Call it a woman's intuition...

Lying is bad, mkay?

Except for when it's not (but it usually is).

"Cagliostro" isn't her full name, but you don't need to know that.

"I've only had Saint-Germain for a few centuries. But if anything happened to her, I would kill everyone in this room and then myself."

Prelati too, I guess.

All of the shits she could've given about what people think of her were flushed away long before flushing toilets were even commonplace.

Basically that cool but irresponsible aunt that lets her nieces and nephews smoke weed, drink booze, and watch R-rated movies.

"Pwease don't punch me in the face, mistew... I know I stowe the Cwown Jewews, but they'we just so pwetty... ówò"

Not quite as much as an asshole as she could be.

But only sometimes.

Prelati holds her ground, utterly still as she listens intently to every word, watches every twitch of the other’s form.  Where she was often reserved, monotone, Cagliostro was nearly the polar opposite.  She wore her feelings completely bare, lived with her heart out in the open by way of that promise she made long ago, to abandon her life of deception and be true to who she was, what she felt.

And Prelati would always know that she was holding to that vow.  Between the two and their third- the one who had brought them together centuries ago- they knew each other as intimately as they knew themselves; their souls shared a bond forged over time most humans could never even dream of having with the people they loved.

Whatever they felt, the other two would notice.

The shame, the regret Cagliostro felt…it sunk to unfathomable depths, plummeting into an abyss with her heart in tow, clenched in an inescapable grip that dug in deep.  She would never have abandoned Saint-Germain of her own accord, of course not.  

Neither of them would have.  Nor would she, them.

When she speaks again, her tone is soft and low as before, but the uncertainty, the tremble of disbelief and pent-up frustration with her, has slipped away.

“…This place has taken its toll on her.  I can tell, she worries about losing me like she did you.  I did what I could to comfort her, but I knew that it was essentially futile.  With all of us victims of cruel whimsy, I could only treat her worries, not cure her of them.”

She would worry about losing Cagliostro again, too.  She would do all she could to not afford herself happiness in their complete reunion, as it was merely a setup for devastation when they would ever be split apart once more.

Her eyes open to meet the pair opposite hers.

“But she wasn’t upset that I was here.  She was happy to see me again, as was I…and as I am to see you.”  The ghost of a smile seems to fade across her lips before vanishing once more.  “Basically, being with each other is the best we can do for her.”

Prelati’s words, the all too familiar matter-of-fact way she always speaks in, is oddly comforting. Even knowing the effect that this place and the nerve-wracking uncertainty that every day seems to bring with it has had on Saint-Germain, Cagliostro can only allow herself a level of relief and even happiness. Even if things are far from ideal, with all three of them reunited, she’s positive that they’ll be able to cope just fine. They always have. As cliché as it sounds, all they really need is each other. The rest has a tendency to follow from there. 

“You know,” Cagliostro starts, able to find it in her to crack a smile now, “You’re still as emotionally constipated as I remember. If Saint-Germain can be considered to have the lead role in that play, then you’re easily her understudy.” Really, Prelati isn’t so much emotionally constipated as she is reserved, but these lighthearted quips and jabs are how Cagliostro knows best to lighten the mood, and the mood could really use some lightening right about now, she thinks. “Isn’t it a good thing then, that our humble little trio has a gorgeous ray of sunshine like me as a part of it?”

Tatsumaki could practically feel a nerve twinge in her mind when the other commented on her attitude having an effect on why she hadn’t seen her parents in such a long time.  It wasn’t as if she cared where they were now- or even if they were still ALIVE- after what they’d done to her and Fubuki, but to have this blue-haired bimbo cop that kind of attitude about the issue…it was pretty damn bothersome.  Fortunately her self-control was strong enough that she could resist going off too strongly at a civilian for that kind of slight.

But it seems one nerve wasn’t enough to touch for this woman.  Oh, no, she had to act all high-and-mighty, as if she was so much better just because she was so much more gifted in that kind of regard!  A slight tug would be felt between Cagliostro’s fingers, then emptiness where there was once- WHAP!  As if pulled by an unseen force, the taller woman’s phone was suddenly wrenched from her hand to smack her in the cheek.  Before it could really register what had happened, Tatsumaki would glare right up into her eyes…no, their eye contact was level…no, now she was glaring down at her!  Her rage had gotten the better of her, and she was now hovering before the other woman to literally talk down to her.

