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Your story begins like this.
At the age of 23, you marry Duke Simon de Sarnez as his second wife, and your life will change in ways unimaginable to you at the time.
But before that, you were Isabelle Rambouillet, the precious only daughter of a viscount.
You grew up, not in a splendid castle or manor, surrounded by walls wherever you went and cooped up in pretty rooms, no … You belonged instead with your parents and their prospering wandering business, traveling through the Neutral zones while navigating unowned deserts with sun warming your skin, and the wind breezing through your unbound curls of thick, wavy hair. You never knew homes the way typical families did—sedentary and permanent, watching the seasons pass through stationary glass windows.
For you, home was constantly in motion. It wasn't a fixed place, nor a physical concept—but rather here and there and over yonder, wherever and anywhere you and your parents went.
A line of caravans that carried crates full of in-demand or rare objects for trade;
The living patterns of exceptionally woven fabrics that have trained your eye keenly in aesthetics;
Camels whose names you've picked out and who you consider like siblings of your own;
The smell of the sun seeped into your hair and the shadows that followed like a song—the mist of sandust that your footsteps left in their wake, shimmering not any differently from the stars of which your father has spent nights pointing to you the constellations and their names.
But as you grew older, it became more and more clear to your loving parents that a nomadic lifestyle wasn't fit to sustain a frail and growing child forever, and so it was inevitable that you one day had to settle.
Your parents occasionally made trips back to the vicounty that they left in the care of trusted hands, graced mostly from vacations and periods of rest when the height of prime business seasons was well-sated with drawn contracts and steady agreements, signatures marked on parchment with cursive blots of ink. Like migratory birds that come and go, for you, the Rambouillet Viscounty was a constant axis that always remained, and no matter how far, there wasn't any doubt that it would be there for you should you return.
Contrary to your parents’ initial belief and the way they raised you, you loved the rooted territory that welcomed you warmly upon every return. From the portraits of your family and all your ancestors lining the walls, to the crook of the window in your room where you love to read your books, there wasn't anything that you didn't love with the same fervor as a gentle hearth fire. Wanderlust wasn't something that was innate in you, after all, less so like the winds or the seas or forest fires, and more like the earth. The deserts of the Neutral Zone were vibrant and adventurous, but the coziness of the Rambouillet manor was safe and grounding, a nest whose walls you could always rely on.
This is nice, you sighed contently. The warmth of a fireplace was reminiscent of the sun of the deserts, and in this bubble of peace that was your family's estate, you found solace in the rows and rows of library shelves containing more books than anything you could have brought along with you when accompanying the caravans.
And soon enough, surrounded by piles of books and coddled by the comforts of a leisurely noble girl's life, you entered adulthood, having nearly forgotten all about your childhood adventures in the desert—only barely recalled in passing when the sun scented your delicately scented hair, oiled by whatever products the maids fancied applying, only a semblance to what was once a constant.
No longer do your footsteps kick up dust in your wake. No longer does the sun warm your skin. The upbringing of a dutiful young lady of high nobility had no place for pants dusted at the hems, and your frail health was only further protected by the parasols your maids held up for you even for small walks in the garden. Like erosion, memories of your excitement for adventure have been shaped into delicate corners, softened with time and eventually built over. Tutors remind you of etiquette and grace and proper conduct, with lessons that are no longer solely focused on bartering or appraising tradable goods or arithmetics, and you instead begin to absorb teachings of music, art, and estate management, with all the enthusiasm of any young woman eager to learn what is available to offer.
It is only later that you realize that a lot of these skill sets were foundations of preparation for becoming someone's wife, but even then, you find that you do not mind it much. The years spent within the confines of your family's estate have cultivated your introversion, and having read many a book in your spare time, much like plenty of other young ladies your age, you are not exempt from the fantasy of being swept off your feet by a kind and courteous gentleman. Your peers enthusiastically share this sentiment, and their optimism is infectious.
The notion of taking over your parents’ merchant business is now a long distant dream, but you would hope your husband could make up for where you lack in bold drive and ambition.
You read and read and read, indulging in these fantasies of witty heroines and dashing heroes, of extravagant romances that make your heart race just as it would a proper adventure. It makes something familiar within you sing, something that has been buried for many years. Childhood dreams and excitement and the sun on your skin and the breeze of your hair… but your health is still rather fragile these days, and so you remain in your family's libraries, content with merely dreaming and dreaming and dreaming, chasing after the shockwaves of those thundering beats in your blood that remained dormant since infancy.
