Harmony

His very presence before Octavia was breathtaking. In the same sense, his struggle for a semblance of stability had robbed her of oxygen they were meant to share. In either hand, Mistral Asunder surrendered to his fierce trembling, rustling in a prison of cherry oak. The way his shoulders rose and fell spoke to his panic. Even so, even now, he refused to look away from Portia.

She’d lowered her guard, both firearms settling loosely at her sides. “That’s fortified steel.”

Renato exhaled sharply. “Don’t care.”

She eyed him up and down, her gaze eventually traveling to hands that shook so fiercely around a Harmonial Instrument. “Oh. I remember which one you are now.”

Whatever confidence he’d scrounged together was compromised the moment she spoke, exposed cherry oak highlighting a history with the institute. Renato’s breaths were faster, his line of sight abruptly broken. His terrified eyes closed.

“Octavia.”

Even if she couldn’t match his gaze directly, she never peeled her eyes away from his face. “Yes?”

He shook his head. “Say it.”

She paused for a moment, a soft inhale of her own preceding her realization. “Renato.”

“Octavia.”

“Renato.”

“Octavia.”

“Renato.”

“Octavia.”

“Renato.”

He took a deep breath, every last part of it rattling on the way out. “Promise you won’t leave me here.”

Even with his eyes closed, Octavia nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Renato opened them, one slightly-shaky hand rising to adjust his hat. “Then this is fine.”

His body was still otherwise, his breaths steadying. His voice, too, was immune to the waver that had threatened it just seconds before. “You shine too damn bright for the rest of us. Sometimes I can hardly look at you. Let the rest of us shine once in awhile, alright?”

She didn’t have the strength to argue, nor to smile. Still, her heart was smiling on the inside.

“She hurt Maddie, didn’t she?” Renato asked softly.

“Yeah,” Octavia answered, battling the crack that threatened her voice.

His eyes narrowed, and it left him glowering at Portia. “You made one hell of a mistake messin’ with the two most important people in my life.”

Portia shifted her weight onto her other foot. “And here I thought he’d done enough to you already. Clearly not. It’s my own mistake for assuming so, I suppose.”

“There isn’t a damn thing he could do to me that would keep me from bein’ where I need to be,” Renato answered.

“And that’s why you’re here with such fear in your eyes? That’s why you’re shaking and shivering with such fervor? You’re a scared little boy whose ego has already betrayed him once before.”

He didn’t honor her harsh words with body language. “Maybe I would be afraid, if you were him. You’re not. I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

She narrowed her own eyes, only now raising one firearm in a perfect, distant path to his resolute expression. “I suppose your hands weren’t enough. Perhaps I’ll blow off your legs instead.”

Renato cracked his neck. “Come take ‘em, bitch.”

She fired.

She missed.

Rather, she didn’t miss so much as she was well outmatched in speed, a boom that rivaled her own deadly burst enough to repel her assault. What met her bullet was velocity just as explosive and just as powerful, if not more so as it erupted from the tip of one drumstick. It was the quickest that Octavia had ever seen Renato’s wrist move. He countered her shot, his own blast of compressed sound rattling her eardrums as his eyes somehow matched the speed of a flying bullet. He did it twice.

Octavia could hardly keep up with his hands the third time, nor the fourth time, nor the fifth time. She watched in absolute awe as Portia was forced to rely on both of her weapons with a grimace. The woman wasn’t the only one with two hands full of deadly prowess, the strength of sound countering each and every blow she hoped to deal with boom after boom after boom.

Renato’s eyes, just the same, followed every last movement she made with complete and unshakable focus. Not a single shot slipped past him, let alone so much as grazed him. Not a single shell even made it within a foot of him to begin with. Invisible sonic bursts that sat on the threshold of audible pain blasted the air in perfect rhythm with each bang of either gun.

The steady clicking that came with vulnerability on Portia’s part was greeted with a growl from their wielder. She initially hesitated to doff her useless weapons once more, instead glaring down her new assailant with utter disdain. Renato wasn’t so much as slightly fatigued, his breathing even and his sharpened gaze never leaving Portia for a moment. He stretched one of his shoulders.

