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The clinking of glass cups fill the small restaurant the Sinners are occupying. To Rodya’s delight, it isn’t an uncommon occurrence for Vergilius to agree to go for a celebratory dinner after a successful mission. Don Quixote idly sips some orange juice - which Heathcliff had to order for all of them specifically, after seeing her aversion to water. She’s squished on the velvet sofa between Sinclair and Yi Sang, listening to the hum of the City outside the window, and the quiet chittering of their banter surrounding her like a soft blanket.
“Kiddo, you gotta eat more! Try this soup! It’s so good~” Rodya’s excitedly poking Sinclair, waving around her spoon filled with crimson, chunky liquid.
“I-I think I’m fine…” Sinclair winces, nudging at his mashed potatoes and tater tots with a spoon.
Outis slams her fist on the table, displeasure evident on her face. “What’s with the unrefined palate, soldier? Did you not heed my advice on fixing your pathetically limited diet?”
“Just let the poor sod be. He’s workin’ on it, innit?” Heathcliff huffs. At least, that’s what Quixote thinks he’s saying, considering his mouth is crammed to the brim with lettuce from the salad he’s been crunching through. With part of the green leaves sticking out of his mouth, he looks like an oversized bunny. “Besides, it’s not like we’ll di-OW!” His fork clatters onto the plate, bending over to grip his shin.
“What did I say about talking and eating at the same time?” The perpetrator across him rolls her eyes, cutting into her fried fish stick. “You’ll choke… And poor Dante will have to relive your undignified last moments.”
“Choking to death on lettuce will be a painful way to go. It is unadvised to attempt such a stunt.” Meursault adds with a nod, spearing a fork into his tomato, inadvertently splashing the tomato juice onto Heathcliff’s arm - who frowns and wipes it back on Meursault’s gauntlet.
<“I would appreciate you… Not going through that, Heathcliff.”> Dante ticks. They’re awkwardly seated with an empty plate. Quixote squints, and she realises they’re doodling small shooting stars on the restaurant’s paper tabletop.
“Mm. However, Faust must agree with Outis. Even if our bodies can be restored, it does not equal proper bodily function.” The white-haired woman speaks calmly, dabbing her lips with a napkin, before shooting the flaxen-haired sinner a look. “Even if Sinclair’s stature cannot increase in height any further, adequate and balanced nutrition remains an excellent way to ensure normal physiological function. Faust recommends animal-based products such as eggs, salmon, or beef, to prevent Vitamin B12 deficiencies and possible consequent megaloblastic anemia.”
“Oh. Okay…” Sinclair sighs dejectedly, having given up on any hope of protesting.
“Ack… That’s so unfair.” Oddly displeased by Faust’s words, Gregor grumbles to himself, using a spoon to cover up the green peas he’s picked out from his meal.
Rodya slings an arm over Gregor’s shoulder, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Aha! Greg, I told you Fau would lecture Sinc today! That’s twenty Ahn from you. Pay up, pay up~”
“Oh, here, Sinclair, you can take some of mine!” Hong Lu gracefully scoops a spoonful of his egg fried rice, Before Sinclair could even begin to refute, he’s leaning over the table to pile it on Sinclair’s plate.
“Oi. Hong Lu. C.H.O.M.P.” Ryōshū interjects.
“‘Clear hair off my plate’, she says…”
Don Quixote stares at her coworkers - no, her family, all sitting around a table, under the soft orange glow of the restaurant’s hanging lights.
When’s the last time she’s shared a meal with her family like this?
She grasps wildly at the back of her mind for some form of memory. Perhaps they sat around a table, champagne glasses full of blood in front of them. The faces are blurry. Did she sit next to Dulcinea, or did she sit next to her Father…?
But it doesn’t matter. None of it does, because they’re all dead, they’re all gone. They’ve left her behind. They will never share a meal together again.
Quixote’s aware of the pendant she’s stowed in her shirt’s pocket, pressed against her chest. A memento she snuck off from her father’s body, a guilty reminder of what she had to leave behind. Her chest feels heavy. Her throat’s constricting, and she gulps at her orange juice, trying to wash the ugly feeling down.
Nicolina’s commandeering register pierces through the air, amidst the clinking of cutlery. “Alright, ▇▇▇. Now eat your ▇▇. No more small talk!”
“Hm~ ▇▇’s all flustered.” Dulcinea speaks in her signature linguid, teasing tone.
“Aaah. Calm down, ▇▇▇. Let’s just eat in peace for once…” Curiambro’s voice is gravelly.
“Don Quixote?”
“Ah!” Her own gasp fills her ears, louder than expected. She looks up, bewildered, to spot Yi Sang’s face. His mouth is tugged in a frown of worry, his doe-like eyes scanning up and down her face.
The chatter around her has diminished.
Of course. There was no Nicolina, no Dulcinea, no Curiambro - only Outis, Rodya and Gregor's faces, staring at her with varying degrees of concern. Quixote leans back, a hand lifting up to cover her rapidly reddening cheeks.
