpened note stabbed her in turn, and she didn’t quite hate it. In a way, it was refreshing. She almost welcomed it. It kept the bells away.

More than anything, that much was true. It kept the bells away. That was all that mattered, for how she found nothing else.

Viola screeched into Silver Brevada for long enough that Octavia feared she’d faint. If the vivid red staining her face meant anything, her concerns deepened by the second. It wasn’t until the bells had surrendered that the Maestra, too, stemmed her song. It left her gasping, and she nearly stumbled in the process of steadying herself in the doorway.

The bells would return, to be fair. She’d have her acolytes back, twisted and mangled. Right now, she didn’t. Right now, bitter tears traded pain for relief as they dripped onto the covers. Devoid of words and hunting for breath, Octavia found them mirrored in Viola’s gaze. It was a different kind of hurt entirely, unshed or not as they shimmered in wait.

Renato’s eyes drifted upwards, initially. They fell leftwards, rightwards, downwards in turn. In every direction, he stared without words. It took the Maestras more than a moment to follow his line of sight. How they’d completely missed the frost, splattered and clinging to every conceivable surface, was beyond Octavia.

Opaque ice, newly-born and shining beneath the peeking morning rays, lay glossed over nightstands and windowsills. Just barely, scattered bits of flaking snow speckled the foot of her covers. It was a mess, and it took effort to keep from kicking at it. She could’ve sworn the temperature had dipped, somewhat. Octavia burrowed into her blankets slightly more, leaning into Renato in a search for shared body heat. He didn’t resist.

He didn’t keep his mouth shut, either. That much was expected. Renato lifted one pointed finger aloft towards crawling frost plaguing the ceiling. “You, uh, meant to do that?”

Viola winced, pulling Silver Brevada near to her heart. “I…it doesn’t matter.”

“You gonna be around for a while?” he asked.

“Definitely,” she answered without hesitation, her voice trembling somewhat.

Oxygen was sweet, if not sparse. It didn’t make finding words any easier, even as her heartbeat slowed to something tolerable. She traded panic for embarrassment, more than self-conscious and ill for another reason altogether. Renato, at the very least, she’d seen at his lowest. To shatter before him wasn’t particularly fun, and yet an even exchange all the same. Viola was another issue entirely, the door still thrown wide open at her back. She cast her eyes downwards, yet more leftover tears splattering against the covers.

The firm touch atop her head startled her. Still, she settled into it, content to let Renato stroke her hair gently. It was comforting in a way she hadn’t expected. Even with Viola watching, she didn’t especially care. He smelled faintly of pine, a somewhat-amusing confirmation that he slept cloaked in cologne.

“You gonna be okay if I go?” Renato murmured.

Her eyes widened in fear at the thought. “You said you’d stay with me.”

He flinched. “I-I know, but Viola can help you more than I can. I can’t do a damn thing.”

“How long?” Viola asked, her tentative voice nearly a whisper.

Renato shrugged, his attention still offered to Octavia alone. “I dunno, a few more times in the next couple hours. Also, close the door already, geez.”

It was Viola’s turn to flinch. She obliged, at last sealing off seeping grief from the outside world. “Sorry.”

Renato rolling his eyes at Viola, for once, surely confirmed that the universe had turned upside-down. In any other circumstance, Octavia might’ve been laughing hard enough to choke. At the moment, she likely would’ve choked if she spoke in more than one-sentence intervals.

“I’m sorry,” he reassured gently. “I’ll stay. I just wish I could do more.”

His words eased exactly one weight that crushed her. Viola was the last person who’d bring her discomfort. Even so, she hardly had the strength to share her burden with another right now--let alone more than one. He knew. He’d been there, and she’d seen as much. If she had the choice, she’d prefer him, poisoned as he was.

“We could…get out of the house,” Viola tried, her voice once more practically inaudible.

It was a surprise when Renato didn’t resist. “That’s honestly not a bad idea. We don’t have to do anything tough today if you don’t want to, but it won’t be as loud if we go. Do you feel up to getting out of bed?”

Octavia fell silent for a moment. “I…don’t know.”

“I mean, we’ve got like, what, at least two hours until the next one, right? Let’s just…try.”

Part of her didn’t want to. Everything hurt, both mentally and physically. Still, their gazes were expectant. If she locked eyes with either one long enough, she doubted she’d find “no” as a viable answer. Reluctantly, she nodded.