Perhaps some company could help relieve you of this bottled up energy, but there is no one quite there whom you could call a close friend to confide in.
Upon the creeping approach of your coming-of-age around the corner of the year, the time has come for the debutante party that your parents have organized in order to formally introduce you to high society. The novels have made balls out to be romantic and eventful, but contrary to your bold protagonists who shine beneath the spotlight, you find that the larger crowds render you silent, and the eyes appraising you leave you rather anxious.
Regardless, it is a party your parents have arranged with their love for you in mind, as such, you do not mind mustering together just enough courage to mingle with the other young ladies that they have invited, daughters of business partners and close friends whose faces are familiar and welcome. They recognize you as a peer and gladly invite you to sit with them, and like in previous smaller tea parties, it is not long before you allow yourself to sweep yourself up in their conversation, a wave that is cool and pleasant but washes you over until most sounds are a muffle. Such a high amount of socialization has always worn you down quickly, after all, and in brief thought, you think back to a faint memory of riding alongside your parents’ caravan, traveling the continent without having to indulge in any such energy-consuming talks. The memory is fleeting, however, and your slip in attention is to no fault of the young ladies’ company. No matter how pleasant they were, conversation has never been your strongest forte, and would never become a point of your enjoyment even if you tried.
But you enjoy their laughter and their giggles nonetheless, the standard polite icebreaker discussions of studies that gradually dissolve into hushed gushings of whatever popular romance novel was in trend. All of these names might have belonged to young women, but it was only until recently that they were just girls, and there is no shame in living in those childlike reveries for a bit longer.
Life will continue on, and people will age and grow into responsibilities and duties bound by family names and statuses, but deep down, there will always be a part of people that yearns for that childhood freedom.
Their pretty faces flush pink the more they talk, and you smile fondly at their excitement over the latest byronic hero to grace the pages of their books, and pay curious attention when they begin to discuss the notable young lords and ladies your age who are the targets of most admiration.
You pay attention, because you have read countless romantic stories, and a part of you wishes to one day be able to live one such exciting story, too.
A heroine who is not blazing like fire, free like the wind, or the bountiful sea… Your hair is a pale green, neither vibrant nor exciting, and you wonder, briefly—if only for a second—if there could be any appeal in a small leaf that flutters from its branch, or a thin blade of grass amongst many.
The girls around you squeal and giggle, and you sway gently, happy to bask in the warmth of their titters. Foliage to their blooming flowers.
(And so, a few years pass, and soon you encounter a man only some years older than yourself, and you meet by chance for the first time at the Imperial Palace.)
Unlike your novels, however, it is not so exciting, nor that romantic. There is no striking of thunder or an instant, electric connection; no rabbit-quick beating of the heart or bashfully flushed cheeks, nor is there the sun to brush against your skin.
Instead, you find him dressed all in a mournful black, though despite this, he does not look in any way particularly distressed. His face is held carefully together, the whites of his eyes clear from any pink, and his cheeks dry without any crusting. Your kind heart bleeds for him anyway, the striking image of a man dressed in pure black, stark against the backdrop of the Imperial gardens under this cloudy day.
Extending a hand, you offer him a handkerchief, because though he sheds no visible tears his face is weary and his eyes droop with faint bags, and though no tears fall to dampen his cheeks, you hope that your silent comfort provides a bit of warmth to this stranger in what might be a solemn, cloudy day.
You barely exchange words, a bit flustered however, now that you realize you have perhaps acted a bit too forward with a man you know nothing about. But as you turn towards the palace in hopes of returning to your mother, you catch his eyes on the way, and see how they glisten in a way that seems almost like surprise—almost like he's been moved, like the a vessel ship halting from the point of tension of its thrown anchor; a flight of wind trapping leaves in a small whirlwind on the ground; a small flame carefully alit in a lamp.
In his hands still remains your handkerchief, embroidered delicately with the sleek cursive letters of your name, but with the unexpected childish addition of a little camel. During the making of it, it wouldn't have occurred to you at the time that the handkerchief you have embroidered for fun would one day be left with a man whose name you would not even know.
But in the moment, you turn your head away without thinking much else, and assume this would be the last you ever see of him.
It is only later that you learn that the man you had just talked to was the only other person besides the young Imperial prince that holds the title of “Duke”.