“I’m so- Verily, how unbecoming of me! I was m-merely… lost in mine thoughts for a moment.” Don Quixote stammers out, her eyes darting around the table. Everyone’s eyes were on her. The harsh overhead light feels like it’s beaming right down her, encasing Quixote in the sweltering spotlight. She grabs the orange juice glass and laps at the cool liquid desperately, staring at the bottom of the cup as she tries to recover a semblance of normalcy.
No. She’s a Second Kindred. She can’t be seen like this. She didn’t mean to dampen the mood of an outing that’s meant to be celebratory, of all things.
“There is no need to apologise. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. For I was merely worried for my companion, that is all.” Yi Sang’s eyes are downcast.
“Nay! I thank thee, Sir Yi Sang.” Quixote tries to smile, but her cheeks ache. She thinks it must look like a grimace more than anything. “Thine sentiments are well received.”
“That’s… good to hear.” The Sinner breathes out quietly.
“Hm~ Chiquita, help me steal a tater tot off Sinc’s plate while he’s looking all gobsmacked, will ya?” Rodya’s voice shatters the suffocating blanket of silence.
“Aye aye! Of course!” Swiping the snack off Sinclair’s plate, she tosses it to Rodya.
“Hey! G-give that back!” Sinclair squeaks, lunging over in an attempt to retrieve the tater tot.
The table descends into joviality again; and Don Quixote pushes her thoughts to the back of her mind.
“Huhu~ This should be good enough!!!”
The metallic glint of scissors shimmer in the harsh lights of a shooting range, the cardboard targets and backdrop crafted with so much care. Don Quixote tugs on her cap, her hands already shaking around her charged daggers, as she looks around. She’s been ordered to explore the mirror dungeons for the upteenth time now, yet the dungeons still occasionally twist and morph into something new. The sight in front of her isn’t unfamiliar, no - but she didn’t expect to see it again so soon. Her heart feels heavy, the chains around it still tight and unwound.
Some of her memories still feel muddled, as if they have been submerged, diluted with murky waters, but a clear image floats into her mind: Nicolina sitting on the floor, markers, paper, string and her trusty scissors scattered around her, hunched over as she draws.
“Sancho, your grace, do you think I’ve captured our dearest Father’s noble visage properly?” Nicolina lifted the paper she’s been working on, her eyes, though tired, still glimmered with pride at her own meticulous craft.
“Mm. I think so.” Sancho replied.
“Right! This shall be part of the introductory story for my shooting game. Look, look, these bloodfiends and humans will be shown fighting!” Nicolina tugged at Sancho’s arm, while jabbing her manicured nail towards some scattered sketches on the floor. “And then… Boom! A spotlight will land on the countenance of our Father dearest, and he shall speak of the valiant idea of which he has conceived! What do you think~?”
“It looks good. I’m sure Father would appreciate your depiction of him.”
“Really? You really think so?! Huhu!” Nicolina covered her mouth to stifle her giggles. “Oh, and, Sancho, your grace… Will you rethink my offer about wearing that lovely dress I’ve made for you? Pleaaase?”
Sancho stiffened. But she didn’t want to wear something like that. She was happy with the way she presented herself, after all. “I’ll… think about it. Please focus on the task at hand for now, Nicolina.”
She’ll think about how to admit it to her later.
But she never did, because Sancho was a fool who couldn’t cherish the Family around her before it’s too late.
She can hear Dante ticking in the background, chaining their skills. Nicolina’s eye glints tauntingly from behind her mask. She’s laughing at them, but her voice still sounds so sweet, just as Don Quixote remembers her to be. At least, that was how it was, before she ran away astride Rocinante, before she abandoned her family to suffer for two hundred years.
she’s here she’s not real she’s here she’s back she’s with them again she’s not real she’s not real the real one’s dead but she’s here with her in the moment and that’s all that matters
Her own scream pierces the air.
Dante’s frantically ticking something undecipherable. Her legs are carrying her away, breaking the Sinners’ formation - but she doesn’t care anymore.
Her arms are stretched out, tears spilling down her cheeks wildly. Her body collides with the Barber’s, embracing the taller woman’s body into her arms with reckless abandon.
The Barber’s body is still. She seems as taken aback as Don Quixote herself.
“Nicolina I’m so so sorry I just really, really missed you and I wish I could talk to you again and I wish I’d tried on your dresses and I loved your work I really did I swea- Ah!”
The Barber’s scissorblade is transpiercing her abdomen.
“How discourteous! If you wanted a photo with me, you should’ve asked first~! Hehe! Hahaha!”
“A-ack!” Don Quixote coughs and wheezes, her blood splattering across the tiles. The scissorblade is curtly yanked out of her, and she collapses at the Barber’s feet in a heap. She could count all the beautiful flowers, the fine embroidery threaded at the hem of the Barber’s dazzling crimson dress. Her Father’s pendant feels so heavy in her chest. She could hear the desperate, weak thrumming of her heart in her ears.