“You want me to make you breakfast?” he offered, fighting to feign a grin.

“You can’t cook,” Viola grumbled.

Once more, Renato rolled his eyes, throwing his head back and groaning with great exaggeration. “You have absolutely no knowledge of my cooking skills. I bet you can’t cook.”

“I can cook.”

“Liar. Prove it.”

“I’ll prove it to everyone but you. I’ll burn everything that touches your plate and your plate only.”

“Because you can’t cook.”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

“You know what? Pick a damn dish,” Renato spat.

“Pancakes.”

He sighed. “Pancakes,” he repeated. “Seriously?”

Viola ignored him altogether, her eyes cast well over his shoulders. She smiled softly, crossing her arms.

“Pancakes?” Viola asked Octavia alone.

Octavia couldn’t smile. Her thoughts were still a churning mess, by which she would drown if she didn’t cling to the words of another. Emotion was too much of a trial. The degree to which she felt drained left her strongly reconsidering her agreement to begin the day. Still, it was almost an equal obligation to at least acknowledge their efforts.

“Pancakes,” she croaked hoarsely, her throat dry.

Water, too, would’ve been just as ideal. Regardless, the small satisfaction she felt with Viola remembering one of her favorite foods was offset strongly by a tiny, newborn fear of Renato absolutely annihilating it.

He wasn’t lying. He could cook.

It was the first time in weeks that anyone besides Madrigal had stepped up to the pan. To Octavia’s incredible surprise, Renato’s skills with batter and an open flame almost stacked up to his girlfriend’s talents. She was learning quite a few new things about him lately. Comfort food aside, anticipation was fourfold and smiling. Their expectations for a productive day were obvious, collectively.

Octavia was simultaneously grateful for the encouragement to leave her room and distressed by the burden of--provided she was reading the room properly--continuing the soul-crushing work of yesterday. Fluffy, Selbright-style pancakes did little to alleviate the chronic knot that had taken up permanent residence in her stomach. She had at least three tolls openly accessible, if she was counting correctly.

Four, if she could figure out a loophole for Etherion. Six, if she wasn’t a coward.

Her involuntary habit of timing the lull between services did no favors for her growing anxiety. It left her fidgeting almost constantly as she waited for them to prepare for the lengthy day ahead. It took a long time. It took longer than usual, honestly, and she was getting frustrated. Every second wasted put her closer to agonizing tolling once more. Either they hurried, or she bolted. She’d get her distance somehow, and they were running out of time to decide.

When all five were finally gathered at the entrance, Octavia resisted the urge to berate them. She tried to appreciate their smiles in exchange, double-sided as they were. Every indiscernible concoction of genuine happiness and burning pity seeped into her skin, and she shied away from their bright eyes as soon as she’d met them.

She practically leapt from the threshold at the first opportunity, indifferent to those that paled in speed by comparison. For how she’d been offered relaxation today, she’d rejected it in turn. If she was going to leave, productivity was her only option. Dying was better than living through this.

With the pink-tinted sun still climbing the horizon, the temperate weather was a glorious relief from the four stagnant walls of her room. Octavia's initial vigor at actually making it out of the house settled into complacency to be led. She was fine with embracing what solace she could find as a follower, given that she’d be chained by the shackles of leadership again soon enough.

She trailed absentmindedly behind Harper and Madrigal, their own bright auras somewhat enviable. So, too, was she jealous of their delight. Their words were distorted, their voices murky at best. She was underwater, and she drowned in their wake. If she reached out, she wondered if one would turn and save her.

What salvation she’d find in the depths of sorrow strode parallel on either side. Renato and Viola weren’t subtle. Her peripheral vision was more than enough to catch concerned peering and delicate observation. If she stared long enough, she’d earn a wave. Sometimes, it was a smile. Fragility warranted surveillance, apparently, and it was her fault for craving support in the first place--fleeting and desperate as the need had been. In air unplagued by bells, she battled a different discomfort entirely. She found no words to snap at them. It wasn’t even their fault.

It left her eyes chasing the back of one person steeped in silence. His, at least, seemed tranquil. From what she knew of him, she wondered if it was a genuine silence. Either immune or ignorant to the loaded atmosphere, Josiah was content. His footsteps were predictable, and it was one distraction. Octavia fell in line with them, her eyes trailing the grass instead. It kept them away from her assigned guardians, if nothing else.

