la maîtresse

As he pulls her up and she starts leading them, Felix has a half idea to take back control, but it's short lived. Between them, Clea is the better dancer, and he's more than curious to see what she has in store for him. So he simply adjusts the grip of his arm around her waist and squares his shoulders in an attempt to fix his posture. They move around the room so clumsily that he's sure a part of her is terribly annoyed.

They remain close. Closer than they're supposed to be for their dance. His skin is flushed where she's touching him above his shirt, and Felix follows her every step diligently. Her comment makes him throw his head back and laugh out loud. When he composes himself, he's still smiling widely. "Oh, right. The issue is my height, not the fact that you wouldn't be able to catch me," he shoots back, unable to contain his amusement. Clearing his throat in a mockery of a scolded student, Felix hums as if deep in thought. "I lack technique," he humours her, then pauses, an idea forming in his mind, ready to be blurted out with the liquid encouragement provided by his own glass of absinthe. "Why don't you teach me, then?"

She moves them away from anything they might break in their uncontrolled swaying, and Felix lets out a chuckle at her comment. "Oh, I know you would." The hand on her back moves up and down, dragging slowly on her dress. The soft fabric tickles his skin, and Felix presses his fingers a little harder against her, just to feel familiar dips and curves of her body. Clea speaks again, and Felix gazes back into her eyes, head tilting slightly to the side. "I am pretty sure that's not how most stories go. As a matter of fact, it was quite common for knights to ask for proofs. That they were serving the right king, saving the right princess, slaying the right dragon..." Yet another laugh escapes him. "Go on, Dessendre. Show me it's really you."

Naturally, knowing her as well as he does, Felix is sure it will take more than some knowledge of chivalric romance to convince her, but surprisingly enough — and, probably, thanks to the absinthe — she moves to touch his face, and his mind goes blank. Her fingers move on his jaw, his heart pumps faster in his chest, and he looks down at her the instant she brushes his mouth. Instinct takes over, then, and Felix parts his lips to gently nibble at her thumb, tongue flicking against it jockingly. Her skin tastes faintly of the sugar she grabbed to make his drink. He lets go when she speaks, nodding along. "They usually do not," he agrees in a low voice. "Well, then I think you should."

That typical, unbothered confidence of his, which is definitely enhanced by the drinks they have shared, pulls a soft huff of amusement from her. She has no will to suppress it; moreover, his smugness sounds more endearing with her head pleasantly empty, and the piano music accompanying his bragging words. On more sober occasions, she might have thought of a sharper comment to put him in his place — knights, princesses and dragons be damned. But such thoughts dissolve in that haze like the sugar cube they have so carefully melted into the spirit, so she can't help but simply smile at his useless argument about reality and illusions.

The admission of wanting that kiss, instead, is another matter — one very much real, and heartfelt. In truth, she has never been one to feel embarrassment at the gentle or pleading demand for one, or many; even now, with her head so light and the room barely swaying at the edges anymore, there is nothing but unhurried sureness in her wish. It's familiar, and when she speaks it aloud she is still somehow pleased with herself — and her ideas. He must have described illusions as something akin to ghosts, if memory serves her well. Though this occasion and these circumstances are not the greatest for purposefully digging through memories, she remains quite sure of it.

When the distance is finally closed, and his hand shifts to find the side of her neck, she welcomes the kiss with closed eyes and a last sigh exhaled through her nose — that wish of hers granted at last. Absinthe has gently set adrift many of her thoughts and some of her senses, but she feels this with one breathtaking clarity that betrays everything she has done until now, every prediction for how the anise-flavored night might have potentially unfolded. Her fingers curl against his jaw, having moved down from his lips, with her thumb barely brushing his pulse point — while her other hand has snaked lower, falling limp at her side with the dance stance now abandoned, for good.

Felix feels warm — both against her lips, and beneath her fingertips. It only adds to the brimming heat that has been pooling in her stomach; the drink has loosened her, yes — has dissolved the careful and guarded restraint she prides herself on, of along with everything else, but the feeling he brings her with his kiss is an old one. One far older than the shared glasses of absinthe, for sure. And oh, how it thrills her — the thought alone is enough to make her flush in the cheeks and tilt her head to a side, to deepen the kiss, enthusiastic and without hesitation.