She’s paralysed. She’s crying. She can’t breathe.
The last thing she hears is Nicolina’s clear, sweet laughter, before her consciousness slips away.
When Don Quixote comes to, she realises she’s wrapped up cozily in a blanket.
< “Don Quixote?…” >
Her limbs are aching as she stretches them gingerly, yelping as a sharp pain rips from her abdomen. Phantom aches sometimes carry over from their most recent deaths, but she’s used to them. What she’s not used to, however, is feeling oddly groggy.
“Ah! Chiquita’s awake!” Rodya leaps up from her seat like an excited puppy, her finger jabbing towards Quixote’s direction. “Are you feeling alright?”
“I am! V-verily so!” Quixote quickly sticks a hand under the company jacket, pressing against her shirt pocket - the pendant’s still present. She breathes a sigh of relief.
“Blimey, Lass must’ve been exhausted. Couldn’t sleep recently, ‘m assuming. That also happened to me, after…” Heathcliff’s frowning, yet his tone belies a gentle tenderness which makes Quixote’s heart ache.
Sinclair taps on her arm gently. “Even after Manager Dante brought you back… Y-you’ve been out for a while, Don Quixote. We were all so worried…”
“Bud didn’t even budge an inch when Outis wrapped that blanket ‘round her.” Gregor smirks over his cigarette.
Don Quixote realises that the aforementioned Sinner’s cheeks are oddly dusted red. “...It was as per the Manager’s orders!” Outis barks back, her arms crossed.
“T.I.N.T.” Ryōshū huffs a plume of smoke in the shape of an ‘X’.
“Poor Outie just felt bad for what she said about ya back then, chiquita. Well! You do look sooo comfy in that blanket~” Rodya winks, before leaning on the divider between her and Outis’s seats. “Outie, if I pass out, will you als-”
“Absolutely not!”
“Ahaha. I thank thee, Sire Outis. Rest assured, amongst the sentiments I bear for thee, none are oft animosity.” Unable to hide the soft smile on her face, Don Quixote grips the blanket tightly against herself. “In the past, mine family had done a feat so similar! Nico- khm, The Barber, would knit the softest blankets for us during the winters, and drape it upon our weary shoulders personally!”
Quixote had kept all of them, of course, in a safebox in La Manchaland. Not that it’d be retrievable anymore.
She kicks her feet to banish the thought.
“Hmph.” Outis turns her head towards the window.
Rodya giggles, prodding at her. “Aha! Outie’s sooo~ flustered, is she not?!”
< “If you aren’t currently occupied, Don Quixote, can I talk to you privately? You’re not in trouble or anything like that, but…” > Her Manager’s ticking brings her back.
“Ah. Of course!” Quixote stumbles to her feet - quickly stabilised by Yi Sang’s hand on her arm - following Dante to the corridors.
< “Um, you don’t have to answer if you want, yet, as your Manager, I should be making sure you all are doing okay.” > Dante begins, their hands in their pockets.
Don Quixote rocks on the balls of her feet, the blanket still cocooned around her tightly. She knows what Dante will bring up soon, yet she still couldn’t come up with a proper response. “Verily, Manager Esquire! I thank thee for thine concern, but I-I feel fine.”
< “I trust you, Don Quixote.” > They tick slowly. < “What happened in the Mirror Dungeons… I should’ve paid more attention to you. I know the wounds are still fresh, and…” >
Quixote hangs her head. “A-ahh. Yes, t’was but mine… clouded judgement. I haven’t been sleeping well recently, ‘tis all. I apologise.”
< “If we ever fight them again, would sitting out of the battle help?” > Dante offers. < “I know processing grief… and all that happened in La Manchaland… isn’t going to be an easy process. If you think you’re ready again, you can tell me anytime.” >
Quixote casts her eyes to her feet, where she mounts Rocinante. Her breaths are coming out in short bursts, guilt and grief and fear all crowding in her heart, threatening to burst out. Feelings that she doesn’t want to confront yet. After all, she deserves to suffer alone, for not being there for her Family earlier.
She doesn’t dare to let Dante sneak even the smallest glimpses of her expression. All she can muster is a brief, guilty nod.
Dante doesn’t seem completely convinced, yet they slowly reach up to pat her on the shoulder. < “Alright then. If there’s anything bothering you, you can bring it up to me anytime, okay? We’re a family, right?” >
“Aye. A family.” Don Quixote smiles softly.
The multicoloured playmat greets her as usual when Don Quixote retreats to her room that night. The room’s felt so much more spacious and cold recently - she recalls Faust mentioning that their emotional state resonates with their residences. Walking closer to poke her head through the bars of the small horizontal window, she sighs. Instead of a crudely ripped poster, the window has changed into a clear view of La Manchaland on that fateful day: the bodies crudely impaled on the carousel, the corpses slumped over at the base of the windmill, bearing nothing but the emptiness of a wonderland once filled with laughter and joy. Quixote’s tried reaching in with a hand, yet she feels nothing but cold air and dust. The window is but a mirage.
