ancillary use cases
Chapter 01: come in with a crash (and not out with a bang) [between Chapters 42 & 43] [2021-08-28]
Chapter 02: and aren't you just crazy about me? [in the middle of Chapter 47] [2021-10-18]
Chapter 03: flora heals an aching soul [somewhere within Chapter 50] [2021-10-19]
"Alexander the Great, Alexander the Great, Alexander the Great." Minoth sighed. "Boy, doesn't really roll off the tongue there, does it?"
Returned to a reclining position by the breezy base of a tree, the ether had petered out, as had the energies. Xander gave his uncle a tired nudge with his foot, eyes still rested shut. "That one's on you, Uncle Minoth."
"On me, huh? Seems like that's going around." It's all Minoth's fault. He could just hear people parroting on about that years down the line - not how he'd intended to garner renown, not at all. A little silly, a little inconsquential, and a lot profound. A lot stupid, is what it was.
"Stop," came Xander's weak mutter. "Just, y'know...let it be."
And yes, he was right, going on and on with the self-deprecation and the gallows humor was enough to be sickening if it wasn't just time-wasteful. What's done is done is done, and all. Addam's dead. He's not coming back. You can't bring him back. Let it be. And yet...
"Well hey, just like you said, you're old enough to confront me about it. I doubt sweeping the whole thing under the rug would serve any of us very well."
"I...what do you want me to say? This war blows." Again, the choice of vernacular was the least of their concerns. Thanks ever so much, Malos, for all your anti-eldritch pearls of wisdom. We've all taught this boy how to be, haven't we?
Minoth sat up, casting one arm by the crooked elbow over a bent-up knee. "How tall are you, now?"
Xander still didn't open his eyes, just stretched full out. "I don't know, still a few inches shorter than Dad?"
Helnai wasn't Dannagh. Marsh wasn't dune, grass wasn't sand. And yet, as Mythra watched them stand and take point across from cattails, the scene flashed exactitude. The tug in her Core was a wrenching and very nearly a wretching.
"I can't watch this," she mumbled, with none of her usual acerbicity. Malos was about to ask why not, but then between pewter and leather he saw golden eyes flash focus to blue ones, and he understood. Of course he understood.
It was still disgustingly, painfully human, to see someone have to be taught how to interface with a Blade, to make contact with these the Architect's first creations, whether the literal first or not, and then of course everything took a double twist when it was the father's Blade, and he remembered exactly how he'd done this before, before the son had even been born. Memories you're not supposed to have, memories you're not supposed to have to have, because even if Addam hadn't died, perhaps especially if he hadn't, there wouldn't have been any of this transferable teaching crap.
Malos had never bothered to teach Xander how to control his Monado either. He'd been very impressed by the glisten-sharp flaming blade, just as much as the Blade itself, himself, because of course he had, he was only eight years old, but by the time he was old enough to learn to fight himself, he just took up a falchion and trained to protect. He didn't want a weapon that was made to cut, to maim, to kill. He only wanted, truly, to protect. Likely, he now blamed himself for not having been able to do so. If that was why he didn't blame Minoth...screw that.
Xander was, just like his father had been, absolutely atrocious with the guns - it's not as if purple ether bullets knocking the fluff out of those ballooning puffed-up shapes would have made a particularly satisfying sound if they had in fact hit their target, but anything was better than the dull splashes into the surrounding pond that resulted as shot after shot missed its mark. Years ago, Minoth had been long-suffering at the advent of the very same failure, but now he just gave a worn smile, leaned his head on top of the auburn tousle, and demonstrated again.
If he'd had the patience, they'd have found him to be much more adept with the knives - Minoth the ever-deft couldn't get one scrap in, Xander defended so well against the slightest possible infliction. He could be distracted, yes, and of course Minoth also knew how to fight dirty, but given their earlier conversation, that seemed quite wholly inappropriate to even posit. And, after all, Xander didn't have the patience, not for this, and irritatedly snapped the barrel shut with a minimum of fuss, shoved it into the holster, and more slumped than leaned his own cheek against Minoth's Core.
"I didn't even have to ask," the Flesh Eater murmured, chin tucked on top and eyes gazing irresolutely down at Flora. She stared a touch less unwavering back.