Mother and Her Eminence laugh kindly at your fluster, but soon their well-meaning teasings shift to pensive wonder. You are of marriageable age, they say, and though they do not insist on it, they curiously ask if you have any plans to undergo training to prepare to inherit the viscounty, or if you have any desire to marry.
It is a difficult question, however, as you cannot see yourself managing an estate or the family business the way your parents have, and you barely know anyone currently in the capital. And more so than a spouse you find yourself even further lacking in friends—the young ladies whose families live near the Rambouillet Viscounty have all long formed their own intimate groups, and no desire to impede in their close relationships has ever truly crossed you, held back by the anxieties of intruding.
Her Eminence Aurélie Boutier hums a bit, before a glint in her eye twinkles at the prospect of introducing you to all the fine young nobles your age at the next ball. No matter how much you futilely insist that you will be alright, the Cardinal reassures you that it is no trouble, and how could you refuse her kind offer when Mother is watching by the sidelines, happy at the thought that her only daughter might finally find close relations to open up to?
You think back to your books and dreams and fantasies, and appease yourself with thoughts of a romance of your own, and with an indulgent burst of determination, you return to La Debutante, and spend hours in your favourite boutique with your mother as you try on different dresses, twirling in front of the mirror and imagining what it would be like to get swept by your feet.
Your heart is pounding.
It is more so anxious, than it is excited.
And unlike many of your more social and charismatic peers, you can in no way consider yourself a heroine, but with Mother wishing sincerely for your happiness, you decide that even minor characters could reach their own happy endings off-screen, too.
Then, blue eyes catch your attention, and to your surprise, the man you have given your handkerchief to on a lone, cloudy day, is amongst the line of people Her Eminence had in mind to introduce you to.
Upon crossing gazes a mutual light of recognition is ignited in the both of you. At once, it feels like thunder—it feels like waves rocking a sailor's boat and wind sweeping up your hair in a wild whirl, the sting of embers when you sit too close to the fireplace. Something swoops in your stomach and your heart, for a second, flutters.
Not much is remembered of that evening, but what you do recall is the way Duke Simon de Sarnez blinked away his surprise at once before politely asking for your hand for the next dance. In your unexpected shock, you accept, and you remain stunned the whole while as you dance pleasantly to an allemande, hand in hand, guiding you as you spin.
But soon, one dance becomes two, and you lose yourself for the first time during these social events you previously used to so dread. His Grace is kind and rather charming, and you smile shyly when he calls you beautiful, starry-eyed and nearly breathless and quietly awed, gazing upon you as a appraiser would a prized rarity; a merchant to a brilliant new fragile ware. It is a look you recognize from somewhere deep in your youth, and the close familiarity warms your heart, sending ripples that beat in tandem with the orchestra.
Before you know it, you have exchanged correspondence.
One letter becomes two, and two becomes three, and soon you have accompanied him to several promenades and met over many a tea party, and a ring soon finds itself on your finger. All at once, you understand the heroines of your romance novels, and it feels as though even someone such as yourself can experience something as amazing as this.
Your heart is full of light and flutters sweetly. Simon de Sarnez is gentle with your soul, holding it in both palms with the utmost care, and finds no fault in your timidity. He appreciates your silence and is understanding of your aversion to excessive socializing, and his patience does not make you feel guilty when he reassures you that he does not mind it at all, keeping you company as you both seek refuge at the balconies of one of many parties, giggling away as the moon slowly sets.
You understand each other, and you tell yourself that this is enough.
He makes you happy, a pair of gentle hands that coax you from your pretty birdhouse and affirms you do not need to migrate.
So when he gets down on one knee presenting you with a ring, you gasp out your reply and allow it to slip onto your finger.
After a few months, your parents are joyful yet damp with tears as they bid you farewell after your marriage ceremony, seated in the elegant carriage Simon has sent for you to finally bring you to your new home. They make you promise them that you will visit, and your fond yet emotional laughter carries like a fresh desert breeze when your father breaks into equally undignified tears.
You wonder if you'll miss your family's estate, if you will miss the wisps of memory of the desert—of the caravans and humming tunes, or the little girl who once used to smile brightly as she rode atop her favourite camel.
But upon stepping down from your carriage, you are greeted by Simon's smile, and your heart feels light as he escorts you down, presenting to you the large ducal castle that is to be your new home for the rest of your lives.