Either he was gambling, reading her, or his eyes could somehow follow every shot as it ripped through the innocent air. Octavia had absolutely no idea which of the three was most plausible. That was just the kind of person he was.

When Portia finally did find the drive to discard her emptied firearms once more, her cycle was unbroken. She didn’t need to rush, for how Renato’s piercing gaze was content only to soak up her every movement. She casually reached low towards one of the many free-standing racks, drawing two of the heavier style of guns Octavia wasn’t particularly surprised to see. Her line of thought would’ve been predictable, had it not been Portia. If she planned to experiment with the strength of sound, she had her work cut out for her.

Renato raised an eyebrow. “She’s got more of them?”

It didn’t matter that Renato’s eyes were anywhere except upon her own. Octavia found herself nodding anyway, the tails of her braids tickling the marble below. “Every gun in the room is loaded. She’s gone through a lot of them, but there’s still dozens more. When she runs out of bullets, she’ll just get new ones.”

He almost seemed impressed. “Damn, all of ‘em?”

“Be careful…not to blow them up,” Madrigal’s voice came weakly.

Renato didn’t flinch. Octavia did, her eyes snapping to the Maestra on the floor several feet away as she spoke. “Your sound is…really strong. If you…hit too many at once…they might blow up. We’d…get hurt.”

If her faint voice, tinted with pain, fazed the boy, he didn’t let it show. The Maestra’s words carried just as much significance as Octavia’s own, and he took them just as seriously. “That’d be a problem, wouldn’t it? I can aim. I’ll watch what I’m doing.”

Already, Portia’s own aim was trained on the Maestro again, her fingers curling dangerously around the triggers. Octavia’s heart pounded.

“Renato,” she began, her voice unsteady.

And already, he was tensed once more, Mistral Asunder readied before him as he braced against the floor. “What’s up?”

“She’s…fast. She’s faster than you. She might even be stronger than you. Please, please be careful.”

He blinked. “Stronger than me?”

“Yeah.”

Octavia could hear him inhale slowly, exhaling hard at much the same pace. For the briefest moment, she could swear she spotted an honest to God grin cross his face, dark and faint as it was.

“Absolutely not.”

He discovered Portia’s aforementioned speed immediately, the woman descending upon him relentlessly as she let loose a slew of gunfire. With every light, deceptive clack of her heels against the marble came nearly one bullet each to match, shells besieging him from afar at a ruthless pace. Distance was irrelevant, closed instantly by velocity and her own forward approach alike. Her eyes were narrow, and her aim was true. Had he not been the person he was, gifted with the strength he possessed, Renato would surely have succumbed to each and every shot.

He didn’t. Renato didn’t need to draw upon his full acrobatic abilities. Still, he did dip into his pool of athletic prowess for the sake of twisting and spinning, accommodating the force of his own blows. Every blast and burst that repelled any given bullet brought with it a recoil that he not only withstood, but embraced with a body well-trained for his legacy. He was a borderline master of the strength of sound, his movements speaking to the same. Each invisible explosion was his alone, and the residual shock he soaked up propelled outwards in a cycle Octavia couldn’t keep up with.

Every ounce of pure, deadly sound that rippled through his blood and erupted from his drumsticks tested the limits of Portia’s irritation. The distance between them was reasonable, the gap still wide enough to spare her any true danger. Regardless, Octavia could still see the aggravation in her eyes as she was forced to drop her spent weapons once more.

When she lunged for yet more to unleash her fury upon the Maestro, he gifted her with his own fury instead. Renato brought one aloft arm down hard, unleashing a wave of unbelievable pressure to the place she’d been standing seconds before. Portia was lucky she’d thrown herself into a roll against the marble when she did. The resulting boom of his blow collided with the innocent floor with enough violence to leave more than a mark. The racks closest to his assault rattled, several spears slipping out of place and clattering to the marble below. Renato clicked his tongue with irritation of his own.