Xander's arms wrapped tight underneath the bottom of the jacket, careful over the pulsing ether lines. "Of course you didn't. I hate this. Hate the fighting, hate the weapons, hate the war, just like I said. But I love you." Because you're not any of that. That's not what you were made for.
Yes, they had a fair bit of fun naming their paired attack, Címbalo, when Mythra and Malos found themselves in the mood for a spar, but it was still bittersweet, not even somehow, because the time for pretending was over. You can't choose, you can't bifurcate. You have to be all of it. You have to take on every role this world has handed you. Honestly? Not always without a bang. Time's too cruel, some days, for a whimper.
"I think pink is a rather handsome color for you, don't you?"
Once again, they were stopped at a convenient bank of trees for rest, though Spessia's marshy biome made the oaken trunks of deciduousness an impossibility; birches lurked within the ponds themselves, but all foliage present on dry land supplied many a needling branch at approximately head height, for any seated. And, of course, that wasn't the only needling going on.
Minoth had long learned to tolerate, and then do more than simply tolerate, Addam's episodes of opportunistic optimism. By now, it took quite a whale of a bad mood to get him turned against his prince's advances. But, then, big personalities tended well fall like giants - seldom, but hard.
"'d you want something?" Minoth asked without looking up from his manuscript as Addam parked (more perched) his chin on the Flesh Eater's broad and not exactly unoffering shoulder.
"Just to tell you that I love you," he hummed, seemingly unbothered. "And that I missed you."
The former? Oh, it gave incalculable, unfathomable warmth, starting in his Core and piercing every other cavity in his chest, occupied or not. The latter, however, just niggled oversight. Away tore the focusing eyes, and parchment was left lonely. "Addam, you weren't alive to miss me. You weren't even aware that you died!"
The whole of it was somewhat hazy, for all of them - what was vision, what was seeing-believing-dreaming-reality? In service of a happy ending, you'll accept anything, won't you? But you do have to accept it. No new threats lay on the horizon, save for the threat of their own debatable inability to truly coalesce back into that happy family that had lived in Aletta.
Sixteen years, they'd lived there. Minoth had only been awakened in the current incarnation for eleven before that - over half his life, he'd spent with the Origos. Had it been worth it?
Oh, it seemed like such a stupid, nigh offensive, question, now. But he had to wonder, sometimes. Wouldn't the guilt consume, soon enough? I've taken so much from them, and don't feel like I've even given half as much back. So much for Addam's beloved even exchange.
"That's true," Addam conceded to the logical logistical accusation, unawares, "but I meant since my father called us to meet with him. We didn't get any time together after that, before the war broke out. Before I did die, apparently."
If Minoth remembered how much this reflected his exact thoughts on the matter just before and after that fatal event, he didn't show it. Instead, he deflected. Of course he did.
"That's what Blades are for, right? Finally fulfilling my purpose in being bonded to you. Sounds fine enough to me." And even then, it was still better than Amalthus. He'd never fought with Amalthus, only for him, in front of him. Handing off crates of supplies from Malos to Addam, building up the accidentally-founded future of all their new necessitated lives one hand in another at a time? Even that was a blessing.
But still... "Minoth, you know that can't possibly be the grandest purpose of why we're together."
Deflect, deflect, deflect. Something in Minoth's head buzzed the insistence, the compulsion, of keeping up a stern face. There'd been entirely too much unreciprocated talk of feelings in the past couple of weeks. No time for more tactical errors. "Did I say there was a grand purpose? I'm just saying I'm a Blade, and you're my Driver, and there's nothing to complain about. War's war, right? So we fight it."
Addam frowned. "That's not like you. Are you sure you're alright?"
"Same as I've always been." For all the change, he was still the same. Wasn't he?
The frown turned into a grimace. "Xander told me that you were quite...out of it, when you returned to them."
"Yeah, well." Something made half of air and half of ether escaped Minoth's lips, huffy. "I was, as he would say, 'going through it', at the time."
"And that's exactly what we're all here for, to help you in times like that. You can't tell me you don't know that after all this time. We've always been a family, you and me and Mythra. It's still the same."
