Harmony

Octavia once more managed to maintain her footing when she came to, this time utterly still and resisting so much as a stumble. It was the most oriented she’d been coming out of the other side of a toll thus far. Were it not for the nature of the task, it could’ve been a point of pride. Still, it didn’t keep her hands from immediately darting to her throat, clutching at her skin in a vice grip as she choked and gagged.

The momentary wave of nausea that came crashing down led her to fear that she might accidentally vomit on Lyra’s Repose. She didn’t, and it was an immense relief. The deep breaths she swallowed, praising any god who would listen for the existence of oxygen, weren’t quite enough to erase the scarring imagery that put Vincent Vacanti’s rampage to shame. Eyes wide and horrified, she couldn’t so much as begin to imagine whatever Madrigal saw on her face at the moment.

Don’t hate me, okay?

She could never. Even so, it was a sight she doubted she could divorce from the Maestra--any time in the near future, at least. Under no circumstances would she say so.

She didn’t need to, if the look on Madrigal’s face was anything to go by. The bright smile burying dead eyes did nothing to fool her. Slowly, Madrigal withdrew Lyra’s Repose, pulling the harp back into her own arms and away from the speechless Ambassador. The way by which that smile never faltered, empty as it was, was in and of itself highly unsettling.

With the sound of her companions’ happiness on the riverbed thousands of miles away, Octavia’s racing thoughts settled into tangible camaraderie. It was every bit as disgusting as it was comforting. She was no longer the only murderer in her friend circle. In terms of brutality, she might’ve even had competition.

“Madrig--”

Any words pertaining to the thought, begging for affirmation or otherwise, were cut short by a finger pressed to her trembling lips. Madrigal’s hand trembled in its own way.

“Everyone…makes mistakes. Let’s keep this a secret between friends, okay?”

When Octavia met Madrigal’s eyes, light had finally returned to her hollow pupils. Still, too, came tears unshed, her gaze glistening and swimming dangerously. Octavia had one million questions, all bound behind burning lips with the press of a single, pleading fingertip. Preservation of love outdid validation of pain. For as much as it stung, she swallowed her words. If she made Madrigal cry, she wasn’t sure how she’d live with herself.

She nodded, giving Madrigal apparent permission to lower her hand. “I…yeah. Yeah.”

With a soft smile of indiscernible emotion, Madrigal took several steps backwards, at last abandoning Octavia in silence. It was only seconds later that she was calling to the others, laughing and bantering in an atmosphere so unlike what had choked her moments before. Octavia couldn’t move, unable to do more than drink in joy she couldn’t reach.

She wasn’t sure what she disliked more--tolls she knew of and saw coming, or tolls she knew nothing of at all. That which was to follow sat somewhere in the middle, should her victim consent. She threw caution to the wind, opting to wash down the disgust of one toll with another. In the face of stolen camaraderie, it was the best she could do.

With conviction that she was certain wasn't genuine in the slightest, she clenched her fists, mustering heavy steps in the direction of company. The longer she stood alone, the more she risked a mental replay of her worst death so far. She wondered how many she’d collect by the end, shelved within the sickest library in her head.

“Your hat’s gonna fall off.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. There’s physically no way you can do it without your hat coming off. It’s not possible.”

Renato, hands on his hips and devoid of water, stood parallel to the riverbank. His eyes flickered upwards to his hat before returning to Josiah. “If I go fast enough, it won’t.”

“At the very least, it’s gonna get wet.”

He flicked the rim of the hat playfully with one pointed wooden finger. “It’ll dry. It’ll stay on, though, and I’ll be right, as always.”

Josiah scoffed, not devoid of a smirk, as he slowly drifted backwards along the current. With distance between himself and the shoreline, he cupped his hands over his mouth. “Prove it, then,” he called. “Let’s go!”

Renato grinned as he took several steps backwards. With his toes digging into the smooth pebbles below, he pushed hard, throwing the full weight of his body downwards and sideways onto his hands. Then backwards. Then upwards, then skyward, and again, until he was an acrobatic blur rising high over the river. He came down hard with a fierce splash, the full brunt of his impact slamming into Josiah’s face relentlessly. The boy sputtered, battling a sudden faceful of river.