Portia’s sudden emergence from behind another stray crate carried two predictable, vicious accompaniments in either hand. When one barrel instead found itself trained on Octavia’s head, the Maestra still bound helplessly to the floor, her heart threatened to burst.

Portia squeezed the trigger with a gruesome bang. The bullet didn’t get far.

The ear-shattering boom that came too close to Octavia's body for comfort startled her fiercely, nearly landing her flat on her back once again. She couldn’t fight the yelp that slipped out of her throat, her own eyes screwed shut in fear and surprise. Still, she was very much alive and very much not in pain. The distant sound of something hollow and metallic clinking noisily to the floor greeted her ringing ears.

Renato spun one drumstick between his fingers half-heartedly. “Eyes on me, lady. Don’t fight dirty,” he demanded.

Octavia swore she could hear Portia growl. She didn’t try the same tactic twice, her attention returned to the Strong Maestro instead as she rushed at him once more. Close-range for her apparently meant preserving an ample, subtle gap that still gave her room to work with. It was enough for her shots to build up the deadly velocity they needed to inflict brutal damage. Even if she hadn’t been successful with Renato so far, she could still press him.

Octavia had been correct in her assumption that Portia was faster than him, his attention working overtime to track her as she shot at the boy again and again. The need for restraint around the many, many loaded firearms lying in wait around them was a detriment. Renato’s best attempts to hit her from afar were proving fruitless.

In which case, for him, close-range carried an entirely different meaning.

There came a point during Portia’s unconventional “reloading” process that Renato, instead, took the initiative. Octavia’s heart nearly sank into her stomach as his reaction time was forced to grow quicker and more precise--lest he end up dead with a bullet lodged squarely in his skull. His approach was fast, fierce, and unhesitant nonetheless, his hands still flying and his body still stealing his own recoil with twists and rotations alike.

Portia, to her credit, didn’t quite flee so much as she did retreat slightly. She stumbled backwards, a feeble attempt to garner the small distance necessary to meet him head-on. Her one saving grace was the way that he, too, needed at least some space with which to work. Miniscule and frightening as it was, the distance between them by the end was less than three feet. That was plenty.

So near to Portia, Renato had absolutely zero room for error, and Octavia folded her hands in prayer. One missed counter would severely wound him, if not kill him. Still, he didn’t falter, unbending as he blasted at her again and again. Every sonic burst that collided with each shell was explosive in its own right, and it was incredible how neither party ever once looked away from the shockwaves battering their faces. Portia was aiming almost exclusively for his head, the odds of accurately hitting just about any other part of the fast-moving boy close to null. He’d had enough of her face-to-face assault. When he found the chance, he aimed down and went up.

It wasn’t the awe-inspiring, miles-high display he’d graced her with on the train. It was, still, exceedingly impressive, if not a far shorter distance in which he cleared clean over her head. From above, inverting and tucking as he did best, he finally found a use for his acrobatics against her as he launched an airborne assault. It took finesse for his bursts of sound not to send him ever higher, and Octavia watched as he formulated the perfect ratio of power with which to bring down Mistral Asunder upon the open air. There was so little Portia could do to dodge attacks from above, sudden and unpredictable as they were.

At least once, Renato was nearly dead-on. Two downward flicks of his wrists in tandem saw the weight of sound itself come crashing down onto her head. It was with a cry of pain that Portia just barely rolled out of the path of more of the same. In the time it took him to return to earth, her speed had served her well, and she was switching her firepower once more several feet away.

Even if he couldn’t go all-out adjacent to her caches, wherever they might've been, he could still give chase. He did so, additional carefully-calculated explosions of varying sizes erupting from the tips of his drumsticks as he sought to beat upon her wherever possible. He was getting gradually more successful, often catching her in the stomach as she was blasted backwards with a grunt of hurt.

Each time, she recovered somewhat more slowly, typically rolling to a stop against the frictionless marble before leaping to her feet yet again. Octavia was relieved to see the way her shoulders were heaving, along with the subtle way Portia seemed to be hunting for her breath. She was far from relieved to see the same for Renato, as much as he tried to hide it.