Always? Us three? The cowboy, the prince, and the Aegis, a family? Did Addam really think that? He must have known that Minoth and Mythra had never gotten along, even before their spat in the manor. If not for the turnabout of that era's climax and subsequent falling action, they might still have remained at odds, and then on ad infinitum. Are you really that wishful, my prince? Are you still up, or down, in the clouds?
Minoth said nothing, let Addam continue. "You'd like the parallels too, wouldn't you? Now each of us has a counterpart - Flora, and Xander, and Malos. It's very tidy, that way, but that doesn't mean that you have to be. We're here to love you no matter how you feel."
So. It appeared that Addam had studied up this little soliloquoy of his. Minoth, thankfully, didn't need preparation to keep snappy.
"How I feel, huh? I feel like you're giving me a headache, Prince."
If affronted, Addam kept calm - his rejoinder came quicker than would be expected, even. "I'm sorry. I just wanted you to know." And you always have. Not that it's ever done much good.
"Everything alright over here?" Flora poked in - way too brightly, Minoth observed, but none could blame her for being in a better mood on the regular now that they seemed well and truly removed from sons and daughters outbursting and husbands falling out of commission. Flora was inmitable, of course; she'd never fallen to any so petty, or so grand, calling of their tapestry's wrinkle, but that didn't mean she was unaffected. It'd be cold of her to be so, after all, and their darling lady was nothing if she wasn't warm.
(Nothing if she wasn't warm, that is, in addition to the fact that she was everything to all of them. So it proves itself out.)
"Fine, Flora," Minoth waved her off, at the same time as Addam responded, "I'm afraid Minoth's being a little bullish today. Do you have any suggestions?" Great.
Rather than roll his eyes, Minoth just closed them. He had more love than he could ever express for these two, it was true, but not when they were ganging up on his depression like it was an Aspar coiling up to be stabbed out of its skin. Then, that's when the regret tinged. Don't they have better things to do than take care of your silly ass? Haven't they ever? They must, they must, they must!
Musn't they? "Again? Here, Addam, move over. Minoth, may I?"
Addam did as requested, but Minoth wasn't so acquiescent. Of course he wasn't.
"Flora, I think you can see that I'm using that hand."
"So write with the other one," Flora replied easily, taking the very gauche appendage into her own and squeezing tight. "Aren't you better with the right anyway?"
"Actually, no," Minoth lied. "I lost the dexterity in the second experiment."
As if he could ever fool her. "You wrote me a very sweet note in handwriting that was most definitely not your usual just last week. I know you're still just as capable as you've always been." Her left patted over his then, and it became painfully apparent that the two original Origos had no plan of leaving Minoth alone with his hobbies or with his thoughts anytime soon. Again, great.
Why do you know my handwriting so well, Flora? Not how, but why? Why am I being taken in to the habits of the way you know those you love most, so casually? Shouldn't I bow and keep respectful of the fair Lady Origo?
Hell if I know. Also an attendant of the junior prince I should be, then, too, but he hasn't required even a modicum of measured feigning from me. Like he was eight years old again, in he clamored, and mirrored Addam's posture of repose.
"What's the matter, Xander, tired?" Minoth asked with eyebrow less jauntily and more boredly raised. Even if his right arm wasn't completely indisposed, the distraction had cast all half-thunk literary snippets out of his head, so there was nothing to do but indulge, if not fully engage, in the nonsense.
"Mmm, not really," Xander started vaguely, "this is just nice. I missed having everyone together." Just like his father. "My whole heart is in this room," and all. Big softy, and little softy - only Xander wasn't so little anymore. Architect, kid, when did you grow up on me?
To go with the ushering in of everyone, and that out of innocence, Mythra had wandered over and seemed to be amusedly gauging the situation. Or, no...she looked far more prepared than that. Not gauging, but calculating. Soon enough, Malos appeared over her shoulder and flicked at her earring to announce himself. Mythra didn't flinch, just passed back a middle finger in return. Cucumbers, not pickles. Not sweet, but definitely not sour.