Turning around to leave, she notices something in her periphery - something she hasn’t seen before, just at the edge of the playmat, almost completely enshrouded in shadow.
Her curiosity piqued, Quixote leans in to inspect the items closely. There’s rolls of red fabric pushed against the wall, a segment of one already cut out neatly. A hooked stand stands proudly adjacent to the fabric, holding a singular object: a dazzling purple mask. As beautiful as it is, it remains incomplete, only half of its glimmering jewels are glued on. Next to the stand, a thumbed-through book lies face down on the floor, its leather cover worn with age.
Don Quixote stands, paralysed, her eyes flitting past the items, again and again. It’s too obvious what the room has morphed to reflect in her mind’s eye. It’s sickening. A messed up prank played by whatever twisted sorcery - no, technology, is behind their ever-changing rooms.
“Argh…!” She forcefully turns her head, trying to steady her breathing.
Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on the tears and ridges on the playmat. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on her room’s familiar scent of burnt sugar and iron. Breathe in, breathe out. Focus on the deep rumbling of Mephistopheles’s engine, the rattling with each road bump it drives over.
“Breathe in, breathe out. It’s that simple, your grace.”
“I don’t see the point in doing this…”
“Ah, but don’t you wish to learn the secret arts of meditation? This book really has it all, Sancho.” Curiambro’s eyes are glimmering with a familiar sparkle - one that Sancho’s used to seeing after he gets his hands on a particularly interesting read.
“Lady Dulcinea told me you’ve been presenting with more wrinkles than usual. I deduce that it’s her way of saying that you've been looking more stressed recently…” He slips his thumb to mark the page he’s on, before reaching in his coat pocket to produce a pair of glasses.
“Please don’t- I-I don’t have wrinkles!” Sancho puts a hand on Curiambro’s arm to stop him.
“But you have been bothered about something recently, haven’t you?” Curiambro hums, pocketing his glasses. “Perhaps the planning of La Manchaland is getting tiring?”
“Well… Maybe. Just a bit. T-there’s just so much to work on, but-” Sancho plays with the tail of her boa. “Father knows what’s best for us. All of this will pay off in the end.”
“See, your grace, when you’re overwhelmed or stressed…” Curiambro pushes the book closer to Sancho, pointing at a line. “You can try these breathing exercises. It’s proven to be quite useful in lowering blood pressure-”
“Haaah, fine. Just demonstrate those techniques to me again.”
This is so ridiculously juvenile, Sancho had thought. Yet she found herself repeating the same techniques over and over again - and she had never been able to thank Curiambro for it.
There’s hot, shameful tears running down her cheeks. Quixote’s desperately stumbling away, grabbing her pillow. The blanket Outis gave her is still pulled over her shoulders haphazardly. She crashes onto the playmat right by the door - the furthest away she could get. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t ready! Is she just supposed to accept their deaths, like she wasn't to blame for their suffering?
“I-It’s not fair! It’s not fair…”
Don Quixote clutches the warm, fuzzy blanket around herself, desperately wiping at her face with the edge of the cloth. Her fingers find their way around her Father’s ruby pendant, her thumb jamming itself over and over into the sharp edge - trying for some way, any way, to clear her thoughts. To stop feeling so pathetic, so miserable.
Maybe she should’ve tried to get closer to them. Maybe she should’ve sought to reason with them. Maybe she should’ve died with them.
Her tears leave warm tracks down her cheeks. Seeking to stifle her sobs, she buries her face into the linen pillow, slamming her fist against the playmat. She feels like an immature child crying themselves to sleep - it’s pathetic, it’s unsightly. She doesn’t know who or what she’s angry at. It’s just not fair.
Tap, tap. A rapping upon her door.
Stiffening, Quixote hurriedly swipes her sleeve across her watery eyes, blowing her nose one more time, before turning over the pillow to cover the tear stains. The shadows of the room should just be enough to hide her puffy eyes.
Tap, tap.
“Don Quixote… May I come in?”
“A-ah! Sir Yi Sang..?” Quixote recognises the soft timbre without a second thought. “Verily, d-do enter.”
The door creaks open slightly, and the raven-haired man slips through the crack of the door, his murky eyes downcast as always.
“I apologise for disrupting my companion’s slumber.” Yi Sang casts his gaze at the disheveled set of blankets and pillows resting on the floor. “I hope you do not find it strange that I have approached you during such an hour.”
“Nay, nay. ‘Tis no trouble.” Don Quixote slowly shuffles a bit closer to Yi Sang, who’s still standing awkwardly by the door. “Come, thou can sit.” She pats the blankets next to her, watching as her friend lowers himself with a soft sigh.