The ache in her head from her collision with the floor hadn’t quite subsided. Still, it had lessened substantially with the minimal rest the Maestro had graciously granted her. Stradivaria wasn’t far, and she was incredibly grateful to find that the violin hadn’t taken so much as a scratch from Portia’s cruel attacks on Stratos’ body. It was with mildly-shaking fingers that she pulled the instrument into position, staggering to her feet. She fought to find her balance, her eyes fighting their own battle to keep up with the fast and fierce movements of Renato and Portia alike. Again came the challenge of trying not to hit a fellow Maestro in the heat of battle, particularly against an opponent so quick. She still had to try.

Octavia steadied her breathing as best as she could, pleading in her heart of hearts for the hottest and brightest light she could muster in her current state. The scathing warmth bubbling in her fingertips did her good, and quick sawing of the bow across the strings brought with it sizzling, radiant rays once more. She hoped it was no offense to Madrigal that Renato’s reflexes were better. If she missed, he would surely dodge. The thought was comforting, and she didn’t hold back.

The light that flew was as calculated as she could make it, and Octavia seized the singular moment in which the Maestro had driven Portia into the open again. Freed of the concern of striking loaded rounds unseen, the volley of light that sailed in her direction was as beautiful as it was deadly. It was just as accurate, the spearing tip of one ray stinging Portia’s right shoulder. Yet another met its mark, crashing down onto her right thigh. Octavia would never get used to the sizzle of human flesh beneath light meant to protect. In this instance, she had absolutely no qualms, embracing a tiny victory to be celebrated instead.

Portia cried out in agony at the sensation, although her movement was hardly impaired. Regardless, with Octavia upon her as well, her aim was evenly split. Her hands were angled, individual violence pinned to either Maestro like a magnet. When Portia squeezed the trigger, one shell sailing towards Octavia yet again, the latter had no choice but to dodge. As much as she hated playing while mobile, she didn’t have a choice. She, too, would have to evade, her light following suit as the miniature suns tickling her hair left sparkling debris in her wake. Her song carried on as she ran to the best of her ability, well aware of the bang of bullets pursuing her every step.

Even so, Portia had little room to divide her attention. Renato wasn’t quite panting yet, and his subtle gasps for oxygen were still peppered with boom after boom of explosive blasts intended for the woman alone. She staggered beneath his onslaught, locked in a frantic cycle of micromanagement that straddled the line between life and death. It left Portia splitting her focus between the Maestros, offering Renato her full attention, and hunting for gaps in their assault to change her firearms once more.

Octavia’s light crashed downwards at her feet time after time, grazing her arms and the tips of her heels regularly. Renato’s gradually-faltering bursts were still powerful enough to leave her recoiling, and she stumbled backwards often. There was no talking, nor taunting--only her undivided and frantic focus was offered up in a two-on-one battle. The only sounds that left her throat as she pulled the triggers again and again were vicious growls of aggravation.

She got lucky exactly once, and it was nearly all she needed to land a decisive blow. There was a singular instance in which Renato lowered one half of Mistral Asunder, panting in earnest as sweat dripped down the sides of his face. In his singular split-second of vulnerability, one barrel found his eyes, unforgiving as she fired. At such a close range, had any other Maestro been her target, the end result would’ve been far more fatal. It was Renato’s quick reflexes that saved his life, just barely moving his head at the last possible moment. It didn’t stop the bullet from grazing his cheek, a white-hot and brutally-stinging reminder of his mortality. For more reasons than one, he was gasping for air.

Octavia, too, couldn’t breathe, his name on her lips useless to defend him. “Renato!” she cried.

“Don’t you give up on me now!” he shouted weakly, immediately returning to his failing offenses. This needed to end, and it needed to end now.

The slow, singular notes of a harp, kissing the air feebly and quietly, drew her attention.

The grunts and soft whines of pain that followed did nothing to stem the gentle song, steadily growing stronger despite the disarray it carried in every chord. When Octavia’s head snapped to Madrigal, still flat on the floor, it took a moment to process the sight at all.