You will love it here, he says, his hand never once letting you go.
You will live out a content, quiet life here.
The first few weeks are pleasant in that you are spending company with a man you care for dearly.
Simon is understanding of your needs and knows that you appreciate your quiet moments together, walking through the estate and familiarizing yourself with the layout and servants. He soon brings you to the gardens, where he reveals to have planted several pink geraniums in the main pathways. You giggle softly when he presents you this, as you have once before told him that your favourite colour was pink, but you make no mention of teasing him about this to preserve the mood. He notices how the gardens please you, however, and with a smile of his own he tells you that these are your gardens now, to tend and to care for, and he hopes that you will find happiness here for as long as you remain.
In the distance, however, tucked away just barely within range of sight, somewhere ear the tall hedges of the garden maze, you see a bed of gardenias slowly wilting away. They've been untouched for a while, and a question weighs for a moment on the tip of your tongue before you remember that there had once been a previous Madam Sarnez, and you push your inquiries down, afraid to bring up sensitive memories.
The gardenias remain unacknowledged by Simon as he leads you to the entrance of the hedge maze, and by the time you reach the lovely center, the wilting flowers have long left your mind.
Though he cares for you as a man of duty should, you husband eventually proves far too busy dealing with his vassals and business outside the confines of your shared manor and as a close confidant and loyal servant to the Empress; as such, he isn't around as often anymore, not since you've outgrown the passionate throes of courtship and unconcealable fleeting glances thrown across ballroom halls. He is not purposefully neglectful, no, never, but you eventually find yourself stuck in the manor all alone without anyone by your side.
Even at the height of social season, you cannot even leave for no other reason other than because you are introverted, quiet, and bad at expressing yourself. At this age, you still do not have many friends to share correspondence with other than the Cardinal who pays you kind company whenever you accompany your husband to the palace, and so the rest of your days after marriage are confined to remaining in this manor, vast and large, passing time by reading books in an effort to feel a semblance of life and comfort that you once had. It is a beautiful place, even more so in the winter, but it is large, so large, and for a blade of grass it feels much too gilded for what you are. Tending to the gardens and rereading the same books can only provide so much comfort throughout the seasons, and you soon find yourself feeling somewhat restless.
But one day, as you overlook the gardens from the window of your room, a small shuffle makes itself known to you from the doorway.
There, a little girl pokes her head from behind the door frame, and a pair of timid bright blue eyes meet yours with startling familiarity. You’ve seen similar eyes, after all, reflected to you in the mirror and in the faint reflections of window panels or silver spoons, shy and darty and hesitant, yet brimming with curiosity. It is almost like looking into a younger version of yourself just a small distance away, and you are stunned that you have not remembered the small, quiet presence that lives alongside you in such a large place.
The thought of having children has never once truly crossed your mind, especially when Simon has already declared his heir in this quiet girl, and though you love your husband dearly, not once have you ever thought of replacing the memory of the woman who had once been in your place.
You hope, however, that the late Duchess would not mind you taking care of her daughter—because against all odds, you grow to adore the precious little existence that is Christelle de Sarnez, and despite not sharing a single drop of blood she feels like family all the same, a river stream gently trickling into your quiet little life like a welcome storm.
In such a large, beautiful yet lonely mansion, this daughter is all you have.
You do not share a drop of blood but you are both so similar—terrible at expressing yourselves and quiet in nature. But despite this, you find comfort in one another: going on picnics and performing small concerts between the two of you, baking in the kitchens and having enough fun in this lonely place that it fills the halls with the sounds of your joy.
High society Beau Monde don't talk much about you other than rumours of your beauty, spurred by what some assume is Duke Sarnez's desire to keep you hidden, but some believe you to be a typical stepmother to the daughter your husband had with his deceased first wife.
You ignore this, because you know the truth, and nothing in the world could ever detract from what you know to be reality. You love this girl and all her entirety, from every strand of her cotton candy hair to her pale blue eyes, and her company is one you find comfort in like soft clouds in the sky. No one will know the extent that you would go through for this child who is not even your own by blood, and though you are meek and quiet and weak, you can feel the love you have for her laying dormant like a storm in your chest, powerful and all consuming.
This girl is your daughter, and she is yours.
You will love your little Ollie for the rest of your life and beyond.
(A blade of grass sways gently with the wind, gently doused with morning dew.)