She thinks of ghosts, of illusions. Of things that do not feel and leave no warmth behind them. And of how she is pleased with herself for letting her want surface at the right time, to color and humor his silly notion. In the middle of it all, she also comes to imagine how little doubt about her nature would remain were Clea to give him a little playful bite to remember her by — something small, barely more than a nibble. The thought makes her curl her lips against his, and she acts on it with a gentle graze of her teeth against his lower lip, a little press of her canine. Indeed, proof enough—

Play changes, fundamentally, as one grows older: oh, those old games in memory gave way to more serious challenges in the Canvases as they grew older; the oldest games of passing little fluttering toys and animals made of chroma became more contest, creatures formed that would try to best each other in some fashion. It was, though, rarely in fighting, because even as he got older Verso was squeamish with violence, felt too strongly for his creations.

But climbing, swimming — flying, poetry. Hell, even fashion, at one point, though that was partly him being fed up with events and balls and creating some wonderfully snarky and pointed commentary on it all through very deliberate cariacture. It all grew so much more detailed and nuanced and clever and involved as they got older ——

But this boy doesn’t hold those memories, does he? Forever a child, forever innocent. Forever caught before those little games of creation had been forgotten — perhaps at a point where they were becoming commonplace, simple, but still held a thrill and a wonder.

And so now does the painted boy catch her little creation: the strange fish, the strange bird, the creation that reminds him of a memory of little terrors. Little nightmares. Two children, very different: one who was enthralled by the darker and more twisted, the other with light and adventure and color and a certain playful simplicity. Alone, perhaps, they would have strayed down those paths; together, they discovered layers, nuance, the thrill in mixing the two and creating something altogether new.

The fading boy holds out his hands for the bird, and the little poor stumbling creature shimmers into his chroma like it belongs there. With a sweep, he removes the little hat ‘pon his head ( and god, what a void of crumbling horror is beneath —— ) and lets the creature nest within.

“ I have always been here. “ The boy, oh this little boy. A memory trapped within a grave. “ Something feels wrong. Is it wrong? It doesn’t feel like home. ” Carefully, he twirls: the hat giving a little clumsy flourish, tipped back on his head. And then removed again: and when he removes it again, a swirl of —— flies? No, no, bees, bright pink and blue striped like the cotton candy at the harbor, only slightly muted because his chroma is not his, not really —— bees swirl from it, fluttering around her. The bees that bothered them relentlessly and stung him twice on the real day it happened, though now they bumble about her harmlessly. The flourish of his hat was their father to a tee, from the trick to the way his little finger sticks out at the end.

She observes the critter land, morph, be molded, and disappear. It's the first time the girl has witnessed that fragmented shadow be that active — a shard of her brother through and through, not unlike the little boy committed to the endless act of Painting in the canvas' heart. This reflection plays, though — and she is taken momentarily aback by the beauty and simplicity of it. That little window to their childhood, granted to her by tragedy and loss.

To Paint for the simple joy of it. Creation as it was probably always intended to be. After all, it is also the way they have both been initiated into its wonders — mere playtime. The endless hours of lessons and of practice, the firmness of Maman and preceptors waiting for them back home, in Paris; all of them were but compromises, all for the promise of that family miracle to be learned and mastered. She is reminded of the excitement that would eat at her each time their parents would accompany them inside a Canvas while gazing at the colorful bees. When had she last Painted for the sake of it ? For her own sake and joy ?

The boy cannot know how much it pains her to step into that world that used to mean so much to her and Verso, and find it so radically changed. Or— perhaps he can feel it the same way her brother would immediately be able to tell when his sister was upset or angry. A lifetime ago, now, it seems.

He'd squirm in fear or recoil in protest at Clea's most grotesque-looking creatures in childhood, and tease her and joke about them in adulthood. In retort, she used to consider his lack of skill at drawing visages quite amusing, and would tease her brother in return — until he took his distance from the world of Painting. In and of itself, the sight brings her sorrow. The many bees circle around her, curious and somewhat wary — and for now Clea chooses not to upset them, nor to manipulate their chroma. Animals were a favorite of theirs — to create. Pink sheep, schools of exotic fish they'd see in books, flying whales. Each one of them slightly modified to be only theirs.