Then, downbeat. "Xander, scooch." On cue, he grinned entirely too wide and moved forward to allow Malos space behind him, pulling Minoth down and away from the tree as he did it. Before their cowboy had time to complain or even ascertain, Mythra had made landing directly on top of his now-supine form, and he found himself absolutely smothered, every inch, by someone's arm, or face, or chest.
It was heavy, of course it was, but it was also exceedingly light. A pinching feeling, but also an incredible openness. Nothing, and everything. Abscence, and the only presence that would ever matter in this world. The kind of tingling numbness that you only got when every millisecond of the current moment mattered more than anything that had ever happened in history, and would only be outdone in the future by further occurrences, affirmations, of the same.
Where's my notebook? Where'd you put my pen? Why can't I feel anything but...love?
If you had to color love, likely you'd flush it red, or pink, if the romance didn't suit. So in total, as served for the other five of their makeshift family, Minoth thought pink a very handsome color indeed. Five hands, and then a sixth binding, but only one heart. His soul bled for them, every time.
And they knew that, didn't they?
"Starting to suspect that you lot planned this."
"Maybe..." Mythra murmured, every continued draw-out of the vowel ticking up, up, up even as the syllables came muffled against his chest. "Maybe we did. But aren't you crazy about us anyway?"
"I think I'll plead the fifth on that one."
A Malos-shaped shove came at his right shoulder. "Heh. You're bluffing." But not an asshole, huh?
Huh. And maybe he was. Maybe he was. How about that?
The playhouse is quiet. The playhouse is always quiet. And it doesn't necessarily get less quiet with the addition of today's visitor, but it gets less stagnant. More excited. More alive.
The first entrant is a petite Gormotti girl, jumpsuit bright brash mustardy yellow, with a distinct air of confidence folded back in on itself, so that the underside of forced timidity shows through. Behind her (edging between behind and beside, Cole supposes) pads a great white tiger, blue ether lines flashing stripes in, on, across his coat even through the dense thicket of fluffy fur.
"Can I do something for you?"
The girl wrings her wrists with a twinge of nervousness. She doesn't exactly seem surprised by the timbre of his voice, or the fact that there's no one else there, and she's arrived at exactly the person she wanted to talk to almost immediately. So there's something else to it. "I...maybe. This is gonna sound super, super weird, but...I heard about you. About what happened to you."
What happened to me? Cole thinks on that for a while. It's been a good long time since something "happened" to him. Vandham dying wasn't any grand event. People die. Humans die. Having to scrap a fair bit with the current Urayan queen on the prospect of founding Garfont, and being denied a subsidy? Nothing new. It harkened back to Amalthus's dismissal of his literary ambitions. And surely this girl didn't mean the hush-hush hoopla of the experiment...
"You mean this?" He shifts aside the cloak and the pendant chain with the wedding rings, shows his Core. Still hot pink, hasn't faded a shade. He's far too old, probably closing in on two hundred years, to look the way he does, even with the gray streaks. They serve distinguishment far more than they serve decrepitness. Does that mean something particular about the reason he's even still standing, corporeal?
Meanwhile, below the introspection, the girl's eyes go wide. "Bloody 'ell..." Quite literally. "Dromarch, you were right."
The tiger, Dromarch, bows. "Pleased to meet you, Sir Cole - and please excuse my lady's slight lack of discretion. Perhaps we should have explained ourselves before barging in?" he nudges the girl who is apparently his liege in addition to just his Driver, mixing an undercurrent of growl into his otherwise smooth, deep tone.
"Right, right," she stammers. "The thing is-"
"Might I ask the lady's name, then?" Cole has moved back to sit on a bench in the front hall and waves the guests closer as he interrupts.
"O-oh, me?" She hitches in her stance, for just a moment. "I'm...Nia."
"A very pleasant name," says Cole agreeably. "No need to be ashamed of it."
Nia flops down onto the bench next to him and sighs out several pounds of pressure only redoubled by the lack of inches to square them into. "I'm not so sure about that."
"I'm listening."
This, oh, this takes Nia so far aback she may as well have been standing back in the gromrice paddies. And what did she expect? She doesn't seem stupid in the least, and definitely intelligent enough to know when a vent will run sour or not. So Cole waits. He's listening.