One day, however, this lovely child who was your only rock and sun falls mysteriously ill.
For three years, doctors say there is nothing you can do and she might stay comatose for the rest of her life.
You have always loved the sun—but the winters in the Sarnez Duchy were always so beautiful that you grew to love winters, too, and cold as they were, not once had they ever instilled your heart with ice such as this.
Simon brings back priests and doctors from every corner of the Empire, searching high and low for any remarkable cleric he caught wind of, and when not even the highest talents of the lands could help, he goes so far as to beg the Imperial Family for the best healers they can generously provide.
Numerous beasts are sacrificed at the Temple of Boundaries before the Wishing Paten, corpse after corpse offered up to the paten with several liters of blood sent up as divine pleas for mercy, but still little Ollie does not wake up.
Your heart breaks in despair, agony and pain clawing at your chest.
If one divine artifact does not work, you desperately cry, sniffling and sobbing by your daughter's bedside long into the night, then what harm is there in wishing upon another?
The Sarnez Family has been the beholder of the Blessing of the Azure Ocean for decades, and so it is with well-meaning wishes that you sneak into the room where it is kept as a treasure to pray upon it, hoping that it could save your little girl.
It is with this act of desperation that you might as well have committed blasphemy, but with despair in your heart you would do anything to bring her back. The Almighty God might scorn you for this, but Her gaze has always favoured the bold and brilliant. If this small act of defiance draws Her gaze upon you, would that not heighten the chances of Her pitying your daughter?
You have never been a particularly pious or dearly devoted follower of religion, but in this moment you would give anything to save your daughter from the sleep that plagues her.
—and you do.
She blinks away as if three years were nothing but a short nap, and you chock back shocked cries and relieved laughter as you jump to embrace her—your little girl who you have raised and loved as your own, who is so much like you that she might as well be.
You speak her name and smile brightly, tearfully, but upon meeting her eyes you realize they are pale where they were once a vibrant blue, and she does not remember you.
Your daughter does not remember you.
Your daughter is no longer your daughter—and though it has not been obvious from the start, the realization strikes you like a thousand lashes from God.
What mother would not recognize a stranger masquerading as her beloved child? You would know Christelle from cadence alone, from the way she walks and how she smiles, from mere demeanour—she is a reflection of you, after all, from her timidity to her quiet strength, and for eight years you have been by her side getting to know this precious existence.
All her habits have been influenced by your own. All her little quirks have been directly reflected from yours. You share not a single drop of blood but she was yours, and now, she is gone.
Ollie is gone.
She is gone.
Who is it, then, the person wearing my daughter's face? Borrowing her name?
You have every right to be appalled.
You have every right to be angry—to mourn and demand justice and explanations for this unfairness.
But you don't, because soon, you realize that there is a kind stranger in your beloved daughter's body, and you can tell from the way she acts and carries herself that she is trying her best to honour the life she has so unexpectedly replaced.
And suddenly, just like that, this stranger isn't as much of a stranger anymore.
She is a girl wearing your daughter's face and you find that you love her just as much—this kind, good stranger who you do not even know the real name of, who is taking care of your daughter's body to the best that she can. Clumsily, she tries her best to earnestly but awkwardly play the role of your daughter, but the signs are obvious.
One of the first things she does after waking up is asking for spicy meals, despite your daughter famously being known in the estate for her delicate palette, but you provide her this request without a sparing thought. She eats well and takes care of her health, and when she unexpectedly begins training as a holy knight, you notice that she looks as guilty as a condemned criminal whenever she returns to you with bruises left on her fair body. She avoids your eyes on those days, ashamed and embarrassed, almost as if afraid that you will scold her.
On those days, you gently tend to the scratches and calluses on her hands, humming songs that you once sung to your Ollie, and privately, you admire how strong your girl has become.
The second thing you notice that she does is that she has begun styling up her hair. This girl dislikes Ollie’s long hair, but she refuses to cut it solely because she knows it is not her body. She struggles with her hair ribbons and you smile fondly as she fails to properly tie it up before offering to do it for her, and when she faces you with a stunned and guilty expression that knows not what to do, you gently ignore it, allowing her to believe that you do not know who she is not. Your fingers brush gently through her familiar cloud of hair and you braid it with all the care in the world, and when she thanks you quietly with a fabricated smile, you inwardly thank her back, a million little prayers murmured with each strand of hair that your fingers touch.