“Forgive me, but I will not pad my words with meaningless buffer, Don Quixote.” The Sinner stares at the floor, as if he’s picking the words to utter. “I simply do not wish to lose any more of my dear fellows to sink into the depths of their own sorrow. I have bore witness to your… paroxysm earlier in the Mirror Dungeons. It is not unlike the burst of a flower into its blooming despondence.”
“Oh. I…” Quixote stares at Rocinante again, reaching down to tug at her shoelaces. Her shoes feel too tight. Her mouth feels dry.
“To untangle our strings of grief, and to thread suffering into monologue, is a grueling task. If words are difficult to come by, you are more than welcome not to do so.” Yi Sang offers. His tone is so gentle - once again reminding Quixote of the embering warmth she does not deserve, but she nods anyway.
“The fragrance was in full bloom, yet I brought along the winter which scattered the petals into nothingness… Yes. I witnessed the passing of my dear friend.” Quixote remembers the sweetness of the spicebush, the entrancing petals bursting with the glory of a past long entombed into the soil.
“But in the depths of the dungeon, in the midst of the effloresced camellias. Once again, did I see a visage of the blooming, blossoming bud, who seeks to return to the soil.” Yi Sang mumbles, his fingers tracing lines and strokes onto the playmat. “However, it was a mere mirage of the clear mirror, for a reflection does not possess the same fathoms and recollections as our vessels do. That is all I have to say.”
“Mmm.” That explains The Barber’s behaviour. Thinking about it, that version of her had seemed more… confused than anything.
“Do you think she could have reacted differently? If it was actually her?” Quixote blurts out.
How stupid. Yi Sang has no idea of what Nicolina’s like. The centuries of pain and joy they’ve shared as family.
“That I cannot utter with complete assurance. It seems as if she would not have done the same as her likeness has,” Yi Sang lifts his head, his gaze gentle. “However, I would not dwell upon the past. For when we recollect on each splintered fractal of possibility we could have undergone… those thoughts will only take root as sanguine thorns, seeking to dig into our hearts.”
“Thank you, Yi Sang.” Quixote murmurs, before her eyes widen. She didn’t mean to break character again. “A-aah! Khm, khm, thine advice is well received. Forsooth, ‘tis only righteous if I occupy thee no further.”
The faintest tint of red rises in her friend’s cheeks. “Heathcliff has mentioned that your repose has been disturbed recently, thus, if I have not overstayed my welcome… I’d like to stay by my dear fellow’s side. Just for a bit longer.”
“Ah, if it doesn’t bother thee, t-thou art welcome, oft course, oft course.” Don Quixote blinks in surprise. She slumps back down onto her makeshift bed, tugging the blankets around her.
“Rest well, my companion.” Yi Sang clears his throat, before a soft smile overtakes his features, leaning in to tuck the blankets around her shoulders firmly. “For…a most extraordinarily brilliant day is waiting to be received in the morrow.”
Through her eyelids, she spots Yi Sang retreat to the playmat near her feet. He had pulled out the book from his belt to thumb through; occasionally, she notices his gaze drifting towards her.
It’s so unbearably warm. Her eyes prickle again.
For the first time since she’s left La Manchaland, Don Quixote drifts into a restful slumber.
As Dante promised, they let Don Quixote stay by the sidelines this time. Her family greets them once again, under the fizzing fireworks of the scarlet-coloured skies of La Manchaland, a sight she’s revisited multiple times in her dreams.
“Ohh~ how long has it been… Since we all gathered like this?!” The Barber stands proud, her scissors gleaming in the bright lights. Next to her, the Princess of the Parade hoists her violet parasol soundlessly, composing herself with pride, as her Father’s taught her to. The Priest chants out loud, book clutched in his hand, as unyielding as his faith.
They are but facades, she tries to remind herself. Yet, her heart aches, for her Family desperately attempting to pave a path - the path they saw no other option than to take to resolve their eternal suffering.
Don Quixote watches Ishmael’s harpoon thrash against the Barber’s scissors in a shower of sparks, the drill ultimately driving into the woman’s arm. The Barber covers her mouth, yet it wasn’t out of pain - she’s laughing at the sight of blood blooming on her own pale skin.
“The rightful… Punishment!” The Bloodfiend swings with a frenzied, reckless abandon, borne of desperation, of hunger, for the crimson fruit borne of his faith, yet Hong Lu’s expanding key easily blocks the Priest’s heavy staff before it could graze him.
A kaleidoscope of monochromatic butterflies burst from Yi Sang’s handgun, swarming Dulcinea. Even through the mask, Quixote could spot the briefest flash of a pained grimace on her lips, but the Princess quickly composes herself with a languid hum. With a flourish, the bloodied thorns on her parasol spread open, knocking back the raven-haired sinner.
“Were we... really that wrong?” Nicolina’s voice echoes in her ears.
Don Quixote knows the pattern behind every movement to heart - she’s fought with them for countless centuries, after all. She watches them claw, she watches them struggle underneath the surface, even if they refuse to show any sign of weakness.