"You, like...ate your husband's heart, or whatever?" Or whatever. He never wrote the play (not yet, anyway, but it was doubtful that he ever truly would), but Vandham liked to tell the tallest of tales, and Cole indulged him in it. Would have been a crime not to, eh?
Cole nods. "If you want to get picky, we weren't married yet, but I'm sure that more or less sealed the deal." Funny joke, sure, but he waits until her grin strays breathy to crook amusal himself.
Then she takes a different breath. A much, much different breath. Her hand between Dromarch's ears suddenly buries far deeper into the thicket than before. His noble head with nobler mane dips not an inch in response.
"Mine was my sister's."
Ah. Cole makes a questioning motion with the front flap of his cloak - had enough? Had too much? Nia's eyes rove over the Core again, and then she closes them. He snaps the buttons shut once more.
"Can I ask something?" Nia nods, still not looking. "This sister...obviously - and I mean no disparagement - she wasn't your blood relative. Was she your Driver?"
"Mmm...no. Da was."
More to consider. Everything he'd studied up in the years and years, since Jin told him and ever after, asserting his more holistic influence upon Adotolus to repurpose the research documents...none of it said that it had to be the Driver's heart for the fullest, most powerful transformation, but shaky circumstances called for closer inborn connections. Fiddling with nature was a tricky thing. Of course it was.
"I assume she was dying, or otherwise sickly." Silent confirmation comes. Dromarch nuzzles into her legs, above the armor plates and below the knees. If the action is rough into him, he doesn't seem to mind. He doesn't think it thankless.
Too many things are thankless, in this world. Even still. Even without Amalthus and the iron-filigree clutch of the Praetorium. "Did you choose to do it, or did he make you?"
Though Cole had been as gentle as he thought possible, Nia's eyes snap open, accompanied by a golden flash, and her head tilts to the side with a motion tending towards the violent sound of a crack. "I'm the Blade, I never got to choose anything. Of course I wouldn't--"
Not such an experiment. Cheating death. Addam only sorrowful, if a little unrecognizant of a time and a place for maudlin jokes, and Flora more accepting than he'd ever dreamed. One soul lost is better than two. But she hadn't been bonded to the other girl...
"I'm sorry that had to happen to you, Nia. It's not the way I'd hoped things would ever go, and probably there's more I could have done to make it so that things were different, now. But it's not a curse. If it is one, it's just as much a blessing."
Nia shakes her head, insistent. "I hate it. It's no blessing that every time I pass a mirror, I see Carys, and every time Da saw me, he tried to pretend I was her. Flesh Eaters might not be cursed, in general - you're sure as hell not - but I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it."
Carys. So that's why she doesn't look so Bladelike. That's something new. Extra characteristics taken on from someone close but not the actual resonance partner. "Can I ask what your Blade form looked like?"
Now Nia waves her hands, vague and washed out of her erstwhile energy. "I don't know. I don't remember, half the time. I could show you, I guess, but I haven't done that since..."
"You don't have to do that, Nia. It's alright." If Cole were feeling bolder, he'd lay a hand on her shoulder to say as much. But he's not in that role, here. He's not been given that direction. It's not his story.
Certainly not. "No, it's NOT alright! Why are we freaks?! Why do we have to be less than the Drivers? Why should I look like her? I'm Nia, not Carys, and I didn't want to do this!!"
She's not sobbing, no, but she bites back tears and rakes her hand through Dromarch's fur with vicious abandon. He lets her do it. Probably, he's glad she's still sitting there to do it, and not stormed out and on to who knows where. He? Dromarch. Cole. The both of them.
Cole, for his part, runs a hand through his own hair, and finds a pit in his stomach burst anew when it drops behind his head, at the height of his chin and no lower. Gone, gone, gone. All gone. "I'll ask once more if I can be a little less than sensitive."
"Go ahead," Nia grumbles, sniffles. "You've heard it all from me."
"There was a time, before my Core looked like this, when I lost my memories. Not amnesia, like a human gets, but a full memory wipe. My Driver - a man I loved very much, certainly more than I could ever tell you sitting here today - wanted to restore what we'd had, of course he did, but he was hesitant to commit to it. He didn't know if that's what I'd want."