With her entire body shaking, prone on her stomach, Madrigal plucked at an equally-flat Lyra’s Repose not so distant from her. Still, the effort she exerted to reach the harp was substantial, by which she stretched one trembling arm as far as need be. It was to say nothing of her fingers, let alone the hand with which she wove her song. It was still more than bloodied and blighted by the bite of a bullet. Reddened chunks of flesh and muscle were well-exposed and visible beneath charred flaps of skin. Still, even then, she was unhindered.

If the angle was anything to go by, at least one of her fingers was outright broken, crumpled into a sickening position like discarded paper. With her trembling hand contorted unnaturally, she fought to play. Fingers that typically carried a ballad with ease instead tugged in desperation at Lyra’s strings. The Maestra gritted her teeth, wincing with every motion as her haphazard song betrayed her pain.

It still worked. Somehow, her methodology was enough. Madrigal raised her head, her narrowed eyes following the path of her singular, streaming gale as it grew stronger with every note. Octavia, too, observed its flight from afar, its swirling strength a far cry from what she expected of a song so oddly-born. Her notes were more fierce, her grunts and cries of hurt much the same in turn. What followed was a motion not dissimilar to a slash against open air, her tiny storm barreling forward towards the leftmost wall.

Piled high with physical weaponry, sharpened spears and pointed polearms alike, they glistened beneath the dim lights as they languished behind the confines of the storage rack. It rose amply high, rivaling the adjacent firearm-speckled wall that Portia had clung to so many times. Even were Portia to have stashed yet more guns within their ranks, there was little Madrigal’s wind could do to set them off.

The gust lashed outwards, a bursting tempest that whipped with an audible and metallic crack against the rack’s parallel hinges. With a quick, subsequent creak, a resounding clatter and cacophony of iron striking iron followed in a noisy display of tumbling armaments. They never made it off of the rack, nor tumbled from their original positions. Still stored safely within their individual, semi-pocketed holdings, they were content to dangle at a useless diagonal, slightly further along than a forty-five degree angle. Madrigal’s wind, weakened by the impact, stilled and subsided altogether.

Renato wasn't immune to the sound, either. Still, the look on his face was equally as confused as Octavia’s. It was only when the Maestra met Madrigal’s eyes, full of flickering fire even through tears of hurt, that her own eyes widened in turn.

Still mobile, Octavia did what she could to aim carefully in the midst of her fast footsteps. Every burst of brilliance that left a blast of heat in its wake missed Portia, spearing down hard into the marble at her heels. The woman sprinted, still desperately shooting time and time again at the two Maestros assailing her on either side. Octavia didn’t need to hit. She simply needed to steer. With all her heart, she prayed Portia didn’t notice.

Her fingers ached, yet the burn in her muscles was a welcome byproduct of her equally-burning light and her radiant song. She fired her rays again and again, falling in time with the bullets that flew her way regularly. Ever more did Portia’s fleeing footsteps and frantic dodges bring her near to the leftmost wall, beset by a broken gust moments ago.

When she heard the same click click click she’d long grown used to, she knew she wouldn’t get a second chance. Portia’s path towards her next cache brought her immediately in front of the rack. Octavia couldn’t help but briefly wonder if her suspicions about a stash beyond the shining silver and steel was correct.

Octavia wouldn’t let her through. The luminescent, erupting beams that pierced the marble on either side of the woman had her pinned down, practically locked in place and unarmed. Eyes narrow and shoulders heaving, they snapped to Octavia with relentless ire as the girl screamed.

“Renato!” Octavia cried.

With eyes as wide as Octavia’s own, he got the message loud and clear. It didn’t take him long to build up his momentum, throwing himself downwards, forwards, sideways as he tumbled and inverted against the hard flooring below. Renato was again a blur, an explosion in and of himself that spoke to the strength with which he soared. With a vicious glare, a fierce push, and an equally-fierce cry, the Strong boy tumbled through the open air much the same, the full pressure of sound incarnate crashing down onto Portia without remorse.