She followed for too long, maybe. It took more time than it should’ve to acknowledge the soft earth beneath her feet. What should’ve been smashed deep into the dirt was instead fresh and undisturbed, devoid of debris altogether. Rich soil peppered with sprouts and buds spoke to little of explosive chaos, regenerating under the warm embrace of summer. They were still bound for the forest, and she was positive of that much. The maple trees were unmistakable, and she was certainly beyond Coda.

Still, she could’ve sworn it was further. The rosy splashes of morning had given way to blue skies overhead, and the sun had ascended between the fluffy clouds that remained. Renato led, usually, for how his unfortunate masterpiece lay at the end. If not him, then herself. Their current guides were new. They were probably lost.

Her theory grew stronger with the advent of trickling water, distant as the sound came. The unofficially-titled “Renato Crater” harbored none--lest it have become a lake, at that point. Every step forward left the noise ever louder, and not one of the five seemed to care. Her emotional exhaustion took precedence, in the end. Octavia kept her mouth shut. One of them would figure it out eventually.

Eventually never came. What she earned instead was collective complacency, crowned by a clearing of another flavor altogether. It spoke to nothing of floral graveyards and cherry-flavored disasters. It came with a river, and a river came with tranquil, aquatic ambience.

The riverbed itself was lovely in its own right. Splattered with stones, that which escaped beaming warmth was blessed with the looming shade of generous birch. Every passing breeze was a gift, her braids rustling in time with plush grass and delicate leaves. Abundantly green, gray, and blue in equal measure, it was a sweet view she could appreciate. Lost or not, she wouldn’t have minded stopping.

“We’re here,” Madrigal said, coming to a standstill.

Maybe they were stopping.

Renato whistled. “One hell of a view. Hate to say it, but this place puts my spot to shame a bit.”

“Literally anything would,” Josiah mumbled. “Place was a hot mess.”

“It’s got shade,” Viola said with a nod. “I was worried about that.”

“Have you tried learning how to tan?” Harper teased.

“I hate you.”

“Uh,” Octavia began, raising one hand hesitantly, “where is ‘here’, exactly?”

“Josiah, put your crap down, let’s go already,” Renato groaned, sliding his arms out of his vest with notable effort.

Delicately, he withdrew each of his prosthetics through the holes, every motion sparing sleek wood from rough fabric. Why in the world he was in the process of undressing was far beyond Octavia. She wondered if she should look away.

The gracelessness with which Josiah practically flung his messenger bag against the base of a helpless oak was startling. Every last one of his belongings jostled together in one uniform clink as they landed. He delved into the process of unbuttoning his shirt. “Be patient, damn, I’m working on it.”

“Work on it faster,” Renato answered instantly. By now, he, too, was crawling out of his undershirt with care.

“Also, what the hell are they doing?” Octavia hissed to no one in particular.

Viola laid her own belongings alongside Josiah’s with far more tenderness. Silver Brevada’s case came to rest neatly amongst canvas and fabric, a pile slowly growing with each passing second. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, offering a shy smile devoid of eye contact.

“We thought maybe we’d change things up a bit today,” Viola offered.

“Josiaaaaah,” Renato whined, tackling his belt with careful positioning of his fingers.

He’d gotten good at managing fine motor tasks recently, from what she’d seen. Regardless, Octavia drew the line at pants. Shirtless Renato was tolerable. Pantsless Renato was too much for her to handle. She averted her eyes in embarrassment, growing more baffled by the moment.

“You’re not even done!” Josiah yelled, balancing precariously on one foot as he slipped off a shoe.

“We thought maybe we could…take things easy, or work on tolls, whatever you wanted. Maybe both. We could do some tolls and then take a break afterwards, regroup, relax, anything. A change of scenery is always nice, right?” Viola continued.

Octavia squeezed her hands together anxiously. “Viola…I--”

“Are those my father’s?” Viola suddenly shouted, her fingers curling into furious fists.

Renato’s eyes flickered down to his legs before he offered her the courtesy of his full attention. “I mean, yeah.”

“Seriously? You’re going through his closet again? Go out and buy your own clothes, idiot!”

“Your grandma said it was fine!” Renato exclaimed, throwing his arms high in exasperation.

“You can’t just--Josiah!”