Modified. She avoids glancing at the doors again. ❛ You may leave this place. I guess there is not much here, for you— ❜ But, of course, her doppelganger's atelier. Whether he decides to visit or ignore her, it's irrelevant to Clea's projects and plans. Then again, one can say her brother's soul permeates the whole Canvas; he is everywhere, he can be anywhere. And it changes nothing.

vampire clea dessendre 🩸

Of course, Felix isn’t naive. He knows it’s Clea he should be thanking. She hasn’t told her parents much about their relationship, as far as he’s aware, but he knows her opinion mattered most when it came to the pivotal minutes where a decision had to be taken, and so he’s grateful for her. Though, then again, he always is. She’s helped saving his body, but she’s been saving his spirit for the longest time.

He watches her stand and move around the room, then briefly glances at the books on the table beside him. Alicia has been so enthusiastic about shading the content of her family’s library that he almost thinks he should get injured more often, because he has never seen that kid happier. They talk about books and share stories and prompts, and Felix can’t undo what has been done to her — what his family contributed to do to her — but he can make Alicia smile, and though that’s not enough, it’s still a start. He turns to look at Clea again, only to find that she was already watching him. Lately she keeps her blue gaze on him more often than not. It makes his heart ache with love to know how cared for he is, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he jokes about the maids, and hopes it’s enough to make her smile as well.

Truth be told, he has noticed the maids laugh at all his jokes and take their time changing his bandages, but it’s nothing new. The attention from the ladies is something Felix is used to, and now it doesn’t exactly matter anymore. Not when the only one he cares about is right there, close enough to touch. Still, he offers Clea a smirk, though he knows perfectly well that she couldn’t be less bothered. “Your mother, huh?” He teases her, smirk widening. “Right, yeah. We don’t want that, not at all.” It’s nice, he thinks, to finally be able to jest with Clea after days and days of barely being able to talk. He’s not used to being quiet, and even though the wound stings at times, it’s becoming much more bearable.

He’s so, so very sorry about the worry he’s sparked inside her heart. After what happened to her brother, Clea doesn’t deserve to feel such concerns. He should be relieving her back from weights, not adding to them. As she sits beside him on the bed, however, Felix feels his body relax in tandem with the mattress dipping under her weight. She reaches out for his hand, and he meets her halfway. It’s not enough, and Lord knows how much he misses her warmth, but it would take some convincing to get her to agree to lie down next to him.

At the mention of Alicia, Felix can’t help but smile. He adores that kid, and to hear that his presence there is of help fills him with happiness. Especially because he knows how much Clea loves her baby sister. Maybe he can’t do much for her from that bed, but at the very least he’s keeping Alicia company and keeping her away from Clea’s moody responses when bothered while working. A win win situation, really. He’s about to make a comment, when Clea speaks of the accident. Felix bites the inside of his cheek and nods. “I’m glad to keep her company,” he says slowly, then swallows. “But perhaps it’s best you keep her as shielded as possible from what happened. I can’t imagine how terribly she must feel about the war, so… yeah, if she asks, I suggest we come up with an excuse.”

The description he now offers her settles into her mind with unwelcome and unwanted precision — it just has to be so, and she commits with silence and feigned calm each detail to remember later on. Red hair, a curled mustache, a pin — the mark of a guild, in theory; though it repulses her to imagine a Painter reaching such a desperate, low point that attacking estranged artists, innocents, becomes something natural, with or without sanction. It is precisely how they lost Verso, and how Alicia's life was forever ruined. The attacker drags with him an entire name, an entire craft, down with him — and that, as member of the Council, she cannot accept it.

It brings her shame, but also a sense of quiet, dangerous resolution too. She cannot help but feel, in part, responsible for the vile ambush Felix was subjected to. The action of a Painter's reckless hand does cast a shadow on the whole guild, and by extension, on her as well — the burden of a name she has chosen to uphold.

She runs through the faces she knows — familiar members of the Council, her mother's own circles, the few colleagues she had learned to recognize by face rather than name alone. To no avail. No visage crowding her memories meets his described picture. Even so, the realization offers Clea no comfort. Well — the matter shall be addressed regardless, with enough delicacy as not to raise useless suspicion or provoke too strong a reaction — though who knows what Paris may already know, what socialites or mere witnesses may already be whispering, unbeknownst to them all. That, she cannot control — and it bothers her immensely to even think about it.

