#grcdientshift

Simon doesn't know how he's still standing. Repainted, remade, mortally wounded and yet still moving: he bleeds golden chroma from the tattered remains of his left arm, severed just above the elbow during his fight with the Axon. He no longer bleeds red — he bleeds golden, silver, shimmering — he holds the power to unmake in his fingertips, a gift given by Aline.

But he rebels. Instead of going under the Monolith, he came here. He was met by the strange entity of legends, friendly and soft and sympathetic, claiming to know where the true Clea was. Where the heart of all these monsters came from ——

And so he's here. He's here, in this —— strange, terrible Atelier, floating so high in a way that his normally so pragmatic self would balk at had he already not been taken apart and remade. He's fought his way through, but it's easy, now: god, those horrors that were hard, impossible fights not so long ago now fall before him easily, even one-armed and he is and as half-dead as he feels.

New Nevrons fall, and the remade Sword of Lumiére walks on.

The final door opens, and he comes through, shoulder on his good side slumping heavy against the crooked, strange doorframe — the sight before his ruined eyes is bizarre, strange, everything swirling and strange, nonsensical. Canvases so large as to seem to contain universes ——

And her. And, oh, her.

𝑪𝑶𝑳𝑫 𝑨𝑺 𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑵𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑬 𝑴𝑨𝑫𝑬 𝑯𝑬𝑹 𝑶𝑼𝑻 𝑻𝑶 𝑩𝑬, Ruby's warmth came through in how gently she worked at Leona's hair, completing an ornate braid, and pinning it in place with one of her own jeweled hairpins. Though her attentions seemed centered on the girl, Ruby was keenly aware of her father nearby and found herself waiting for even the slightest hint of disapproval. It was an irrational fear, Ruby knew, but her dread remained a cold stone in her chest all the same.

the choices we make have consequences. (gently, from dad!Verso)

AND SOME CONSEQUENCES THEY SUFFER THROUGH NO FAULT OF THEIR OWN. Better, then, that they are not so careless with the choices they do make. (Grand-père rages against the cruelty of the Painters but they cannot let themselves be cruel in return.)

"Désolée, I know you wished for me to stay by Esquie, I only-" Wished to catch a glimpse of someone new, someone old, someone not of their family and it's many burdens. She loves her family, more than anything in this world but they can be trying, when there is little else to turn to beyond each other, even Esquie and Monoco. (And there are gaps that may never be filled, spaces waiting for their lost, their stolen.)

Verso can only stare for those few heartbeats — mildly incredulous, entirely amazed. Rarely, he runs into these Expeditioners: the bold, the truly brave, the ones that in the stories create legacy and save the world. 

This Continent is littered with the bodies of those fair few. 

" We’re all scared out here, " he asides, low, and it’s true, isn’t it? Even through all his years out here, the very human fear of the powerful and the unknown, of the tooth and blade in the lurking shadow, of death and pain and suffering and all that comes with it —— it never fades, does it? He’s not too proud to admit it still has claws around his throat; he’s just grown adept at ignoring it. 

" But this place is no place for heroics. We all have to fight. Equal ground. " There’s something tight, strained to his voice — don’t get involved, he tells himself again and again. Don’t get involved, because when he does and these Expeditioners die, it feels like yet another part of him gets carved out that he’ll never get back. 

But he never learns. 

It had taken all in her to finally sleep. She spoke to the stars all night, begging them to stay when the sun threatened to bring the fated dawn. She was going to lose more people, tomorrow was a day of grief in motion.

But, in this last expedition she'd witness and participate in, maybe she'd find the peace she was looking for. Maybe, they'd win... But they could also lose and, somehow, that was okay, too.

When she had gone to bed, Alan was there, sleeping. It warmed her heart, it helped her give into the exhaustion and join him in what she hoped were pleasant dreams.

Eventually, she felt the soft rustle of a delicate touch against her. It called for her to wake, eyes fluttering open gently. When she met that look in his eyes, she couldn't help but smile. There he was, still here, still alive, despite it all.

This world was cruel, but this world had given them both a second chance, if even for a few moments. She was grateful, to feel presence instead of absence. Even the hope Alan portrayed with his leadership and dedication was a light extinguishing perpetual doom. Even this normalcy they were enjoying before the chaos, was something she would never stop thanking him for.

"Good morning, early bird," she whispers, jovial. A hand reaches over to him, placing itself against his cheek, rubbing with her thumb. She hopes to give some of that comfort he provides to her back to him.

There was no hard cane tap echoing against stone when Renoir chose to visit this day. No warning, no threat, no issuance of violence (hadn't these people had enough of violence in their lives, after all?).

Instead, when he appeared before Gustave on that Lumiere street, it was a quiet, small thing. He wasn't in that dreadful suit and coat Aline had always put that painted monstrosity in. No, Renoir was in his much softer grey shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, gold vest, speckled with paint stains, and slacks.

It would be incorrect to say that Renoir hated formalwear, but he could not present himself as a threat here. So, nothing fancy, nothing formal, nothing that could indicate that this visit was anything more than just that--a gentle, casual visit without pressure or tension. Back straight, shorter than the other version of him, but no less imposing, and yet...younger than even the painted monster had been.

Upon making eye contact, Renoir held up his hand. Peace. He did not dare to so much as move beyond that single act of peace. Blue-grey eyes locked with Gustave's own, and Renoir took a slow, deep breath. In this, he would have to be delicate.

"...I believe the last time you met someone with my face, Gustave, it was... traumatic. Allow me to offer you deepest apologies, not just from my family, but personally from myself as well."

Behind Gustave, that partner of his--Sophie, her name was--and Alicia were visiting a shop. They hadn't yet noticed Gustave was gone, and likely would not for the rest of this meeting. That was perfectly alright with Renoir. He did not intend to interrupt his daughter's affairs...yet.