Her eyes fell to a different boy entirely. Much the same, he bore his skin to the world in full, save for a similar pattern clinging to his lower body. Under the same judgmental stare, he could do little but shrug.

“I didn’t remember to get swim trunks,” he confessed.

Viola rubbed her temples. “My father’s room is not a shopping mall,” she growled, her voice shaking with the poor efforts of restraining ire.

“Okay, the man barely has any clothes, and you let Maddie take stuff from your mom’s room all the time!” Renato argued.

“That’s different!”

“I’m not involved in this,” Josiah said with a sharp exhale, merging with the cool waters of the river. With little but a small splash, he effortlessly surrendered to the rippling current, dipping his head backwards as he wet his hair.

“Don’t ignore me!” Viola snapped.

“As you can see,” Harper said gently, “we’re going swimming today.”

His sudden appearance at her side was enough to make Octavia jump somewhat. His own doffing of his belongings had mostly completed the now-towering pile of Maestro-flavored possessions beneath the shady birch nearby. She was fairly certain there was room for a backpack and a violin, provided it wasn’t already expected. Instead, all she could do was stare, more than overstimulated within moments of arrival.

“Viola made lunch, too,” he continued, smiling as one hand settled onto either hip. “Muttered about ‘knowing how to cook’ most of the morning. God knows why.”

Octavia’s mouth twitched. She swallowed a tiny smile of her own. “She planned all of this?”

To her surprise, Harper shook his head, his bangs brushing against his cap. “Actually, it was Madrigal’s idea.”

She followed his eyes. Another tree entirely guarded a stray Maestra, peeling her sundress carefully over abundant curls and buns. Haphazardly-discarded green gave way to stripes and frills, one singular piece of clothing that did justice to her grace at every angle. Madrigal carried her sandals with greater care, hooking either thong beneath her fingers as she poked the water with her toes. Touched by the playful sting of the chilled current, she yelped with a laugh.

She caught Octavia’s gaze, returning a brilliant beam. It came with a severed V upon her eyes in turn, two parted fingers a sight that Octavia hadn’t caught in some time. When Octavia only continued to stare, Madrigal didn’t shy away. Instead, her radiant smile softened into something sweeter. It was a different kind of warmth entirely. No attempts to offer a “thank you” with her eyes were successful. Octavia settled on a smile of her own instead, scrambled as it was.

“Damn, lookin’ good, Maddie!” Renato called, his own face split wide with a grin.

That was enough to steal Madrigal’s smile, at least. Infatuated giggles took its place as she swooned, her cheeks dusting scarlet and her eyes sparkling. It was equal parts excessive and endearing. The sight was enough to genuinely get a chuckle out of Octavia.

“Can I take your stuff for you?” Harper offered, arms outstretched and waiting.

She thought to refuse, and yet relented anyway. Surrendering Stradivaria left her physically light, for how the absence of tolling left her heart light in turn. She heard nothing but happiness and tranquility, bells banished at her back. They’d gone through this much on her behalf. It was the least she could do to take on the day, and she borrowed what warmth they radiated.

“Are you gonna swim, too?” Octavia asked.

Harper chuckled nervously. “Nah, not much of a swimmer. Fire and water don’t exactly mix well, you know.”

She, in turn, giggled at the pun. She debated addressing the actual agenda, for how its shadow awaited at her feet. Bright eyes or not, there was no way they’d solely expected to swim. Given yesterday, they had to know. She had options. Two of them, in particular, sat squarely in her line of fire. One was in front of her. One was currently starstruck.

If she peered over the water’s surface, perhaps she could find yet a third trapped in a rippling reflection. The choice was there whenever she wanted--both of them. The thought alone still left her ill, Stradivaria’s body a variable box of truths and secrets she feared witnessing. She’d only witnessed two tolls ever, to be fair. “Needing more experience” was serving as a solid excuse, at the moment.

That left either the kind-hearted boy or the heroic girl to take the next hit.

“Do you…want to do your tolls today?” Octavia asked, more directly than intended.

Harper stiffened. It wasn’t subtle. “I…we can. If you want, I mean. Get it out of the way.”

The distress in his eyes was just as visible, and it stung her heart. “We don’t have to,” she said hurriedly.

Again, he shook his head. “We have to do it eventually.”

“You’re keeping the hat on? Seriously?” Josiah’s voice came.