As expected, the Barber is the first to stagger back. Even as she crumples to her knees, her fingers dig into the cracks of her mask pitifully, in a desparate attempt to keep it attached to the mangled, withered face that lies underneath. Watching her dress fanned out around her like the petals of a flower in full bloom, the Sinner’s heart leaps to her throat, yet she bites on her bottom lip, swallowing the cry threatening to leave her throat.
“...It’s time for the finale.” Dulcinea speaks in monotone, seemingly unfazed by the turn of events. Sweeping up her dress in a courtesy, she leaps into the air with grace, jagged crystals coalescing around her spinning parasol. Quixote grimaces, spotting Gregor speared through with a piercing thorn, his rapier clattering onto the bloodied cobblestone.
Yet, as formidable as the Princess of the Parade is, her crippling injuries are no match for the onslaught of Outis’s fists and Ishmael’s steady harpoon. Having given up on fluttering for so long, the pinned butterfly’s torn, resplendent wings finally find their rest.
Through the cracked veneer of his mask, the Priest watches, despondent, still clutching his book to his chest ever so tightly. Don Quixote wishes she can reach out; yet she knows, no matter what she does - the flow cannot be altered.
Perhaps to them, death was but a mercy.
< That’s all for today… Great work. I’ll go collect the Crates at the entrance. > Quixote hears Dante’s ticking from afar.
Don Quixote watches as the Sinners exit the scene one by one, leaving the three bodies on the bloodstained ground, unmoving. She treads closer. Blood soaks into Rocinante, her steed producing a cacophony of squelching noises, yet it does nothing but to fall on deaf ears.
Her Family, forever bound to their final resting place.
No.
She hasn’t even honoured them properly.
As she bends down, she’s aware of the heaviness of the pendant in her shirt pocket yet again. She reaches for it and clutches it in her palm, her gaze following its crimson surfaces, the glimmering, untarnished golden edges. Her thumb briefly presses against the sharp border again, the sharp jolt of pain causing her to wince.
Focus.
Quixote deftly unties her shoelaces, slipping her shoes off. Almost immediately, the familiar fur of blood coalesces and wraps around her body like a second skin. The sanguine taste of iron is raw in her mouth.
She kneels, slipping a hand under Nicolina’s torso, her other hand supporting her legs, hoisting her up. It hurts to realise, but cradling her withered and emaciated body takes minimal effort. She tries to ignore the sensation of Nicolina’s ribs pressing against her forearm. She tries to ignore the raised prominences on Curiambro’s back, felt through his shirt; no doubt from a buildup of scar tissue. Her heart cracks with every step she takes forward, yet her resolve only strengthens.
Dismounting Rocinante had once rendered her similar to an riderless horse, prideful and untamed, its reins tossed aside. Now, she knows exactly where she’s going.
The secluded rose garden, hidden behind rows of shrubbery by the carousel. The garden which they all loved so much - Dulcinea had tended to each and every blooming rosebud, all by herself. Weeds have long overtaken the empty patches of soil, yet the floral scent of roses, carrying with it a metallic undertaste, still permeates the air; likely from the abnormality’s influence. Vines climb up the cracked ivory pillars lining the borders of the rose garden, a mass of thorny overgrowth.
Dulcinea used to lean against those very pillars of the garden, fitting green plastic gloves on her dainty hands.
Sancho watches Dulcinea crouch down to inspect the blossoming flowers at the entrance. The lithe woman is clad in a lacy lavender sundress, her straw-coloured hair braided into a bun. Her dress is still competely out of place for a task such as gardening - yet Sancho has never seen her wear anything which aren’t her usual extravagant gowns. Frankly, they are anything but practical. Maybe Dulcinea’s just trying to make her Kindred happy. Or maybe she actually likes them.
Who knows.
Either way, she’s long given up on attempting to understand Dulcinea. After all, who would invite - no, coerce - someone over for a juvenile task of holding an inanimate object? She rolls her eyes, both hands cradling the closed umbrella like it’s a child. She wouldn’t hear the end of it from Dulcinea if the slightest speck of dirt got on her beloved parasol, after all.
“The roses are blooming quite beautifully.” Dulcinea hums, a rosebud hefted in her gloved palm, before sighing. “I will ensure the weeds are taken care of… so they will not mar their growth.”
“Why put all this effort? They’re going to wilt in a week.”
“Such a pitiful question.” Sancho expects Dulcinea to shoot her the cold glare she’s used to receiving - yet her expression only softens. “The fascination with beauty… Always stems from the fact that it is fleeting. Even the most captivated audience will eventually get tired of the rose’s petals; the rose’s thorns. There is no allure in a rose that blooms forevermore.”
A butterfly flits amidst the sanguine flowers, its yellow wings flitting.
“Because it is so unattainable… people lust for the preservation of beauty. Such is the nature of a dry-pressed flower, or a taxidermied butterfly.” Dulcinea holds out her finger, and the butterfly flits onto her manicured finger. “They will end up framed behind glass, the remnants of their shells admired from a distance. Never to bloom again. Never to fly again.”