❛ Thank you. I shall keep this to myself, do not fret. It's more than I expected, Felix, ❜ she nods, a corner of her lips lifting. She's sincere — Alicia won't know until the information becomes public, or until her sister asks for more details herself. These are quite delicate matters, ones only for the Council to handle and resolve. ❛ At the right time, I will look into it. Quietly. Discreetly. At first. ❜ It's a pale reassurance, given the current state of events — but she means it. Whether her promise can offer him peace of mind — though it cannot undo the bullet scar he'll forever bear because of this episode — she cannot say. Her thumb moves once again over his hand. ❛ You know me. ❜

His hand pats the space beside him then, and the gesture forces her attention fully away from the image of painters with red hair and curled mustaches. It's gentle, and familiar — for so many times has he invited her that same way, to join him in bed to try and pry her away from a canvas, to relax in bed. Days of measured and careful distance that still reek of antiseptic concoctions, of her deliberately occupying the chair by the bed as he swung between lucidity and slumber like a madman, of careful touches — all of it tested by that stubborn side of his. That dictated gentleness now prodded by this invitation. It costs him nothing to try, she surmises.

❛ Felix— ❜ she protests, weary yet fond. She glances at the space he's offering her. It is no double bed; she would fit, of course, in close enough proximity to have their two bodies brush inevitably against one another. ❛ You are recovering, from a gunshot, ❜ Clea has to remind him, as though he were not, in fact, the wounded one. It is not an outright "no", and they both know it. She can read it on his face — in the way he has already justified the invitation with how much he's missed her. After days of worry, of the family doctor's visits, of that chair growing uncomfortable beneath her, she has little fight to offer him. Perhaps, the late hour and a day spent working must be blamed too.

❛ I swear, if you... so much as wince— ❜ she warns, with a whisper and fixed gaze on his face as she lowers herself beside him with precision. But before Clea can settle down completely, she hovers there, half over him, with one hand braced against the mattress as the other reaches for her hair, to prevent the long strands from being trapped beneath them when she finally lies down. Before he can even think of moving his hands to reach for her, and possibly strain the wound, Clea gently grabs his wrist and guides it back on the mattress. ❛ Wait. ❜

It's no secret that Simon's terrible at keeping secrets —— at least those of his own. To those around him, close to him, he'll hold their secrets to the grave —— but for his own, he's not subtle at all when it comes to things close to his own chest. He usually doesn't even try: honest to a fault, loyal to a fault.

He should have known. He bears a guilt that's a messy, nasty thing, cruel and sharp-toothed, especially when there's part of him that reminds him that he was deluded and intentionally misled, but there's another aching part of him that says he should have known.

Her words are a gentle prod, firm as she always is —— and it's in those moments that he wonders how he could have ever mistaken the other Paintress for her. Ah, but how the unfairness of it aches ——

Here in this room, though, he doesn't quite meet her gaze, which is proof enough of his perceived guilt. Their world as it is has been remade, and they have everything that was taken from them, then, changed as they are. For as much as he likes to pretend that none of what happened before affects him anymore, those who knew him before can see the weight, the guilt, the raw spot so much of what happened during his unmaking and exile that has left on some fundamental part of his soul.

Of course: she, too, has those scars. They both do. The kind of scars that you don't wear openly, but memory has a way of making you remember they're there.

He draws in a breath, letting a hand rest on the back of a chair near the window, his chroma-burned gaze held out the window to the peaceful dark outside. There's an unleashed dog jogging alongside a kid that lazily peddles on a late evening bike ride carrying a heavy package, and he watches them go, briefly envious that their night continues without the weight of difficult questions and past transgressions.

At first, she thought the whole truth somehow superfluous. There was no space for it, no will to even understand it completely in that new world they needed to navigate. One seamless transition, from captivity and torture to an inebriating freedom — though not a day passes without the shadow of the past looming like a blade over Clea's mind. What used to be the most pleasant activities she once enjoyed now feel forever altered, rotten to the core, whenever she performs them.

But now, in the midst of that tremendously precarious balance their new life demands of them, she has understood that the time to come to terms with everything that has happened shall eventually arrive, whether one is ready for it or not. She first learned it when the many nightmares came to plague them both, the reality made clear without the need to voice it; or whenever she'd find her hands dirty with wet clay after a project, and recoil at that sensation. Truth itself has been peeking through the most mundane and simplest moments of their lives, asserting its dread and its presence. She has grown tired of avoiding it, of pushing the thought aside.