From the riverbed, Renato stretched dramatically, loosening his limbs with great--if not exaggerated--effort. “You can pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

Josiah smirked.

Renato flinched. “Oh, you’re a sick man, you know that?”

Dark or not, it was enough for something to click. Octavia’s feet moved before her mouth, and she nearly slipped on the smooth stones beneath her boots as she ran. “Wait a minute, Renato, wait!”

He froze, thankfully, the confusion on his face notwithstanding. Not one drop of water grazed him. Wordlessly, he did as he was told.

She took one wooden hand tenderly into her own, tracing each facet with careful fingertips. She turned, pushed, and pulled, bringing cherry oak near to her eyes in a search for cracks and crevices. She’d already suspected the lacquer was high-quality, the finish equally so. On sight, it seemed sufficient to withstand moisture, if not submersion. Actually testing the hypothesis was concerning. She was fairly certain he didn’t bathe with his prosthetics on--at least, he better not have been trying to.

Up close, it satisfied her. Really, the craftsmanship was lovely enough that she would’ve strangled him if he ruined them. She wouldn’t bother trying to convince him to swim without the prosthetics. If nothing else, they’d hold up against a streaming river.

Octavia finally exhaled. “Okay. I just wanted to see if the wood would be alright in the water. You have to be careful with the--”

She looked up. He was blushing--hard.

She found a different flavor of silence entirely in every direction. Four people were left to watch as she tenderly stroked and fondled Renato’s hands, heads tilted and eyebrows raised. When her eyes flickered down, she was still clinging. Her fingertips pressed against the smooth wood of his false palms, her grip tight and unwavering. Why it never occurred to her to let go, she had absolutely no idea. It was definitely compromising. He wasn’t the only one blushing.

“I-I, uh, I appreciate the inspection, Miss Expert,” Renato joked nervously.

His playful, half-hearted shaking of either hand did nothing to loosen her grasp. He found no success, and she found no words.

“You good?” he whispered, just barely loud enough for her alone.

“Madrigal’s gonna kill me,” Octavia whispered back. “For real this time.”

From her current angle, she couldn’t see Madrigal to begin with. Frankly, she was afraid to. Her unwillingness to actually release the Maestra’s boyfriend wasn’t doing her any favors.

Renato only laughed, lingering red still blossoming across his face. “You keep holdin’ on like that and I’m pulling you into the water with me.”

The threat was enough to make Octavia stumble, and she freed his hands at last. “S-Sorry.”

He grinned. “I’m good to swim, then?”

“Just be careful not to damage them. Try not to be too rough or bump into stuff,” she said with slightly more composure.

That was enough for him, apparently. A subsequent shrug and a nod were the only precursors of him sprinting--and jumping, and splashing, and just barely missing her with the collateral damage of displaced water. He hadn’t lost his acrobatic prowess, at the very least. She smiled.

“If you want to swim, I brought you a swimsuit, too,” Viola offered, shaking droplets of misplaced water out of her hair simultaneously. She, too, was doffing her flats one by one, her socks following suit shortly after.

“You’re gonna swim?”

Viola leaned onto her shoulder in the process, the sudden and weighted burden of support briefly compromising Octavia’s own balance. Asking first would’ve been nice. “Maybe. I’m just putting my feet in for now.”

Octavia sighed. It was an enviable thought. Still, the knowledge of the task at hand was an all-consuming itch that needed no reminding--prompted by Muses or otherwise. “I should…probably do more tolls. You said that’s what this was supposed to help with, right?”

Viola’s face fell. “I mean, yes, but we can always space it out. There’s no rush.”

“Harper offered. Sorta. He said we can get it over with today.”

“You’re gonna take him up on that?”

Octavia nodded. “It’s either that or--”

“Octavia?”

Every gentle tap against the stones below drew her attention instead. Devoid of sandals or not, Madrigal handled the slippery surface with impressive skill. Her arms were full, and it wasn’t the water’s surface alone that sparkled so resplendently. The chill of the drifting stream, too, contrasted with the warmth of her smile.

“Did you know this is the same river that runs behind the Talludo Inn?” she asked, cradling Lyra’s Repose against her chest. “It branches in the direction of Coda, and curves back out towards the north. You can follow it all the way to Whitebrook, if you really wanted to.”

Octavia tilted her head. “Where’s Whitebrook?”