Octavia winced at the way Renato was getting a bit too comfortable with pushing the limits of his prosthetics, both functionally and relative to preserving their craftsmanship. At the very least, Josiah genuinely enjoying himself brought a smile to her face. For all of her own stress, she liked to imagine today would do him some good, just the same. It was what he deserved.

“I told you!” he exclaimed, one finger speared at a lonely hat floating aimlessly along the surface. Renato eyed the way it drifted lazily in the wake of his impact, seemingly nonplussed.

“I mean, if I really wanted it to stay, it would’ve,” he explained with a shrug.

From the riverbed came a soft chuckle. Octavia found Harper beneath the shade of a tree, the thick canopy of summer-flavored greenery peering over the water’s surface and shoreline in equal measure. He lounged comfortably, one arm loosely draped over a propped-up knee as he watched on with contentment. Even if he didn’t plan to swim, he’d at least taken steps to roll his trousers halfway up his legs. It left him dry and mildly isolated. As Viola had done several yards to his left, perched casually against the riverbed, Octavia wondered if he’d be at least putting his feet in.

His mild sounds of amusement didn’t escape Renato. “What are you laughing at?”

“You,” he answered bluntly, offering a grin.

“Just admit you like me without the hat. Appreciate beauty when you see it,” Renato joked, tossing his saturated curls playfully.

Harper rested his cheek in one hand, bearing the weight of his face against his knee. “I’m not afraid to admit what I like.”

Renato’s face filled with blood so quickly that Octavia wondered if he would pass out. Her own very nearly did the same.

“I’m gonna pull you into the damn water if you don’t stop,” he muttered.

Harper laughed. “Seriously? You can dish it out, but you can’t take it? That’s kinda cute.”

Renato hurled an ample quantity of water in Harper’s general direction, scooping a chunk of the river into one hand and aiming squarely at the grinning Maestro. Retreating to the safety of Josiah’s vicinity did absolutely nothing to alleviate the scarlet torturing his cheeks.

Octavia laughed, too. She met Harper’s eyes, and he briefly laughed even harder. He finally composed himself, patting a spot in the shade beside him. She obliged.

“You’re missing out. They’ve got so much energy.”

“You don’t have any energy?” she asked, settling down next to him. Octavia was pleasantly surprised by how dry the stones beneath her were relative to the aquatic assault Renato had repaid Harper with.

Harper folded his arms against his knee, resting his head. “I get sleepy when it’s a really nice day like this. Shade doesn’t help much. Strongly considering taking a nap.”

Octavia sighed, tilting her head backwards. Her braids tapped lightly against the bark of the birch. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a nap, either.”

“How’d it go?”

“How’d what go?”

“You know, the…you know what.”

Octavia winced. Her distress, subtle as she believed it to be, apparently didn’t escape him.

“I-I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Harper added quickly.

Octavia pulled her knees up to her chest. “I’m…getting used to it, a little bit at a time. Doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

“I can’t imagine. I’m sorry you have to deal with all of this.”

He fell silent for a moment. She was fairly certain they were dodging the issue, although tackling it directly wasn’t an appealing idea. She tried anyway. “Do you…still want to do yours?”

It was Harper’s turn to wince.

“We don’t have to.”

“We do.”

“It doesn’t have to be today.”

“I think…logically, at least, I think the sooner we get it over with, the better. I can stop thinking about it.”

Octavia dragged her fingertips along the cool stones below absentmindedly. “Do you think about it a lot?”

Harper tangled his fingers together, fidgeting somewhat. “Can I tell you something?”

She nodded. “Of course. Anything.”

He hesitated before continuing, casting his gaze anywhere except adjacent to hers. “There’s…a lot that doesn’t make sense about how my parents died.”

“Your parents?”

Harper nodded in turn. “Yeah.”

“Do you…think they’re gonna be your toll? Tolls, I mean?”

“Up until Orleanna said there were two of them, I never would’ve thought so. That having been said, I can’t think of a single other person, let alone more than one in my life, that would get anywhere close to meeting that criteria. I don’t understand enough about Dissonance to rule it out entirely, either. It can possess people, right?”