She observes him pacing towards the window, plagued by the weight of the past, that destructive wave that comes and goes, always comes and goes. It pains Clea to see him lost in such thoughts — it shatters her heart to ask those questions to him too. But for the sake of their past, that once-perfect life to which they will hardly ever return, she needs to know. Whether it shall prove yet another ghost to haunt her mind, or the next, small step towards the freedom she longs for, she does not hesitate.

❛ Yes, I do. I understand it, and feel the same— ❜ she speaks calmly, her tone flat yet focused. No trace of accusation, no insistence. The choice is his to make, for memories do grow sharper teeth when dragged again into the light. She cannot help but pray that such a sacrifice might one day grant them both solace; a shred of peace to color their everyday life. ❛ I'll be sincere. Not knowing feels worse, ❜ —and how selfish it sounds, in the end — the truth. But he deserves all of it, after the vile way he has been deceived and misled into acting at the Painters' bidding.

Regardless, he's immediately drawn to every detail. If he could, he'd take notes about everything he's seeing. But he feels a little nauseous, unsteady on his legs, and he knows he must take it slow. As far as Felix knows, no Writer has ever entered a Canvas willingly, so there's no procedure to survive in there. No helpful tips, no shared informations. Clea prepared him, and all he can do is rely on what she told him. He's in great hands, though, he knows. Clea is the most skilled Paintress in the country. A legend in the making. It makes him smile that she's welcoming him so giddly into her world.

Felix feels her chroma around him. The air is thick with it, like pollen or petrichor. He understands the source of her power; it's not so different from their ink, after all, but being buried in it — surrounded by it... it's different from anything he's ever felt. It's like he's walking right inside her. Everything there is Clea, and she created it for him. The thought makes his heart skip a beat. It's the most intimate he's ever been with anyone, and it almost bothers him that it won't last long. Not this time, at least.

Clea is all smiles inside her world, and it fills Felix with a joy so deep he thinks he's gonna burst. Her white hair makes her stand out more than usual. He knew it was going to change colour, so he's not surprised, but he is fascinated. It gives her an ethereal look he finds quite fitting, since he just called her a goddess. And she responds with a tease and a smile that he mirrors immediately. "Modesty? Really? I didn't know your personality would change in here."

When she takes a step towards him, Felix feels stupidly surprised. His palm ends up in her hand and there she is, touching him like she would outside, like she didn't just create everything he's feeling and seeing. He blinks a couple times, shivering as her fingers dance on his skin. Blue eyes follow the swirls of the chroma and the petals as his palm heats up only slightly, then move to meet hers as she speaks. Felix licks his lips, unsure of what to say. Despite everything, there's power in his blood, and he cannot pretend he doesn't know. Right now, however, he's simply grateful it gives him the opportunity to enjoy her gift a bit longer.

Clea's tone is lighter than he's ever heard it, and immediately Felix decides he wants to spend the rest of his life making her sound like that. "What?" He asks with a low voice, eyes holding her gaze. "It's true. You're the closest I've ever been to the divine." And in truth, he knows, he'd much rather pray to the altar that is Clea than any other. When she tugs him towards her, Felix almost hesitates for a split second, but her grin is enough to convince him. He lifts his hand and presses it against her cheek, marvelling at how familiar her skin feels under his pads. If he kissed her, would he taste the chroma on her tongue? Would it all feel the same?

She's satisfied with her test and with his words of reassurance; though it's his health at stake, here, instead of hers, she knows better than to overlook the tiniest detail, not to mention how excitement and the promise of adventures in a painted world can blind most people's better judgment. She trusts him as she trusts his familiarity with a type of craft that can transcend its medium — be it Writing, here, or Painting in her case. And at that, a surge of pride and contentment washes over her, coloring the joy at the sound of his words of devotion. Yes, it may be finally time.

After his gentle caress, she gives him a little nod to acknowledge his readiness, the barely concealed impatience that lights up his tone and eyes, one to excite her in contagious return. Though everything vaguely reminds Clea of her and Verso's own joy at their first outings into their parents' canvases, a sense of responsibility and mastery of her own chroma has her on her toes — never to diminish the happiness they both share, but to merely balance it out. One delicate dance. ❛ Very well. Let us properly enter this world, then. Follow me— ❜ she whispers against his cheek, her smile wider.