“Mhhh…”
“I do not expect you to understand.” Dulcinea doesn’t look back at Sancho as she lifts her hand. The butterfly flutters away in a speck of gold amidst the pink skies.
“Maybe the butterfly’s wings were still struggling under the pins that held it down. Maybe it’s fighting back, searching for a purpose amidst the grasp of nihility. And that’s what matters. Maybe it believed it could still spread its wings one day.”
Yet, the words coagulate in Sancho’s throat, refusing to come out. Maybe if she had-
Don Quixote grabs a discarded shovel, stabbing it into a patch of soil with a cry. She can’t think about this now. She has to dig.
She scoops up soil in a frenzy, her bare feet sinking against the soil. Small, sharp rocks occasionally graze her feet. She swallows her yelps. She has to dig.
Her bangs are sticking to her forehead, sweat already clinging to her skin in an uncomfortable film. She wipes it off with her soiled hands, smearing dirt all across her cheeks. It doesn’t matter. She has to dig.
Three hollowed out trenches lie in front of her, piles of dirt haphazardly scattered all around the empty graves. They’re shallow, but enough to put her Family to rest in.
Don Quixote swallows her bile.
She doesn’t know when she has reached into her shirt pocket again. The pendant’s in her hand. She’s squeezing so tight her skin has turned white. Her hand is shaking. The sharp edges are digging into her palm again, but the pain is grounding.
She carries Nicolina first, grunting as she drops down to kneel by the soil. Her knees scrape against the soil much harder than expected - she thinks she hears her uniform rip. Her arms almost give out, but she cradles Nicolina’s body against herself, slowly lowering her to the earth. Her beloved scissors lie next to her, yet her hands clutch at nothing. Quixote doesn’t want to stare at the scars marring Nicolina’s neck, running up her throat in an angry shade of crimson.
Dulcinea follows, then Curiambro. She knows of the mangled, decrepit faces beneath their masks - if keeping them on was what they wished for, Quixote will gladly oblige.
She doesn’t want to look anymore. As if it’s automated, the shovel pushes the dirt into the graves. Her vision has blurred long ago, and her hands feel cold and clammy on the shovel, even as her body flushes with heat from the exertion.
It’s done. They’re at peace now, She reminds herself. It’s the least you can do.
Don Quixote falls to her knees in front of her Family’s graves. Droplets slide down her red cheeks, leaving wet imprints in the soil. Her hands scrape at the dirt, clenching into fists. She must look so unsightly: snivelling and sobbing with dirt under her nails, coating her forearms, her bare feet, the ugly shade of brown is splattered all over her white shirt. Even her beloved fixer pins and badges are all caked with a layer of dirt and mud.
“I just want to… Be with you all again. To smile with you all again. I-I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you earlier..!”
Yet, in the refracted fathoms of La Manchaland, there is no one, except her: The Second Kindred, the sole survivor of her Father’s noble bloodline.
Don Quixote clutches the pendant to her chest, and she cries.
Don Quixote’s not sure how many minutes - or hours - have passed since she’s been kneeling there. Silence surrounds her like a weighted blanket, enveloping herself in her own misery.
“Don Quixote…?” A soft-spoken voice and a loud crunching of leaves underfoot shocks her out of her daze. An arm lifting to wipe her tears, Quixote flails wildly, before losing her balance and crashing backwards on her bottom.
“A-are you okay?”
After a moment’s worth of hesitation, Don Quixote grasps the outstretched hand in front of her, looking up with misty eyes. A wide-eyed Sinclair stares back, before he gently pulls her up to her feet.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I… I stayed behind because I saw you wander off. I realised what you were g-going to do, so I wanted to give you some privacy.” Sinclair stammers, his gaze averted to the ground. “You were gone for… thirty minutes or so, and I didn't want Manager Dante to worry, so I came to c-check up on you.”
“I-l…” Don Quixote manages a weak grin, trying to brush the patches of soil away from her shirt, pocketing the pendant in the meantime. She clears her throat, forcing the joviality into her tone. “‘Tis just a tad bit of reminiscing that every noble knight should go through sometimes! V-verily! I’m fine. I thank thee for thine concern, Young Sinclair.”
“Don Quixote.” Sinclair lifts Quixote’s chin with his left hand, brushing off some more dust away from her hair. “If you’re tired, you can… drop the act around me. I don’t mind.”
“Oh. A-ahem.” Her shoulders slump, but she knows he’s right. Her persona, no, her identity at the time, wasn’t hard to maintain; but with her newly unlocked memories, the slumbering wrath, the festering envy she had locked up in her chest - all trickled through the gaps, submerging her in the depths of her own unresolved feelings. When has it gotten so hard to breathe?
“Do you want some more time alone?” The other Sinner mumbles softly. “I can leave. I just wanted to make sure you’re o-.”