“Kinda. You could call it that.”

“And make them do things they shouldn’t do? To other people?”

“Or just make them hurt themselves. It’s not always violent like that.”

Harper paused. “I wasn’t there when my parents--when my house burned down, I mean. I was somewhere else that night. I hadn’t come home yet. I didn’t see anything that happened, how it started, who was involved, any of it.”

“Who was…involved?” Octavia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The authorities were pretty sure it wasn’t an accident. I think someone tried to kill them. Did kill them, I mean,” he corrected uncomfortably. “I just don’t know for sure who burned my home to the ground, let alone why. I don’t know what either of them did wrong to deserve that. I’ve had to think about it every damn day for years.”

He turned to face her with shimmering eyes that hurt her heart. “I know you can imagine what that’s like, to have the truth to something that’s haunted you for so long just be…right there in front of you. I could reach out and touch it, and all of a sudden I’d know everything that keeps me up at night. It’s terrifying. Part of me wants to keep it hidden away.”

Octavia shook her head. “I don’t have to tell you what I see if you don’t want to know. I can keep it to myself. Is that what you’re worried about?”

Harper moved the slightest bit closer to her, their fingertips brushing together in the process. “It’s the opposite. I’m scared out of my mind, but I wanna know everything. I want you to tell me everything you see, every little detail. I need to know what happened to my parents, no matter how bad it really was.”

Octavia gulped. “No matter how bad?”

“No matter how bad,” he repeated. “I might not like it, but I need to hear it. I never thought I’d get this chance, and it’s a silver lining to a horrible situation--at least, for me. I don’t…know if that sounds selfish. I’m sorry to put this on you.”

Hesitantly, Octavia tapped her fingers against the back of his hand, draping her palm atop his skin in a feeble gesture of comfort. “I’ll do my best. I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

He smiled softly, a shaky expression tinged with sorrow that wasn't lost on her. “I…want you to go at your own pace, too, you know. Don’t burn yourself out on my account. You’re sure you’re okay doing this for me?”

“I have to see them anyway. It might make me feel better to actually talk about what I’m dealing with, here,” she rationalized.

“I…have her,” he began, lifting his concealed left hand. Freed from the obstructed view of his legs, Royal Orleans glistened gold between his fingers as it captured each of the sun’s straying beams in turn. “If you still wanted to do this now, I mean. If not, we can wait. It’s not a problem.”

“We can do it now,” Octavia answered, somewhat faster than intended. “It’s fine.”

Harper watched her expectantly. When she didn’t move, he faltered somewhat under her gaze. “I-I mean, do you prefer sitting or standing for this?”

“Standing,” she answered, already rising to her feet beneath the birch’s generous shade. “And bring Orleanna.”

“R-Right,” he stammered, following her lead.

For a moment, Harper closed his eyes, relaxing his muscles as he inhaled deeply. Whether related or not to the manner by which Orleanna, in all of her scarlet glory, fizzled into a luminous existence behind him, Octavia was unsure. Nevertheless, it left the small Muse adjacent to the two Maestros, her lower body rising just high enough above the ground to spare her from the damp stones below. Given her legacy, the irony drew a smirk out of Octavia.

“My presence was requested,” Orleanna spoke, her small voice as soft as ever.

Octavia nodded in Harper’s stead. “I’m ready.”

Harper did his best to nod along, his visible nerves notwithstanding. “Me, too. I think.”

Orleanna didn’t immediately grace him with an answer, or even a cue to start. Instead, her soft voice seemed to dim ever further. Are you positive?

Harper hesitated to answer. With the trumpet resting upon two clammy hands, Octavia wasn't ignorant to the sweat beading on the boy’s forehead and the tremors besieging his fingers. She was tempted to ask him the same, whether or not she knew the answer she’d get.

“Is there…any chance it could be someone else’s? Like, could both of those tolls be from whoever your last Maestro was?” he murmured under his breath in lieu of an affirmation.

A toll will be gathered during your lifetime alone.

Harper sighed. “I had a feeling it’d be something like that. That rule sucks.”