With her face flooded with shock and awe, Portia was helpless to do more than stand and absorb his crushing blow. Under the weight of his unforgiving blast, she was flung backwards at such a speed that it very well may have snapped her neck. It hardly mattered. The strangled cry that left her throat, overshadowed by the residual boom of Renato’s assault, would’ve, too, surely been overshadowed in turn by the sound of steel piercing clean through her flesh.

Run through by a myriad of weaponry upon every ounce of skin she possessed, Portia’s shredded clothing gave way to the tips and blades of swords, spears, and everything in between. Like a pincushion, her lifeless body dangled well above the floor, still perfectly preserved in nearly the exact position she’d been repelled in. Through her thighs, her shoulders, her chest, her stomach, and so much more came indiscriminate, razor-sharp edges that had been restored with such love and care.

She was, truly, her own work of art in a way, blossoming red upon every inch of flesh haunted by metal. Some of it dripped, again staining the pristine marble with droplets of violence. It was just as Octavia had seen so many times before within the cursed walls of SIAR. Even now, her eyes were open, still wide with the same shock.

Renato wasn't immune to the same. Face-to-face with what was left of the woman, his entire body shook as he struggled to catch his breath.

Renato Bell…

Your toll has been paid once over.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping for air at last.

And this…

Is why we stayed.

The voices Octavia heard, simultaneously shrill and not as they were, were of little interest compared to the look on the boy’s face. When his eyelids fluttered open again, she couldn’t pinpoint the exact emotion he carried. The indiscriminate trembling wasn’t doing her any favors.

“Huh,” he breathed, what fresh air he’d managed to capture hitching in his throat. “That’s…not a very good feeling, is it?”

Octavia nodded slowly. “I…know.”

Whatever decompression she sought was shattered instantly by the distant sound of Madrigal’s whimpers, soft whines of pain mixed in where applicable. It took precedence, Portia almost immediately an afterthought in place of the Maestra’s well-being. She ran. By the sound of the heavy footsteps behind her, so did Renato.

“Madrigal!” she called with horror, Stradivaria nearly hitting her face in the process of lowering her guard.

“Octavia,” she murmured on the vestiges of a sob, hurt eyes pooling with tears. Even now, she was prone, hardly able to move aside from raising her head.

It wasn’t in Madrigal’s best physical interest when Octavia dropped to her knees and grabbed her shoulders. It wasn’t in Madrigal’s best physical interest when she yanked the girl up and onto her knees, her soft yelp of pain ignored. Maybe it wasn’t in Madrigal’s best physical interest when Octavia threw her arms tightly around the Maestra, holding on for dear life as she buried her face in the crook of the girl’s neck. Octavia didn’t care, and she did it anyway. She, too, could just barely resist the urge to cry, tears undoubtedly leaking against Madrigal’s skin as she nuzzled close. Her shoulders shook with the effort of holding back whatever she could.

“We did it,” Octavia said, her voice cracking. “As a team. Together.”

Madrigal didn’t fight her hold. She didn’t raise her wounded hands to return the gesture. She didn’t lower her head to Octavia’s shoulder. Instead, into the open air, she bawled her eyes out, wailing as every tear she could ever birth splashed onto Octavia’s dress. She was speechless, her cries echoing throughout the armory.

The firm, strong warmth that did wrap around Octavia’s shoulders was equally as startling as it was comforting, and she didn’t resist in the slightest. It had been some time since she’d felt his body so close to hers, protective and safe. So, too, was Madrigal enveloped in the same. The brim of his hat brushed against the top of Octavia’s head as he delicately tapped his forehead against hers.

“It’s okay now,” Renato whispered, tenderly stroking Octavia’s hair. “Everything’s fine. You guys nailed it. I’m so proud of both of you.”

“I’m proud of you,” Octavia whispered back, unable to fight the sob that slipped from her throat. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

He chuckled softly. If she listened closely, she could hear the waver in his own voice. She could feel him trembling against her, even now. “What kind of man am I if I leave my girls hangin’ like that?”

When Octavia raised her head, the tears that sat in wait on the edges of her eyes matched his own. In his case, one escaped. She brushed it away on his behalf, and he smiled for a brief moment.