“You really think I have any reason to be jealous of a hussy like you?!  You haven’t even bothered to listen to the basic instructions I gave you to MOVE forward!  Between that lethal weapon you’re swinging around on your chest and that massive ego taking up your brain’s real estate, I’m surprised your spine doesn’t snap in two from how top-heavy you are!!”

The distinct thwap! accompanying sting of Cagliostro’s own phone slapping her across the face startles her. She blinks, then reaches up with a thousand-yard stare to lightly graze her assailed cheek with the tips of her fingers. She’s greatly dissatisfied by the tenderness of it, and she’s sure it’s red. “You... You slapped me...” She’s not even concerned with the state of her phone for the time being. There are more important things to worry about...

“Ughhhhhhhhhhhh, it’s gonna bruise!! It’s definitely going to bruise, will absolutely, undeniably bruise!!!” She shouts, adopting an aggressive stance, bystanders be damned. Bystanders scream when they get hurt, but that’s not much of an issue. Never really has been, and there’s no reason for that to stop being the case. “It’s gonna bruise really dark and then I’ll have to slather it with makeup to hide it! You don’t understand. this pretty little face of mine doesn’t need makeup! Ahhhhh, it’s going to clog my pores and then I’ll have an entirely different problem and it’s all your fault, you impatient, disrespectful little brat!” As on-brand as ever, she rambles overdramatically. Her cheek is sensitive, yes, but any potential bruising would probably be mild and borderline unnoticeable. At worst, she’d likely only have to cover it up with a reasonable amount of concealer.

The diminutive heroine had half a mind to just pass in front of her without a second thought before she decided to speak up.  She was too nice for her own good sometimes, honestly.  If this woman was going to take the time to play games on her phone and keep others waiting behind her, surely she could have afforded to wait a little longer when others were suddenly in front of her.

Now here she was, standing before the taller one, arms crossed as their eyes finally met.  Hopefully she’d be quick to realize her mistake and get with the program. 

‘Hey, did anyone lose their kid??’

Or perhaps she’d make an even bigger mistake. 

An intense green glow flared up in Tatsumaki’s eyes, a mere vestige of the immense power she held, fighting hard to escape but kept at bay by the Stars’ restrictions.  The glow seemed to brighten as her hair was ruffled by this unnecessarily buxom lady, accompanied by a glare more murderous than any she may have ever given.

“I don’t know where my mom and dad are, probably because I haven’t seen them in about twenty years!!” The outburst may have been as loud as the other woman’s call for parents, and its shrill tone drew even more attention.  A hand sharply smacked away the one on her head.  "Watch who you’re treating like a kid, balloon bundle- and DON’T touch me,  got it?!“ 

"Twenty years?!" Cagliostro echoes, surprised, albeit not for the expected reason. "... Geez, with an attitude like that, I'm not terribly surprised." She stands up again, back at her full height plus that additionally afforded to her by her high-heeled sandals. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other and back to the first while pondering the situation. She’s come to realize that she’s become borderline powerless here, but just how much so has yet to really hit her. Still, it’ll be fine, she figures. Besides! What’s life without a little risk anyway?

"Fine, fine." She understands very well the aversion to being touched so casually by strangers. "No touchy, I get it… But back to that nasty little attitude of yours. 'Balloon bundle'? Really? I'm no psychologist, but I think I'm sensing some A-cup angst here. Tell me what's wrong. You jealous…~?"

 “How dare you!! This is Odin himself the all high father of Asgard! And you dare call him-

 “YOU DUMB MOTHER-

 “Silence.”  one word and even the passerby’s were intimidated into silence. his very presence acting like a beacon of respect to those around him, or of fear. There was the promise of violence in his tone, though he rarely followed up on it because he is Odin. The highfather of Asgard, there is rarely anyone stupid enough to actually fight him. Unless you were someone name Laufey but that was a different story regardless. 

 “We are simply in a state of panic, Huggin is merely the more foul of us two. That is all.”

Something about the effect that that single spoken word has on everyone around them and how it even manages to startle herself so easily convinces her that this being, Odin, it seems, really is who his er... bird buddy claims him to be. Still, she blinks dumbly. Once. Twice. And another two times for good measure.

“He’s a god then, huh? The potty-mouthed one of you called him Odin, right?” she asks, inquisitive, brows furrowed as she paces deep in thought. Despite the preparations she and her life partners had made to overthrow the god of her own world, the efforts that had ultimately failed, no less, she didn’t necessarily think she’d be meeting a different god here of all places.

