ma chère l'oye

Chapter 01: pavane de la belle au bois dormant
Chapter 02: petit poucet
Chapter 03: laideronette, impératrice des pagodes
Chapter 04: les entretiens de la belle et de la bête
Chapter 05: le jardin féerique

It's not often that either Patroka or Tyrea let themselves be at peace - and be seen at it, on top of that. It's always fight, fight, fight, guard up and righteousness seized.

It's always tension. That's reductive, but then again, is it really, to observe such a pervasive phenomenon?

Their heritage is threatened, hidden. Of course it's a rare thing to fall to peaceful sleep.

Tyrea dreams, laid in lilac sheets and princess-pink hair. She dreams of many things, but the last is the most ephemeral.

"Caught you," whispers Patroka, ever-sly.

So maybe it won't be so bad, waking up.

Mia stumbles; she doesn't mind it. She knows she can always get up again. It's what her dads taught her, and it's what she reinforces again and again every day. New chances are what you make of them - very nearly, they only happen if you make them yourself.

Eunie's not nearly so self-assured, to say nothing of self-possessed. When she looks back, she doesn't see so much of a versatile, tangible lesson.

It's ugly, back there. She doesn't miss it. Only...

"Hey." A hand laid to cheek isn't very tender, with gloves on.

"Don't worry so much. I'm still here."

Birds can be flighty. Cats can be serene. The attributes are almost inherent, intrinsic, intuitive in their natures.

Perhaps, then, one looks to nurture. Maybe the feline can be the tetchy one, and the avian so calm and measured.

Both are dangerous, flashing beaks and claws. Both are ferocious, when threats come for their loved ones, their most dearly found family.

But, the greatest violence of all arises, rearing proboscis, when an intruder attacks one of the usually quite docile creatures. No retainer is fiercer.

"I won't let them have you."

"Silly. I don't think anyone wants me but you."

Everyone Elly meets has been very readily presenting of a calm, perfected façade, the likes of which she has trained herself to match. If they do fall apart, it's only underneath the surface.

It's...unsteadying.

Then: Mythra, raring at all points to be as real as possible, to lay it all out there, to shout out her doubts before she doubles them back in and examines them.

"I think you could be a little calmer, Mythra. There's no big fuss." Is there?

Mythra snorts, but can't keep down a smile, either. "Yeah, I could. But what's the fun in that?"

To the untrained eye, KOS-MOS is stiff, emotionless. She responds on command but only on command; rote learning of a machine means that she will never do anything unpredictable.

Haze, however, is all wonderment. Such a beautiful lady, so refined and ethereal. The depth of her red-eyed gaze never, never ends.

"Are you happy, KOS-MOS?" she asks one day, trying to make it sound an idle question as she fusses at her embroidery.

KOS-MOS smiles, nods. Things are peaceful, in the garden. "Of course, Haze. I am with you."

It sounds canned, but all Haze hears is soaring, sparkling joy.