She beamed. “That’s where my brothers live. Some of them.”

Octavia nodded in turn. “I…heard you picked out this place for today.”

“I’m gonna go put my feet in the water,” Viola said abruptly, patting Octavia’s shoulder.

Octavia never had the chance to object. Damp as the riverbed was, the Maestra didn’t dare run. Still, she made for company yet more lively with surprising urgency. It left inexplicable discomfort, augmented only by inexplicable actions. It left Octavia with a heroine and vague suspicions. She fought the urge to call for Viola once more. It would delay the inevitable, if nothing else.

“This place is special to me,” Madrigal began. “This river is special to me. We’re closer to Minuevera right now than we are to Coda. I’ve been here a few times to wash vegetables, although I usually only do that out back at home. Sometimes I need a change of pace, too.”

As to where this was going, it no longer matched her guess. She folded her hands together, drinking in every word.

“This river brought me something special, just like that chest in Silver Ridge brought you something special.”

Octavia’s eyes widened. “You remembered about that?”

Madrigal beamed. “I wouldn’t forget that. Stratos is my friend, too.”

It was Octavia’s turn to smile. “And…Lyra is my friend, just the same.”

Madrigal was quiet for a moment. “I figure…there’s no better place to do this. If you would have me.”

There it was. “Do you mean--”

She was dramatic about it, and that shouldn’t have been a surprise. Lyra’s Repose nearly hit Octavia in the chest, for how fast the Spirited Maestra thrust the glimmering harp before her. “Mighty Ambassador, I, the Magical Madrigal Talludo, stand before you. I humbly beg your assistance to defeat the forces of darkness in tandem, and to free my Muse from the shackles of her toll. Together, we will do what must be done!”

Octavia had to consciously resist the urge to laugh. “I…yeah, of course. I’ll witness your toll.”

Lyra got the message. Apparently, Octavia didn’t have to do anything.

The Muse’s sudden visage crowned Madrigal from on high, luminescent viridian shaming every speck of forest around them. A gorgeous view paled in comparison to an iridescent Lyra, showering her partner with grace just beyond two plush buns. Of them all, Octavia still considered her the most angelic. The outstretched arms and cascading brilliance along her back did little to impede the image. Madrigal never failed to embellish the Muse’s splendor, and that helped nothing. It was valid, to be fair.

“Are the…do the others have to be here, too?” Octavia asked, her eyes cast just above Madrigal’s head.

“It is not so. The toll is a burden shared solely between this child and yourself,” Lyra spoke, her tone gentle despite what was to come. “Your companions need not attend.”

Octavia’s gaze flickered to the riverbed. If they were aware of Lyra’s presence, they made no indication of such. Instead, they indulged in much the same enjoyment with blissful ignorance to her impending death. She was going to die--again. They were surprisingly okay with it. For more reasons than one, the thought was extremely confusing.

“We kinda agreed to do each person one at a time, unless you want us all to be here,” Madrigal clarified. “I don’t know if it’s…weird for all of us to be staring at you at the same time. This felt more intimate.”

“I meant the Muses, actually.”

Lyra shook her head. “The toll of my own concerns them not. Their duty is to care for each of their own, and nothing more. Even so, child, would it ease your heart to have Stratos by your side for the Witnessing?”

Part of her voted instantly for a “yes”. Part of her knew she was clinging to him. It was becoming hazardous. Against her better judgment, Octavia declined with a shake of her own head. “I’ll be fine,” she lied.

“Are you prepared, then, Ambassador?”

Absolutely not.

“Yes.”

“We can do it, Octavia!” Madrigal cheered.

Were it anyone else, the enthusiasm immediately prior to her death would’ve been almost insensitive. Still, for what heroine believed in her, she found only warmth. Madrigal had been onto something, in terms of intimacy. Alone, she was comfortable. She smiled.

“We can do anything together, tolls or not! As long as we’re a team, we’ll get through it. Now that we have our fearless leader back, we’re unstoppable!”

Octavia blinked.

“I’ve…always been here,” she said.

Madrigal’s beaming smile softened into something delicate, Lyra’s Repose still extended before her. “But now you’re back to the Octavia we know. We’re all glad that you’re feeling better!”

Her heart cracked.

“I know we…went through a lot of stuff. I think everybody needed some time to think about what happened. It took longer for some people than others, and that’s okay.”