The cyan-haired woman blinks. She really doesn’t know where this is coming from. After all, this particular Symphogear-user had always struck her as more innocent than the others... Or maybe she just doesn’t understand the implications of what she’s asking. Cagliostro’s betting on the latter. Regardless, the idea is too good, and far too juicy to pass up.

“Mooommyyyyyyyyy~” she calls out to Saint-Germain cutely, teasingly, in that way that would get anyone else decked square in the jaw before they got even halfway through the extended pronunciation of the word (and that’s ignoring the punishment that would await most who dared to address the older alchemist in such a way to begin with). “How are you feeling today? Should I make you some tea? Or coffee? Or should I get some wine? Ooooh, wine’s always a good choice, right?”

Surely this isn’t what the Yellow Ran-Gear had in mind, but that just makes it all the better.

@aid-lombard

Cursed Prelati that glomps you and uwus with her frog:

It’s almost…nice, really. It’s nice to finally be allowed to be vulnerable. So much as Saint-Germain is a reserved person, someone who doesn’t enjoy showing her emotions, especially around strangers, her time in this place has worn on her. She’s not had anywhere she’s felt safe enough to let her emotions spill out of their usually tightly-sealed container. Normally, it wouldn’t matter, would it? Normally, she’d be able to let things out a little at a time, she’d be around the two people she was allowed to feel around, and it wouldn’t get this bad, it wouldn’t be so intense.

Maybe this all was happening at just the right time, then.

“You’d better not go anywhere.” She sniffles, but her words manage to be a bit steadier than her last statement. “I suppose a rose has thorns, after all, but my hands have bled from far more unfortunate things.” No, she hopes Cagliostro stays here, continues to be a pain in the ass, because without that pain in the ass, she’s not really too sure if there’s anything keeping her grounded in this place.

…this place. Right.

“Though…this isn’t where we’ll be spending most of our time. If…you’re truly here. You’ll have to excuse my uncertainty, but, I…” A deep breath, to keep herself from breaking down again. “…this place is strange, and it is cruel. We’ve already got another set of oppressors to take down.”

“You’d never forgive me if I did disappear, would you?” she asks, but it’s not a question, not really. “I’ll just have to do my diddly darnedest to stay right where I am then. That’s all there is to it!”

But... “This place”, hm? She still doesn’t really know where she is, why she’s here and not playing poker with Mammon in Hell. It’s just as well, really. Anywhere Saint-Germain is, Cagliostro will always follow, even if doing so meant defying God himself. Though that’s what they’d all been doing from the very beginning anyway, right? Defying God?

Well, what better way to defy God then to defy fate itself?

Wherever we go, we go together.:

A single hand, that’s all it takes–that’s all it takes for her to confirm, once again, that Cagliostro is actually here, she’s here on this strange island with Saint-Germain and as far as she can tell, it’s just another strange day for the two of them. (Such dramatic crying and whining over something as simple as getting a little dirty in the woods is nothing new, really–though normally, Prelati would be around to chastise Cagliostro without hesitation.) A single hand, and then they’re standing before each other, and then, Cagliostro’s done what would get most people shot in the head without a second thought, she’s embraced Saint-Germain, and it’s really all too much. If an exception would be made for anyone, it would be for one of those two.

It must seem uncharacteristic, it must seem strange as she tightly wraps her arms against Cagliostro, her hands clutched like bird’s claws against her dear companion’s back. The fear that if she lets go, she’ll wake up, find that this is all some sort of cruel dream, is too much. Something like that seems far more likely than the possibility she’s going to be reunited with one she cares so dearly for, with one she thought she’d never get to speak to again. With one she has so many things to say, so many apologies to give…she’s trying to keep herself steady, but she can’t keep up the facade for long, and she buries her face into Cagliostro’s chin so that her tears are at the very least difficult to see.

“I–” she takes a moment to keep herself from gasping through her sobs, to try and at least be understandable as she speaks– “I thought I’d never–see you again.” A harrowing breath, the weight of the world lifted off of her shoulders, for just a moment. For just a moment, she’s allowed to feel. For just a moment, there’s a person here who’s allowed to see her be vulnerable. “I was brought–to this strange, unforgiving place, and I thought–I’d never see you again.”

I thought you might be burning in hell, without me, and I could never forgive myself for that.

The wail she lets out is comparable to her sorrow when she’d discovered her mother, though the circumstances are reversed–while it’s likely not true that this is the most she’s wept in those thousands of years, it’d also be very easy to believe. “I’m sorry.”