It didn’t last long. “Uh…having blood on my hands feels really weird. I feel like I should be more…conflicted, I guess. She hurt you guys, though. Wish I could say I felt worse.”

Octavia shook her head with a sniffle. “I get it. I promise you, I get it.”

“We’ve got one more thing in common now, huh?” he mumbled, his words lighter than they should’ve been.

“Yeah.”

He leaned his head against Madrigal’s instead, his hat settling against her fraying buns. “What’d she do to you, princess?”

Madrigal’s inconsolable cries were softened somewhat by his words and touch. Her best attempts to raise her hands were in vain, and she winced with great pain at the effort. Instead, her eyes flickered downwards to her wounds, still gaping and raw as the open air drifted within and upon them.

Renato’s eyes filled with much the same pain. “Damn. Welcome to the Messed-Up Hands Club. We’ll get somebody to fix 'em up, okay? Maybe Josiah can look at them.”

“Can he do stitches?” he suddenly hissed to Octavia.

Octavia pursed her lips. “I--”

“We’ll get someone who knows what the hell they’re doing, I promise ya,” Renato offered, rubbing Madrigal's head gently.

“Don’t tell him I said that,” he hissed to Octavia once more.

“I didn’t--”

“They hurt, huh?” Renato asked, immune to Octavia’s baffled input.

Madrigal raised her eyes to his, nodding silently. The motion freed even more stray tears, caressing her cheeks much the same as the cherry oak of his knuckles did.

He smiled. “Want me to kiss ‘em better?”

“I’m so sorry,” Madrigal murmured, her voice cracking.

Renato's face fell. “What for?”

Her eyes watered anew, threatened by fresh sorrow. She offered them to Octavia instead. “I couldn’t do more to protect you. It’s…my job to protect the Ambassador, and I put you in danger because I wasn’t strong enough. I--”

One single, delicate fingertip pressed to the girl’s lips was all it took for Octavia to stem her words. It was her turn to smile, weak as it was. “You saved my life. If anything, I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m not a very good Ambassador, am I?”

Madrigal shook her head fervently, escaping Octavia’s touch. “You’re the best Ambassador ever!” she cried.

“Then I’ll…do whatever I can to live up to that,” Octavia murmured.

“You’re a pretty damn good lifesaver, you know that?” Renato offered with a grin.

When she only gazed at him, tearful and pained, he quickly pecked her on the cheek. It was enough for the corners of her lips to turn upwards in the slightest, and his grin only brightened in turn.

“What’d I tell you about pretty girls crying in front of me?” he scolded teasingly. She giggled.

Still, he turned his attention to Octavia, his tone more serious in just the slightest. “Where the hell is everyone, anyway?”

She cringed. “We…we had a problem. Someone got hurt.”

Renato flinched. “Didn’t we have a whole conversation about this? I thought you guys promised nobody was gettin’ their ass handed to them this time.”

Against her better judgment, content to indulge in the warmth of the two Maestros forever, Octavia wriggled her way out of their embrace. With Stradivaria in hand, she rose to her feet, stretching her aching muscles somewhat. The sooner she returned to the others, the better. Harper’s condition was of particular concern.

“There’s…a lot to unpack,” she confessed.

“Did you figure something out? I mean, after all this, I’d hope so,” Renato said, pushing himself to his feet much the same.

Octavia averted her eyes. “I think so. Most of it makes sense. There’s still some holes. I like to imagine we’re safe now, but there’s…one more concern I have. We can talk about it with the others.”

“Good with me,” he said with a shrug. He tossed his gaze downwards. “You want me to carry you, princess?”

Even in the midst of her struggles to get up, Madrigal found room to blush. “W-What?”

Renato grinned again, tapping one drumstick against his thigh. “I can carry you in my arms like a real princess, if you want. Would you like that?”

Madrigal’s blush was explosive. The balance with which she managed to stand without using her hands was impressive, despite the stagger that followed. Octavia at least did her the favor of carting Lyra’s Repose in her stead. “T-T-That’s okay!” the Maestra sputtered, refusing to look him in the eyes.