It splintered.

“We wanted to give you your space for a while.”

It could’ve shattered.

“But now we’re here, and we’re all back together again! No matter how hard things get, we’ll always have each other. We can’t do this without you, you know?”

It did, somewhat.

And when she beamed again, it was no longer packed with sunshine. It was aflame, searing, scorching in a way that burnt holes in her soul. It was unintentional. It didn’t matter. “We’re happy that you’re okay.”

She wasn’t.

She wasn’t.

She wasn’t.

How could she be?

“Ready?”

She meant the toll. It was a double-sided word regardless.

“Octavia?”

As to how long five sets of patient lips had swallowed the question, she was horrified to ask. Four, for how one had shared in her suffering. Days, at best. Weeks, at worst. It was a new kind of pain altogether. She was collecting them lately.

“Oc…tavia?”

It took far, far more than a moment to reacclimate to the world that was Madrigal’s voice. She could feel the hurt that splashed her own face, strained and stiff. If she was lucky, she could feign anxiety. In light of a faltering smile on the lips of a heroine, she deflected. It was the best her breaking heart could do.

“D-Do you have any idea who your toll is, exactly?”

They traded.

The shift was instant and jarring. Where a smile had slipped, it now faded altogether. Dying eyes accompanied a loose grip around glimmering gold. Madrigal tilted her head, her hollow gaze never once parting from Octavia’s own. Every breath rattled. If the warmth between them had already been tainted, then it now grew toxic in turn.

“Madrigal Talludo, your toll has been paid once over. Now, Ambassador, see through the eyes of the one who paid the toll.”

Lyra didn’t spare them. If she felt the same poison herself, she didn’t show it. Permission granted from a Muse or otherwise, it was a Maestra alone from whom Octavia sought consent.

“Madrigal?” Octavia offered. “Let’s…do this together, right?”

The words almost burned on the way out, for how their context had been tainted. Still, Madrigal was of notable concern. At the very least, the Spirited girl had the capacity to nod, her hollow smile forced enough to leave her skin taut.

“Let’s do this,” Madrigal said, her voice deceivingly vibrant. “Together.”

Octavia refrained from pressing further, confused or not. Her raised hands trembled, and not for fear of death alone. Madrigal’s own did the same as they clutched Lyra’s Repose in turn. Plunging was preferable to easing in, and it left Octavia’s hands thrusting outwards to brush every copper string. Stumbling off the edge of the world, she nearly missed the whispered words that tumbled down into the dark with her.

“Don’t hate me, okay?”

◆ ◆ ◆

For the first time, her stranger wasn't a woman. Consciousness came with a masculine voice from her own throat. It accompanied rugged hands, physical labor, and hallmarks of masculinity she expected from rural life not unlike that of Silver Ridge. To inhabit such an unfamiliar body after “falling” was strange. The man was unfamiliar. He held a name she didn’t recognize, spoke a language she couldn’t understand, and was born of a land she couldn’t place.

The landscape spoke little to Mezzoria--from what she knew of it thus far, at least. As to whether or not he truly exceeded its borders, she was unsure. Discrepancies in gender or otherwise, every fragment was almost nostalgic versus those she’d seen before. She found childhood joys and the happier tribulations of young adulthood. She found a loving father, a gentle mother, and what adoring companionship came in between. He was a stranger all the same, and Octavia had little with which to empathize. It was a running theme. Still, from afar, she silently blessed his satisfaction.

And he was, in every way, a true stranger. He didn’t resemble Madrigal in any capacity--her hair, her skin, her linguistic fluency, and every last feature was forsaken. He wasn’t a relative, and of that much, Octavia was certain. Whatever connected the two was beyond her. She would learn soon enough, to be fair. It hadn’t stopped her from speculating both times before.

As to the tolls of the others, Octavia had at least vague guesses. Viola’s had been obvious enough upon entry. The untimely victims of Vincent Vacanti’s Dissonant assault were sure to await within, and it had been no surprise. She had no solid proof of Harper’s, although they were excruciatingly suspicious. She had a feeling, for what she knew of him, and that was enough--provided sickening violet had somehow plagued those he’d cherished most. Etherion spoke for itself, all but confirmed. Renato was immune. It was another crisis for another time. The Ambassador’s trial was outlined in blood, and that which stained Stradivaria in turn was all too obvious. So deep in the dark, she refused to think about either of them.