Cagliostro knows. She knows how very dear she is to Saint-Germain. Dear enough, certainly, to figuratively and sometimes even literally get away with murder. Something as simple as the ability to embrace a loved one is one she’s learned to not take for granted. After all, the older alchemist has... never been terribly open to physically affectionate gestures in general. Even God wouldn’t be able to help someone who so much as sat too close to her on a crammed bus. Even Cagliostro, who’s as touchy-feely as they come, does her best to make sure the moment’s right before going even for something like a hug... or at least waits for a situation where the chances of the person doing it being anyone other than Cagliostro are pretty much 0 (the very thought of Prelati glomping Saint-Germain, let alone with the regularity that Cagliostro does, is so foreign to the blue-haired woman that it borders on hilarious). Regardless, she cherishes these opportunities.

... She cherishes every moment with her beloveds.

As Saint-Germain is held--allows herself to be held--and sobs against Cagliostro’s skin, Cagliostro plays with her pale, Rapunzelian hair in the midst of the embrace; another intimacy only she and one other are allowed. Starting to get ahold of herself  and her own tears, she gently shooshes the other woman, patiently listening to her wail and speak.

Could she be afforded such a miracle?:

It has to be her, it can’t be anyone but her, and Saint-Germain can already feel herself flooding with so many emotions she really doesn’t have the time or mental capacity to deal with, but she doesn’t care, because it’s Cagliostro, it’s actually her, she’s here and she–

Has fallen face first into the dirt from tripping.

“Cagliostro.” Her voice is weak, quiet, barely more than a whisper, and she covers her mouth, as if she’s said something horribly wrong, as if some sort of curse has escaped her lips. She stumbles forward, at first, but she’s rushing forward before she knows it, moving faster than she’s had any reason to in so long, and she’s gotten on her knees and is looming over Cagliostro, and Cagliostro’s just there, just whining on the ground about who knows what, something stupid, probably, but she doesn’t care, she can’t care, she–

She coughs, suddenly wheezing as it feels like a ton of bricks has hit her, her body trembling, her hands unsteady. But still, she puts them forward, she stares, her eyes wide. She reaches out, and–she’s able to touch Cagliostro’s shoulder, she’s really here, she’s–

Some sort of gasp, some sort of creaking, old noise, as her hand darts away, her trembling more uncontrollable. “C-Cagliostro.” Really, three months is barely any time at all for someone who’s older than 20–for someone a hundred times that age, she shouldn’t feel as if it’s been an eternity. But being aware of her loneliness, the unending solitude she thought she was to be damned to, it’s no wonder her body is shakier than a leaf in a tornado.

“Cagliostro, I–I–” What can she say? What could she possibly say? No, Saint-Germain knows she can say nothing, so instead, she offers her hand again, this time to help the other woman up. “Can–you stand?”

Finally having gotten out every indignant curse and complaint she can possibly conjure up with her imagination, she lifts her face from the dirt and the grass scattered atop it, quietly bearing witness to Saint-Germain’s reaction. She looks shaken, clearly... is shaken. How long truly have they been apart...? Her expression, the way she trembles and shakes; Cagliostro realizes that, perhaps, their time spent away from one another’s presence has been longer than she had first thought. How long? Months? Maybe years? But it doesn’t matter. The correct answer, the obvious answer is “too long”.

But she watches silently as Saint-Germain struggles with her words and watches with interest as her shoulder is touched. She witnesses with sorrow Saint-Germain processing the fact that the blue-haired alchemist really is in her presence. Too long indeed.. It really must’ve been so, so long...

When Cagliostro is offered Saint-Germain’s hand--quite literally this time, as opposed to figuratively as she did the first time they met--she nods, looking up at her with eyes still wet with barely-shed tears, and takes it, using the leverage to pull herself up. Immediately, once she’s standing steadily in front of the other woman, Cagliostro embraces her tightly. She must need it, surely. A way to assure the other of her presence more tangibly than letting her briefly tap her shoulder.

“I’m here, Saint-Germain,” she whispers, suddenly afraid to let go. Lines of wetness streaking her cheeks, the fear of possibly never seeing either of her two lovers ever again finally properly crashing down upon her. Is this how Saint-Germain must be feeling? This pain... Could Cagliostro be feeling even the smallest fraction of that pain...? She herself must need this hug too, she thinks.