It took her a moment to realize Orleanna’s words had rung for too long in her ears, devoid of vibrations aloud. She was eavesdropping, and she kicked herself for it. She did what she could to atone through action, at the very least, given the way anxiety was plastered eternally upon his face.

Octavia rested her hands on either of Harper’s forearms, doing her best to avoid the vicinity of Royal Orleans itself. “What are you getting so worked up for? You’re not the one who’s about to die. Twice,” she teased.

He chuckled nervously. “I know, I know. I guess I should just…get it over with before I think about it too hard.”

Octavia offered him a smile--true and genuine, loaded with as much warmth as she could summon at the moment. Carrying Harper’s wishes into the dark would soften death’s embrace, hopefully. She offered one fleeting look towards the others, oblivious as they were. Madrigal had long since melted into their happiness, and it was one saving grace. How she could bounce back so quickly was beyond Octavia. She didn’t dwell on it. There was relief in the way by which the world had narrowed to herself and Harper alone. Prying eyes were absent, save for the interloping Willful Muse above.

“Harper Reed,” Orleanna began, “your toll has been paid twice over. Now, Ambassador, see through the eyes of the ones who paid the toll.”

Octavia inhaled sharply, gathering what breath she needed to dive into the dark. With tentative movements, one hand stretched in the direction of Royal Orleans. She never made it all the way to the brass.

“Octavia, wait a second.”

Octavia nearly froze in place, her hand suspended awkwardly in mid-air. “What’s up?”

“If you see a--”

Harper cut himself off abruptly, literally closing his mouth the moment words fled him in full. When Octavia only tilted her head, he settled into a gentle grin instead.

“Nevermind. I’ll tell you later. Do your best.”

She raised an eyebrow playfully. Still, she returned his smile. With a leap of faith in the form of fingers plunging swiftly downwards, Octavia made the conscious decision to die for the second time in an hour.

◆ ◆ ◆

She’d skipped childhood, apparently.

Whatever memories the man whose life she was intruding upon possessed, they didn’t stand out to any meaningful degree until at least young adulthood. There were none of the typical outings and youthful celebrations Octavia was accustomed to seeing in her other tolls. Through the Ambassador’s stolen eyes, the moments and memories that held enough merit to claim his heart began in the arms of another. She could hardly blame him. His beloved, seemingly, was wonderful in her own right.

Octavia didn’t dare make assumptions. Still, there were sandy blonde bangs. There were rippling blues of the softest sky reflected off her every gaze. Her dimples even curled and crinkled with unbridled happiness when she laughed so crystal clear. She was not only gorgeous, but the splitting image of her son in each and every way.

She’d forgotten to ask Harper for any indication of who she should be looking for during his tolls, any tells that his parents might reside adjacent to Orleanna’s hands. She didn’t need a voice, nor a birthmark, nor a grasp at identification that she otherwise would’ve had to scrape every inch of the scene for. She found it in her stranger’s arms, held close to her heart from the very beginning. The revelation was equally warming and damning, her heart sinking just as quickly as it had risen. There was little to celebrate, knowing the end that was to come.

Her stranger, she could safely assume, was no stranger. From the brief glimpses she found in mirrors, pooling water, and flashes of lightning through storm-struck windowsills, the resemblance wasn't quite as uncanny. Regardless, she found at least mild indicators--the same messy locks, even in their deepest brown, were a small victory for similarity-spotting.

The verdict was out on that much, at least. Harper took far more after his mother than his father. In regards to personality, there was much to be debated. Vague snippets did little to shine light on much more than abundant displays of wonderful adoration and affection. They reminded Octavia of her own family, to a degree.

They bore a child.

It took long enough, in her opinion, for her not-so-stranger to reach a memory that at last felt somewhat tangible to Octavia. For the first time, she felt truly invested in the deepest secrets of another, her overwhelming sense of intruding upon something so sensitive be damned. She wanted to scream, to yell, to warn their innocent little universe of impending tragedy. She wanted to reach out and grab their child, to hold him close and implore he savor every moment while he had the chance.

She would’ve, had it been Harper.