This left Madrigal, and exclusively Madrigal.

It wasn’t that she knew nothing about the girl, for how they’d conquered far too much in unison. She was The Magical Madrigal, hostess of the Talludo Inn and liberator of the darkness. She was Spirited, blessed with precious winds and a brilliant smile. In her arms came Lyra’s Repose, just as beloved as Lyra herself. She utterly adored Renato, a hopeless romantic as she was. She spoke eight languages. She had siblings--brothers. Each member of her family bore buns. She liked cats. She hailed from Minuevera.

That was it.

Her toll was entirely a mystery. The uncertainty was agonizing, even if the revelation would come soon enough. His relationship to Madrigal was a nightmare to speculate upon, and she did so for far longer than she should’ve. For every second her stranger’s life unfolded in peace, her heart beat ever faster to compensate. Waiting for the puzzle pieces to click was the worst part.

He lost his work. He did so twice, then thrice over. He fell short often enough to insult his craft, by which blacksmithing earned him nothing. Hard work was useless to provide, whether for himself or others. Were Octavia not a woodworker’s daughter, she perhaps would’ve envied his skilled hands. As it was, she pitied his crisis instead. His distress set the pendulum of misfortune into motion, and her racing heart cracked ever further. He had enough bad memories. Bad memories came with a problem. Ideally, this would go anywhere but there.

The whims of fate left him wandering, failure to provide driving him far from home. It was just as unproductive, and Octavia ached more for her stranger with every flash. Each town offered nothing. Each day brought no success.

So, too, was he luckless amongst greenery, betrayed by ripe produce that towered in his wake. The bounties of nature, cultivated and exported en masse, meant nothing to hands that cradled steel. He sought lodging. He found it. Kindness came with graceful maturity, abundant curls crowned by fluffy buns as the mature woman guided his way.

Oh.

The fragment that followed betrayed the warmth of an inn, traded for crisp air and rushing waters. Octavia knew the river. She even knew the adjacent hill, an instant reminder of a crisis she’d never forget. She didn’t need wispy violet, nor toxic pores to classify every unnatural movement. He had his dejection. He had his turmoil and suffering. She’d caught enough of his memories, and she should’ve seen it coming.

Visible or not, it was her first time Dissonant through the eyes of another. He’d be swallowed by it, maybe. How that tethered him to Madrigal was beyond Octavia. If nothing else, she could take a guess as to the girl’s mother, visualized not long ago. They were the only threads she could string together.

He never surrendered to personal agony. For the first time during the Witnessing, words of merit and meaning graced her stolen ears.

You, who’ve been swallowed by darkness incarnate, I am your liberator!

She knew the voice, and she knew it well.

Soft, crystalline notes blessed the air, breathing a rippling wind into the chilled depths of night. She knew the harp, and she knew it extremely well.

Through blurring vision that steadily faded into the dark, the moon above left the scene nearly mirrored. There were differences, granted. The thought of liberation was horrifying, for how she knew the process to go. She knew what was coming, and the Ambassador was powerless to flee. Octavia couldn’t flinch, nor turn, nor hide in any capacity from the roaring tempest that barreled down her stranger’s throat. Her one blessing was the lack of sensation, and yet it didn’t stem his struggling. It was a new kind of agony in place of violet.

He flailed wildly, choking and gasping as he clawed at a throat unseen. Scraping fingernails drew blood. The Maestra had once insisted that gushing wind strangling suffering was painless, if not accompanied by amnesia. For Octavia’s peace of mind, she better have been correct. This was borderline barbaric. As to how Dissonant he truly was, Octavia didn’t want to know.

Wait, stop!

Madrigal’s frantic voice erupted in time with more scarlet, albeit from within. He was coughing, every sputter excessive in a way that left him splattered with red. He couldn’t cry out. He couldn’t move. Even now, he could hardly see, his sight blighted by another agony entirely. His pain was twofold and inescapable, his desperate clawing at broken skin never once ceasing. The sound of screaming wind was unbearable, rushing through his ears and reverberating through his entire being.

No, no, wait, wait, wait!

His body jerked upwards, impossibly high to such a degree that he was lifted from the ground.

Lyra, help me!

And his vision, along with roughly one-third of his insides, came with it.

◆ ◆ ◆