Renato tilted his head slowly, his knowing grin ever brighter. “Oh? There’s a line in the sand? Cute.”

For a moment, Octavia was motionless. It was easier to trail their morbid happiness with her eyes than it was to cast them behind her, for what she’d left in her wake. It wasn’t the first time. The pang of nostalgia that bit her veins was somewhat more fleeting than she’d expected. If she turned, she’d find Portia’s corpse alone. That was already gruesome enough.

It wasn’t in her best interest to do so. For the sake of the knot in her stomach, she did anyway. Shining steel still claimed her eternally, carrying the woman long after her spirit had fled. It was self-defense. To be fair, she’d internalized the same last time, too. Blood met marble, and burning flesh was absent. Gentle teasing at her back took the place of every sickening sizzle and reminders of tolls paid too soon. Portia was still. It hardly mattered that it was the armory instead. If she blinked too hard, and should her eyes linger upon the polearms for too long, Octavia could conjure another corpse entirely.

Bells were ruinous. Still, within the walls of SIAR alone, a conservator was one more thing that she and Renato had in common. Even so, the boy had come. She wondered if she would’ve done the same. She inhaled slowly.

“Can I…ask you something?” Octavia began, ignoring the way by which Madrigal’s anxious footsteps were already taking her to what remained of the door.

Even as he answered her, Renato was doing the same, albeit slower. “What’s up?”

She hesitated. “How did you…know we were here?”

His steps slowed further. Octavia threw her eyes at the marble as she followed behind.

“There’s…a lot of different parts of SIAR, lots of different wings and rooms and whatnot. I don’t know all of them. The only ones that would are…Drey’s people. How did you know exactly where we were? Exactly which room, in exactly which wing?”

Renato was silent.

“And…you know what? This isn’t even the first time you’ve done that. You’ve…found me in places I haven’t even told you I went to.”

He was still, his footsteps halting entirely.

“You can’t laugh,” Renato said, his voice low and his back to Octavia.

She nodded, even out of sight. “I won’t.”

When he tossed a gaze over his shoulder, it came with a smile. “Would you believe me if I said I ‘just knew’?”

Octavia blinked. “What?”

He turned to her in full, one hand resting comfortably on his hip. “When you were at Harper’s house, I couldn’t really see the Dissonance that well, but I could tell anyway. When you were at the camp, even before that kid came running to Vi’s place, I still had this feeling. When you and Lyra were fightin’ it out, I knew.”

Octavia eyed him uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

Renato cocked his head. “They told me. My gift, I mean. Took ‘em long enough.”

Her eyes widened. “Your…gift? Mente and Aste did?”

He nodded, spinning one drumstick between the fingers of his other hand lazily. “I can tell when the Ambassador’s life is in danger. Of course, once I know, I can…put a stop to that problem, if you know what I mean. I’m a Tavi magnet now. Live with it.”

Octavia couldn’t help but giggle. “That’s…amazing.”

“So, I guess I’m spendin’ the rest of my Maestro life fighting for the Ambassador. Tough stuff,” Renato joked.

“I promise I’ll be nice,” she teased.

“It’s the life I chose,” he said with a shrug. “You know what that means, right?”

Octavia tilted her head. “What?”

Renato’s grin was warm, brilliant in a way that touched her heart. “It means I’m your soldier.”

She couldn’t fight her smile, the one that broke her face in half.

“So…use me however you want,” he continued softly, “and I’ll kick some ass for you.”

In the face of his words, Octavia couldn’t find her own. Instead, all she could do was match the shimmer in his gaze, unbending and offered to her alone. For what felt like far too long, she was content to bare her heart to his soul with her sparkle. It was a warmth unlike anything she’d ever felt from him.

Eventually, Renato's eyes snapped to the floor with a soft blush. “Damn, that sounded a lot cooler in my head.”

Octavia laughed. Even were he to be her protector, to fall apart in front of her, to take her world on his shoulders and hoist her back to her feet when she fell, he was still himself. He was still Renato. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

She had his smile back. She’d never let it go again.