A hand rises to touch his shoulder, a single tap of a finger — then she takes a step back, turning toward the gilded line that contours the arch. Oh, how the chroma seethes and swirls, so inviting. She has worked on that world for little more than a week, which translates to much longer inside the painting — in the hopes of impressing and enchanting him with her creations. It's been too long since she has Painted something solely for another person's sake; the mandatory projects she must produce for Council matters cannot compare. Her hand moves to close around his, as she leads him to the door.

In a couple of steps, they face the portal together; she glances behind her shoulder, up to his face, in search of hesitation or second thoughts. When she spies none of them, Clea leaps through the veil of gold, blue and white. It's pleasant to feel her own chroma and essence embrace her fully, she's always thought of that sensation as a type of silent welcome. It's her soul-born reality, after all. Its master has come back — and now, with a guest. Her feet sink into thin and white sand, fresh and dry. She's surrounded by the color blue, alive and bubbling vibrantly around her in all its many shades and gradients. Ah, yes— the underwater scene.

She's always liked playing with elements. To have their influence and beauty freely and wildly shape her painted worlds, ever since she was a child. Ice, water, fire, or even rocky mountains. This one too is no exception, for it looks as if they have plunged deep into the heart of ocean itself — and yet breathe as easily as they normally would. It's chroma mimicking the memory of water itself, though — it moves the way the sea does, in its immensity and grandeur, yet yields to her exact wishes and visions. Each rock, each attached barnacle, each long and wavy ribbon of kelp or anemone swaying to the invisible and intangible current has been placed with meticulous care — to dance the way she's intended it to, to be marked by moss or lichen in ways she has learned from paintings and books alike. Nothing is accidental, in a Painter's world.

She turns to look at him then — a few seconds after his entrance, allowing the world to be admired properly by an "outsider's" eyes, before asking anything else of Felix. But it's hard to pretend otherwise: she has been looking forward to his reaction, to his first unhurried glimpse at her Art come to life. She holds her breath at the unrepeatable instant about to unfold before her. She knows what admiration is — she's had audiences before, had her Canvases be judged and scrutinized, had the privilege to flaunt her skill to too many people to count. How different it feels, to wish for a dear one's reaction, compared to the evaluating gazes of expecting crowds.

Clea hears it in her reflection's raised voice, in how she holds herself while retaliating. Of course, it's foolish to assume Clea knows exactly what the real one is thinking. She can surmise it, though. There's little else to think of that isn't creation or despair about the loved ones she's not seen in forever, or this guilt that gnaws at her when the Nevrons return injured and bleeding chroma, knowing her hands perpetuate violence. She too wishes to be able to erase—more than just trimming back mistakes and wounds. Total erasure. To destroy the creatures outright and thus slow down her creation process. But some thread or other stops that. And another demands perfection; thus, she cannot send broken ones back onto the Continent.

Clea bites her own tongue to steady herself and not display disappointment nor a tired gaze when the other speaks so... clinically. It's a fearful thought—for she's not ready to accept erasure without anyone knowing of her fate. At the same time, the choice is entirely out of her hands. All of this because Maman might be able to sense Clea and bring her back without these edits.

"You hate the words because they are true. This is cowardice." Her eyes travel upward, to the drafts and copies of other powerful Nevrons floating within the nebulae of colours, waiting to be born once their other selves perish. "Why bother with all these creatures if all you need to do is talk to Maman or help Papa? There are enough of them to wipe out a city."

With how she's been Repainted, it just doesn't make sense to waste so much time and effort making these creatures and watching the numbers go down on the monolith. The sliver of power Clea has given her is great—granting her the power to weave chroma and recreate life on a whim. Able to move Nevrons and act through them. The chaos of the Fracture speaks to their power, so why does Clea utilise such an obtuse method of fetching their mother? Clea can presume something out in the real world keeps her busy—Alicia, maybe, or handling her own grief. The other Clea has been painfully quiet on her reasons when she isn't being patronising.

The last statement is what gets past Clea's measured annoyance, cracking through the restraint and drawing an incredulous chuckle from her. She's not had much reason to laugh in these decades, and perhaps being alone with oneself has a good chance of decaying her usual responses and mannerisms.