To her surprise and relative confusion, the baby cradled so lovingly in their arms, leaping with such confidence through memory after memory, didn't blossom into the kind Maestro she knew. Instead, they bloomed into a stranger all their own. Year after year, in what may as well have been literal blinks of Octavia’s foreign eyes, the child sprouted into a lovely little girl.

Lively, energetic, and playful, she, too, was the splitting image of her mother. Every flash from this man’s mind carried the child’s visage with unwavering warmth, be it lifted aloft in the safety of his embrace or coddled with praise from himself and his beloved alike. They were a galaxy of three.

Octavia found two options. Either she’d been astoundingly wrong in concluding the identity of her stranger and his wife, or this toll was about to go one thousand times worse than she’d originally anticipated.

She fought the urge to speculate, her fear of the inevitable overpowering her curiosity. She found roughly six or seven additional snippets of happiness before she uncovered what she suspected could’ve been the beginning of the end. It was impossible not to be biased towards scanning for flammable objects, of which she found dozens. She was fortunate the paranoid part of her hadn't subconsciously stopped to count each and every one the entire time. The lanterns were a very unfortunate touch.

They were pretty, granted, but unfortunate all the same. With the moon again bearing its own witness through glistening glass, unmarred by curtains, her stranger watched the peaceful night from the comfort of a warm abode. There was an odd irony to the manner by which every single toll she’d witnessed thus far had happened at night, a mental note she jotted down for little reason of merit. He was alone, gifted the silence of a content home in the thick of the evening. Subsequent rustling in a distant room did away with that notion shortly after--blessed with a hint of satisfactory company, ideally.

In the vicinity of the salon within which he stood aimlessly, his daughter was absent. If Octavia really, really tried, peering past the evening insects he watched idle by, she could spot the most translucent of smiles bouncing back through the pane. Even inside of his head, stealing his eyes and unraveling his deepest secrets, she was no closer to unpacking his thoughts. It left only speculation.

When his head jerked forward, bashing heavily against the thick glass of the window, Octavia’s sharp focus was so quickly shattered that her heart nearly burst alongside it. He staggered, and yet found no chance to turn. Once more, he was pinned with his face to the night. His forehead crashed against the pane twice, thrice, four times over.

At an angle, flecks of red dribbled down onto the sill, scattered raindrops of scarlet painting a home recently pristine. With each attempt to face his assailant, he only found more facefuls of the same. To Octavia’s dismay, the glass held fast, absorbing every blow with only the tax of blood in place of cracks.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t a fire. There was a non-zero chance she’d gotten the wrong person after all. Her thoughts couldn’t keep up with her heart, for how both raced in tandem. If she could reach out and rebel, she would go down screaming and fighting. As it was, for whose sight she supposedly stole, it would’ve been an obligation. She couldn’t move. It left only prayer. Turn around. Turn around. Turn around.

He never got the chance. At the very least, he found refuge from glass as he collapsed. Sprawled out on the carpet, he groaned in agony, hands darting to clasp his skull as his vision swam. With blurring eyes, her stranger rolled over, finding his way onto his stomach with immense effort. It wasn’t quick enough to stop the shattering, every loud, successive crack bursting inexplicably around him. Glass sprinkled to the floor, razor-edged raindrops speckling the carpet. Raindrops brought sparks. Sparks brought embers.

Initially, Octavia thought the window had finally burst, giving way to the flurry of blows once disgustingly withstood. It wasn’t until she spotted the littered path of lanterns, innocently decorating tables and fireplaces moments ago, haphazardly adorning the carpet that it clicked. Three were more than enough for a catastrophe. Spilling kerosene easily leaked into the soft, shag fabrics of the flooring below, seeping and spreading in every direction. From there, it was simple. The flames found their way, slowly but surely.

They didn't grow peacefully. They hungered, devoured, and consumed every inch of what had been a beautiful abode moments ago. In its own sick, twisted way, there was almost an aura of beauty to their rampage. Her stranger, disoriented and profusely gushing blood from his scalp in ample quantities, was front and center for the chaos of the fire. He didn't scream, nor did he struggle. He did, however, fight his blurring vision long enough to grant Octavia a fleeting view of his likely assailant as they fled the rising inferno.