Nia blinks, and the set of her gaze is bullish. It's a weak point he's making, he knows that, but it's all he can do. He's not about to drudge up the original treachery from the era even before. Before Addam, before...everything. How do we become everything of who we are? Through everything that we do.
So Cole continues. "For him to be respectful to the Blade that I was at that time was...well, it's somewhat of a bare minimum, but it was still the right thing to do. He wanted the version of me that he knew, to hold and to love for all the years he'd expected we'd have, but he recognized that that wasn't his choice to make. Not like there was a total lack of pressure from the family contingent...you get my point."
Does she? "You're the Nia that Carys knew. The way you say her name shows me how much you loved her, and though I'll never say that you shouldn't fault your father- no, your Driver, because I'll call it like it is, there's love to be found in what makes you up. You can't move forward until you see that."
Oh, he hates the comparison and the compromise he's had to make, but isn't it true? Isn't it only true? Flowers bloom from fallen seeds, and death can only come into life if it's meant to reflect beauty. All of this, that the Architect made...we'll never love it until we see and treasure its beauty, flaws and all.
In Nia's lap, the leatherette of her gloves squeaks, and she's listless, all anger burnt out.
"Nia?"
She gulps, swallows. "Sounds like somethin' Dromarch would say, a little bit."
"Oh, really?" Cole sits back and crosses his arms, but he's still open. "And what kind of things does Dromarch like to say?"
The big cat bows his head - is he smiling, then?
"I won't say it - go on, you do it, you big furball." And Nia's smiling through her tears too.
"My lady's sword is a beautiful instrument, covered in flowers and water. I myself am a Water Blade, but still, I will always contend that flora heals an aching soul, and does it best."
Flora... "Really. Mind telling me where you learned that?"
With a hearty sigh, Dromarch settles back onto his haunches and ducks his chin down over his front paws. "I had a Driver during the second war - the one that sank Torna and Spessia, as I'm sure you well know - who worked with a certain lady in the refugee camps. She was firm, yet kind, and kept the work moving with a wondrous purpose even as it seemed the harshest realities of the battles would consume us all. I'm told that for you, Sir Cole, they very nearly did."
The battles by the refugee camps... "You...I remember now. It was your Driver that Addam was protecting when he was given the fatal injury."
"Indeed. My lady - my other lady, that is - felt forever marked by your prince's selflessness. When she had escaped back to an encampment of Gormotti soldiers and shared the tale, she found it only fitting that the fair Lady Flora and the noble Lord Addam were wed. I know this, of course, because she kept a journal for me, as I, regrettably, cannot write."
There's so much new information that comes from this revelation - the most striking thread is that if Addam had not thrown himself in front of Dromarch's old Driver, he may never have survived along the storied passage of his Core to be awoken by Nia in the present day. And, why, then where would she be?
Cole doesn't remark on any of this, however. He only gained from the loss of his Driver, the enacting of the ritual, on that day, as much as it hurt in the moment. Oh, as much as it hurt. If Flora hadn't been there...he likely wouldn't have survived himself. Not the nightmares, not the doubt, not the guilt...none of it. Flora thrifted the beauty up out of their tragedy, and held onto it as best she could.
"I think Dromarch's right," he pronounces at last. "Flora does heal an aching soul. Especially mine." My Flora - our Flora - and my soul. My aching, itching, burning, pulsing, thriving, yearning soul.
"Yeah, well...okay. I guess I just..." A little something breaks in Nia's chest. "No, I don't just hope you're right, I know you're right. I don't think this Flora of yours would ever have let you tell a lie."
No, she wouldn't have. Her affinity was with Ice, and she always told the truth, as painful as it may have been.
Cole closes his eyes, thinks, reminisces, and tries to understand. Holds Nia to his chest, and wills the door not to open again as he rocks them gently back and forth.
The playhouse is quiet. The playhouse is always quiet. But now it echoes, faintly, with the bright, pleasant humming of a woman who had so much patience, so much determination, so much love, so much life, and gave it all without once standing in the spotlight.
Being reminded...it was a blessing. And, well, you know what they say. Flora heals an aching soul, and all that.