"You would chafe yourself bloody if this was reality and you were in my position. Of course I would occupy every piece of freedom you might grant in your generosity. But you cannot fathom making a mindless beast do this work for you. It has to be me." The words are spoken with a palpable bitterness. Damn these threads, making her perform to the whims of this facsimile and forcing her nervous system to mix other emotions together over this emptiness occupying her heart.

Still, Clea closes the distance and moves into the other Clea's space—she hasn't felt fear since the Fracture. Only hesitation when the other Clea has shown anger and impatience with the 'flawed' creations. Clea might as well test the physical limits regarding her captor, since death is not an option. At least Clea might feel something different instead of quietness and the flow her mind settles into when Painting. "I know the decades would have killed you, because Maman is nothing if not honest in her work. You're her creation as much as I am." And Clea isn't foolish; she can assume these threads have either dulled or removed her ability to desire death if all that lingers is apathy.

She studies the other's blackened eyes leveled at her own. At the spark of stubbornness and defiance glinting within, one not even her brushstroke has completely retouched — the hidden though now damaged layer of plasterwork resurfacing at the tiniest crack in the wall. She's glad the creation does not share her same eyes anymore; it's easier to assess her, and to distinguish her from the reflection Clea has spent her entire life gazing at in the mirror. Her mother's work, in a sense, has been thorough in that particular regard — the most uncomfortable one among many equally wrong points, she believes.

On one point, the copy is right. Clea would have willingly and gladly chosen death instead of having her own chroma used against her will, to spread havoc among friends and family; a fate of hopeless, endless captivity would be a far worse outcome, in her head and heart, than even a last moment spent in fatal agony. That knowledge she harbors makes Clea stand as still as a statue; were her copy not imprisoned in that atelier, she'd have found a way to numb that thought and drive it out of her mind in an instant, to paint over that needless concern of hers. Though it irks the girl — and by a lot — she does not act upon such drastic ideas, no preventive measure is taken. For what can it possibly change, for her doppelganger and her captivity — that obscure glimpse into their own hearts ?

❛ Then I shall consider myself fortunate that this isn't my reality, ❜ she hisses, trying not to think too much of it. It's hard — so she resumes, after a moment. ❛ Maman won't listen. The only one who could have talked her out of it was trapped, by her Aline, no less. ❜ She would have taken her out herself, if she could. But the stalemate her parents have respectively locked themselves in prevents them from exiting on their own. Force is necessary, and erasing the canvas with both of them still dwelling inside could prove fatal. How superfluous it feels, to explain the intricate mechanics of a Canvas to a being made of ink— ❛ And I refuse to waste my time in here, when I have more pressing matters to attend to, at home. My creations see to every task I need completed while I am away. You serve as my hands. Unfortunately for us both, no mindless beast can get as close to me as you were once painted to be. ❜

Her hands — just as much as her pets are her eyes, her hands, her tongue and her sharp claws. To erode the world, to erase, to crystallize. To preserve the good the world once meant for her and her brother, before it's forever gone. Each one of them has been born to bring Aline to her limit, until no pure and usable chroma can return to her and she will be forced out of the canvas. And her cracked mirror, the replica — their unwilling regent in Clea's absence.

And she's about to turn and dismiss the matter altogether, when the other's words have her blue eyes flare in incredulity. Indignation steals her breath; or maybe the chroma she's made of is turning heavier, denser, so much so that Clea finds it hard to correctly maintain her form. It comes as natural as breathing — now it requires her undivided concentration. Her hand too, taken and pressed against that chest to gauge the admirable fidelity of the chroma drumming to the rhythm of a heartbeat, disturbs her. She does not move away immediately — she refuses to grant her copy that tell — but her gaze drops once to her own hand, before dragging back upward.

First Clea feels her own retouch, then her mother's essence humming underneath it. And in the planned-out harmony of the threads that bind her, she tests the boundaries once more — and successfully, at that. ❛ You do have nerve. Tell me, then: had I never existed— no, had I succumbed to a fever as a child, been taken by the sea, or trampled under hooves yesterday — what kind of pitiful echo would your existence have become ? The face you wear, the voice you use, your heart — all of it has always answered to me, first. And only me. ❜

my obsession with this game has officially began, starting with a wip of The Baddest Bitch in Paris™️