This girl does not cut her hair, but she always comes to you so that you can put it up, even if the first few instances were instead polite requests to their maids, before she grew comfortable enough to seek you out for such an oddly intimate task. Brushing and braiding and sitting together in silence as if hoping—if only for just a moment—that she could pretend to be a girl she isn't in order to give you a semblance of a time where you did these same actions with another little girl.
She keeps doing this, you sigh gently. She keeps pretending to be my daughter.
And despite everything, you love her for it, for loving and worrying about your child, for giving Ollie all these opportunities that timid and gentle girl couldn't have ever had.
Like your first daughter, neither does this stranger share a drop of your blood, but in what appears to be a mere blink of the eye, you have found yourself with a second child, one whom you love just as much—even if she doesn't know that you do, even when she believes that she is an imposter; a horrible, cruel person for stealing a life and love that does not truly belong to her.
But it does.
It does, because you have already mourned and done your grieving, and you are thankful that there is a wonderful girl taking care of your daughter's body, and that is all you needed to know in order to love this person like a second daughter.
She wears your first child's face and allows it to smile—and with each quirk of her lips and booming cackle of her voice, a large wave brings happiness wherever she goes, and you allow yourself to get swept into it, unresistant to the pull of these wild and free waves that have once only been puddle splashes.
Twice over you do not hold any obligations to love this child, but twice over you choose to do so anyway.
You love that child who holds not a single drop of your blood, and you love this child whose name and face you do not even know.
They are your daughters no matter what anyone says, and you prove the extent of this love for them when Simon slowly begins a descent into instability—excessively worrying about you and where you both are, two porcelain dolls that he fears will break if he lets them out of his sight. Your kind husband who you once understood was busy with important work, now renders you worried and suspicious with his refusal to confide anything about his affairs with you.
So when he keeps you in your own home and locks your daughter in her room for her continuous association with the Imperial Crown Prince and the Venetiaan prince, you realize quickly that the estate that you once found comfort in has now become a cage. Somewhere along the line, something has gone wrong, and the realization that everything you've come to know for the last eight years has been nulled void, it is your daughter and all her immeasurable, admirable strength that breaks you out of it.
Her hand is cold from the water-attribute ether that courses through her body, but the sensation that runs through your chest from the touch is warm.
Your daughter, your kind and courageous rock and hill… It is her who has reminded you of how it felt to run—to feel the breeze in your hair and to kick dust behind your heel. The thrums of freedom that you once felt as a young child in the desert returns to you all at once with a sting to your eyes.
Your heart races—it races and races and races. In years of reading novels that have fuelled you with fantasies, you have never been able to replicate this exact feeling, and a smile tugs subconsciously on your lips as you follow the whirlwind that is your beloved daughter, bringing you your first taste of adventure since childhood in the bustling streets of Corleone.
Your daughter is no longer the shy, introverted little girl who remained cloistered away within the walls of the Sarnez Duchy, hidden away from plain sight. Now a true and noble holy knight, she has a duty to the Empire and to the friends she holds so dear, and her compassion and sense of justice even goes so far as to bring her to the forefront of battle.
At the Temple of Boundaries, an existence precious to both yourself and your daughter meets tragedy, and with it enrages the Riester Empire to wage war against the Divine Kingdom of Venetiaan.
Your daughter fights with her precious friend and rival.
A flaming scar the size of a man's fist blooms across her abdomen.
A girl as precious as her would never have had a reason to go through such difficulties, and yet this is your daughter. Strong, bright, resilient and stubborn. As much of a ball of fire as she is a cool wave from the boundless sea.
Despite her sorrow, her anger and grief fuels her into action towards the sea, where she throws herself into action with the navy, and you cannot stop her.
Your child is a tidal wave. A hurricane and tsunami that cannot be controlled, and you know this.
You accept this.
You know this reality in yourself as much as you can now recognize it in her.
Grief is such an odd, odd little thing.
The Crown Prince becomes withdrawn and cold.
Your daughter is restless with repressed energy.
You can understand, in a sense, the sorrow they are going through, of having been unfairly robbed of something so precious to you, but all you can do as a bystander in this unique affair is watch—the relationship your daughter had with the Venetiaan prince was special, after all.
But you can tell it weighs on her as obvious as the burn scars that run through her midriff, and you can tell that as much as it might appear that she has decided to move on, and it just as much appears that she allows it to fuel her.