The visibility of the room, smoke and fire stacked atop what was presumably far more than a concussion, heavily impeded her interpretation. The way by which his attacker offered only his back helped little, much the same. Still, the blue coattails contrasted sharply with the orange embers that licked at the ceiling. The blackest waves of disheveled hair were starker than even the thickest smog that choked the room. Her stranger’s eyes slowly closed, surrounded by Hell on all sides. Two prayers were enough. Octavia prayed that the smoke got to him first, and she prayed that she was absolutely losing her mind.

◆ ◆ ◆

Octavia had half-expected her hands to cling to her head when she came up, for what had come to pass. At the very least, she expected phantoms of smoke to trick her seizing lungs. Instead, she was utterly still, trembling fingers aloft over Royal Orleans. It didn’t last. Her blood rushed through her ears, and confusion traded places with fear. It didn’t make sense.

“Octavia?”

Harper’s worried voice alone reached her. She never matched her eyes to his own, thrusting her hands back upon the brass almost instantly. She needed to be sure.

◆ ◆ ◆

This stranger, too, bore a child. She was identical in every way to the last.

Octavia no longer needed to guess as to whose eyes she currently borrowed, her initial assumption more or less confirmed. Of note, the fragments of merit for Harper’s mother were nearly uniform to those of his father--right down to specific occasions, events, and even exchanged platitudes of love. Still, for a second time over, she couldn’t find Harper anywhere. Instead, she was provided with a narrative consisting solely of two adoring parents and their vibrant daughter.

Given what she’d seen moments ago, she was beginning to have guesses. Fears came soon after. She harbored sneaking suspicions that led only to places of pain for him, undeniably. After this, she doubted she’d have the courage to ask exactly how many people Harper had lost. Maybe this was its own form of eavesdropping. She couldn’t help it.

Octavia was torn between the urge to skip to the gruesome end of this woman’s life and the urge to relish every second of it on Harper’s behalf. Her dilemma left little room for compromise, and she ultimately found it impossible to do the latter in fear of the former. It was unlike that of his father, but the scene was still set in much the same home. It was another room, granted, and yet the decor was unmistakable.

Once more, a child so beloved was absent. With added context, Octavia could at least breathe a sigh of relief that someone had escaped tragedy that evening. If Harper only possessed two tolls, it was extremely possible that the girl was still alive. She tried to destroy the idea that the child’s death might belong to someone else, instead.

That left his mother, tidying. She’d seen their kitchen a handful of times in flashing memories pertaining to hot family meals and tandem baking endeavors. Still, this was the first time she’d seen every component to each wonderful recollection find its respective home. In any other instance, on any other night, the sight would’ve been just as comfortable as the peaceful contemplation of the moon across the house. At least, she was fairly certain this was the same night. Harper’s father, too, was out of sight.

There came a knock at the door.

Octavia begged, pleaded, and wished with every fiber of her being for this woman to go on with her evening. It would’ve been so, so simple to ignore whatever lurked beyond. She would never be granted that peace. It was its own form of agony.

You’re home early. I just came back a little while ago. They kept me late.

The second time she’d heard spoken words of merit in a toll, trapped in her ears and echoing forever, they doubled as the last words Harper’s mother ever spoke. Presumably, the rush of cool evening air that came with a turn of the knob wasn't coupled with a face she’d expected to see. What she found instead was a jolt of her body and a blade pressed deep into her stomach.

She barely made a sound. A disbelieving breath that rattled on its way served as her only reaction. Her eyes slowly wandered down to the hilt of a knife Octavia had seen twice prior, the wood still steeped in scarlet stains that had seemingly since dried. Her hands trembled, floating uselessly in the general direction of her torso before falling limp and helpless at her sides.

She raised her eyes to his, equal parts empty and wild as they were. With both hands gripping the handle, he yanked harshly upwards, nearly lifting her with it. The sound of viscera was agonizing, and Octavia was glad the woman blacked out almost instantly. In that way, at least, she was spared from the worst of Vincent Vacanti.

◆ ◆ ◆