She grieves quietly, that girl, you murmur quietly, her grief flowing as swiftly as a stream of water. It is with sadness that you realize that your palms might not be large enough to help her hold it all.
As such, it isn't as surprising as you would have thought it to be a year ago, that you find yourself enlisting just as well, spurred by a surprising act of noblesse oblige. But privately, only you would truly know your presence amongst the soldiers is just so that you can have even the slightest chance of being by your daughter's side as a pillar of support, even if, previously to this, your hands have always been noble and uncalloused and soft.
Even so, you do not care because you are a mother and she is yours, through and through, and she should not have to mourn and suffer alone if you have any say in it.
In your early childhood, you were once at home in the desert. In your adulthood, it was in that same desert where you remembered how it felt to feel the breeze through your hair and the sun on your skin. No longer do you remain at home, far, far, away from society, collected and sequestered away like a prized collection piece. Simon might have loved you once, might have fallen for your gentle beauty, but he ended up hurting you more than he did any good, a collector more so than a lover, and his memory is now free to wither away like grains of sand in the desert forever.
You do not wish to think about him any longer. Not when your real family is by your side and more worthy of your thoughts.
Her Majesty Hanan Al-Rumayyan sits like a silent sentinel on your shoulder in the body of the doll you have carefully sewn together for her. Her presence is small but fills you with comfort, a blanket as large as the pools of ether of which you are now the vessel. Your delicate constitution is strengthened, not only by the love you have for your daughter, but with the etheric power of the earth bestowed upon you by the dear companion you've made in Her Majesty—an unlikely friendship, just as unlikely as your relationship is with that kind girl of yours.
Your second daughter carries a deep pain, festering for months and accumulating throughout the course of the war, and as the days pass by you watch as her bright eyes dim and her mood sours, and you love her even when she finally lashes out, days, weeks, months of quietly festering wounds that no one could tend to.
She lashes out because she is afraid, alone and without anyone who can understand her, and even when she hurts you by rejecting you as her mother with words that she does not actually mean, you know that this kind child was hurt by what she had just so impulsively blurted.
It does not matter.
You are her mother.
And no matter what, as her mother, what else are you—as someone who loves her, all of her, from the tips of her calloused fingers to her now-frayed at the ends pink hair to the face within that you will never see—to do, but to embrace that child and all her fears?
You have never been good with words and are clumsy in conversation, but you love your daughter, and that is all that matters. It takes months for her to finally open up, and months to address the deep pain that clogs her heart. Like her dear Ollie had once been, there is a lonely little child right within her reach, and you have never been one to leave someone so clearly in need of company.
You reach out.
You will always reach out.
Even after an argument,
Space.
Then,
An explosion.
Debris falls.
Your daughter cries your name so loudly it might as well have split the seas before returning to your arms.
Your secretive daughter who holds so much pain… If only your arms were long and strong enough to wrap around it all. As you are now, you can only hold her, fragile and small and so out of your element, far, far away from home. Her hair is as precious and pink as a cloud and you wonder if, before this, it had been another colour, one that you would surely love on her just as much. Her strong figure curls up into a ball before you and you wonder if your child has ever been comforted to the point of collapse. You wonder how the people who called themselves her parents first have treated her, and you wonder how it can be that such a kind child, one so easy to love, could have been hurt the way she has her whole life before they had met.
Oh, my dearest, my lovely child…
There are a thousand different mysteries and a million different questions that she has for her daughter—but first, it must start somewhere.
After months of loving someone whose name you do not even know, you finally learn that you precious child's name is Ga-in, and the syllables feel at home on your lips, as light and natural as a soul-engraved song.
Mom's little hero who saved you from that large quiet home, who stood by your side during the painful divorce, the large ocean who gave you the strength to run away for a life of your own, to return to a time where blades of grass and tree leaves could fly in the wind.
Your eyes are nothing like hers—pale blue that can almost pass as an icy grey—but they are similar in their own ways, for as much as Ollie resembled you, you, in turn, have grown to become more like Ga-in.
Dark as the deepest points of the deep sea, overflowing with vitality from the earth, as vast as green grasslands. She came to you like the sails of ships setting from their docks, a flight of wind casting a dust of sand in the breeze, embers sparking freely beyond a campfire and becoming stars in the sky. Just as she has allowed Ollie to experience so many great things, Ga-in-ie has allowed you to experience many things, too.
Ga-in who has never before felt the love of a mother before you. Ga-in who is scared and anxious despite always putting on a smile. Ga-in who has become your new family member, who has even brought you a new daughter with the lovely name of Lynn—Lynn who is made of water, with blue hair and dark eyes, much like your own. Lynn who will surely grow up energetic and loved and feisty, a child who will never have to experience pain from the adults around her like your Ga-in has.
You look up into the sky and despite it only being the evening, you find the brightest star. When you were younger, your father taught you the constellations, but for some reason, you cannot put a name to this one.
It is familiar, however, and you would recognize it anywhere—the star that leads back to the viscounty.
After the war, you are back in Rambouillet, not tucked away in the window crook of your room this time, no—you sit instead in the gardens of your family's estate, surrounded by people you love, their warm and boisterous chattering surrounding you like a blanket. Ever the sentinel, Her Majesty Hanan dutifully sits on your shoulder, new elaborate clothing on her doll-like vessel that you have sown just for her. In your arms, little Lynn is bickering with Ga-in who is teasing her with more playfulness than actual ire. Your daughter's dear companions are also by her side, the Crown Prince eating whatever the Palace Lord is feeding him, all while little Cerise is swaddled in his arms. The youngest Imperial descendant is staring at Sir Diop with judgment that resembles his distant cousin's, and the resemblance makes him squirm while Prince Jesse laughs. Amidst this all, the divine beast children are running around leaving flowers and vines in their wake, chased by dearest Eva and Gerrit whose father is fondly watching over their excitement alongside the Duhems who have taken them in like family of their own. Many, many dears faces surround you, and it seems like a lifetime ago when you were young and completely fine with merely allowing such excitement to unfold before you. Now, you cannot imagine a day without them.
「Mom,」 a voice calls out to you softly, almost like a whisper, and it stuns you to your core yet renders you boneless all the same. You would recognize those soft dulcet tones and that cadence anywhere, whether it be in real life or in your dreams. 「Are you happy?」
Ollie stands before you, as pretty as the day you lost her. Her pink hair is loose and half done with the braid you last left on her, and she is wearing her favourite dress that fits her beautifully, one that you both picked out together at La Debutante. And when your eyes meet, hers crinkle softly, her smile blinding you so gently it burns into your chest.
Mom is very happy, Ollie, you chuckle quietly to yourself, gaze soft as you are surrounded by those you care for, feeling warm and warm and oh so very warm.
The gardens are green and so very colourful, made all the more lively with the presence of your loved ones. No one would have ever believed this to be a funeral for a girl named Christelle Oliver, but this is what it is. Grief and mourning, having finally reached a closure after over four years. There is no body to cremate, but it is a funeral all the same, and one filled with joy and celebration.
And you? you ask her, even when Ga-in has already relayed you the answer. What about you?
「Oh, how can I not be?」 Ollie giggles, her voice soft and as warm as milk, reaching over to wrap her thin arms around you. She still smells of her favourite scented bath oils, and the nostalgia and love folds over you like a welcomed wave. 「Mom is smiling so prettily, and I have the coolest unnie and an adorable new little sister to watch over now, too. Did you know, Mom? Everyone in the Interstellar is so jealous—I am related to all of these amazing heroes, after all.」
She was such a delicate girl at sixteen years old, yet as she embraces you she feels larger than life, remnants of her brilliance remaining, shimmering in the sky—the brightest little star. Playful and gentle and so, so very precious. A soft pair of lips press against your forehead and the feeling seems to linger for an eternity. You think this sensation will remain with you for the rest of your life.
「 I'll watch over you, Mom. You and our new family. 」
When you blink, your Ollie has disappeared—not gone, not truly. Looking up, that bright little constellation is still there, sitting in the warmth of the blush pink sky, shimmering like a gentle smile: the Princess of Farewells and the Afternoon, ever the guiding star.
Remnants of her love continue to surround you, and it seeps into the tender laughter and conversation in the gardens, and you laugh alongside them, a lovely, happy little sound of a song that one could only call ‘Home’.
Not a fixed place, nor a physical concept, but here and there and over yonder, wherever and anywhere you and these beloved existences are.
Like seashells, you have walked a whole shore and gathered this all together, tucked into your heart and plucked from the sand to build yourself a warm, little castle.