“No!” Quixote’s surprised by her own blunt reply. “Don’t leave. Stay with me. Please.”
Sinclair’s eyes widen, but he squeezes her hand softly in affirmation.
The silence is comforting as Quixote watches over her Family one last time. Shifting, Quixote realises that their hands are still intertwined - however, Sinclair isn’t commenting on it, so she doesn’t let go. She doesn’t want to let go.
“...It’s so cold.” Don Quixote musters up the courage to murmur, her arm wrapping around her own waist.
“D-do you want to return to the bus?” Sinclair pipes up, quickly picking up on her hint.
“Mhm.”
Sinclair tugs on her hand; and she bids the crimson skies of La Manchaland a final goodbye.
Don Quixote soon finds herself bundled up on her bed, now clad in her pajamas and accompanied by her dear old Rocinante. The warm cup of cocoa, which Sinclair had made for her, rests between her hands, topped with cream and marshmallows. The other Sinner perches next to her on her bed, sipping on his own cup of chocolate.
“Sinclair,” Don Quixote finally breaks the silence they were basking in, her gaze flitting past the barred window just above her bed. “Thank you for waiting for me.”
“H-huh? I-it’s nothing. I was just worried about you.” Sinclair blinks owlishly, lifting his head to follow Quixote’s line of vision.
“I meant, b-back in La Manchaland. When I was… angry at all of you. At myself.” Quixote stutters, her cheeks red. She tugs on her pajama sleeve, refusing to meet Sinclair’s gaze, forcing herself to swallow her pride. “You didn’t question my intentions as a bloodfiend, not even once. You believed in me and my father’s dream, even when we ourselves couldn’t.”
Don Quixote pauses, placing down her cup with a clink. “If you haven’t done what you did, then perhaps I won’t be here now, with you all.”
“How could I not? I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done for me back then. When no one else dared to, or cared enough to intervene.” Sinclair hums, a hand reaching out to rest on her own. Quixote realises his voice is warm, packed so tightly with longing, with admiration. “You’re my friend, Don Quixote. Nothing will ever change that.”
“I’m happy to regard all of you as my friends. My family. Yet, I keep feeling so guilty. Like I’m letting them go too easily. And I don’t want to forget about them!” The flush returns to Quixote’s cheeks, her vision beginning to cloud over again. Her heart feels so heavy. “I always thought that if… If I’ve tried to get closer to them, things would’ve changed. It wasn’t their fault! They didn’t deserve to die!”
Sinclair remains silent, reaching into his pocket to produce a neatly folded handkerchief for her, his other hand squeezing her shaky hand softly.
“All this time. I’ve been lost in oblivion, having adventures, sharing meals with all of you when my own family was trapped in La Manchaland, starving to death. I should have suffered with them! I should’ve been with them! They were in pain, thinking they were forsaken for eternity and-” Quixote wipes her tears furiously, but more quickly spills down her cheeks. “You saw what they looked like, under the masks! N-Nicolina had so much pride in her beauty. She thought no one would love her, love them anymore, because they were unsightly.”
“Father promised each of us there’d be a family accepting us. A family to love and be loved by. Yet… It wasn’t enough for him. And it wasn’t his fault. B-but we, we… We just didn’t want to be alone anymore.” She’s babbling incoherently, her hot tears feeling like they’re burning down her face. Sinclair’s handkerchief, still in her hand, is now crumpled up and soaked through.
“We all thought La Manchaland could fix all our problems. That if we could gain the humans’ admiration, our Father would love us again. I didn’t mean for everyone to drift apart because of it. I couldn’t cherish them when they were there. And I had a-all the time in the world! And now I… feel so foolish. I feel so foolish for missing them!”
“I… I know it’s hard. I think about them a lot, too. M-my family, I mean.” Sinclair’s voice is weak, his eyes downcast; yet he reaches out, placing his clammy hand on her own. “I’ve done the same as you did. I’ve dug their graves and put them to rest. Well, until she…”
Oh. Guilt gnaws at her stomach at the memory of the desecrated graves. Three bodies so crudely staked through with an iron nail, leaving a macabre display in front of the burning mansion. She didn’t mean to plunge her fingers into his memories - the memories which she knew are still scabbing over. She didn’t intend for him to bleed for her.
“I know what it feels like. I keep reminding myself, over and over, before I go to sleep. That I’m to blame. That I’m responsible for letting K-Kromer in. All because I was a fool who was stupid enough to trust her.” Sinclair swallows, his throat bobbing with the motion. “O-or maybe, it was because I didn’t dare to shatter my realm of light with my own hands. If I’d talked to them, if I’d just admitted that I didn’t want the surgery… But no. I was so afraid that they’d be disappointed in me.”
“Sinclair…” Dewdrops gather at the corner of his eyes, reflecting the white lights of her room. Don Quixote’s bottom lip quivers.
(Ah, Wings. She doesn’t have a handkerchief for him.)
”I miss them a lot, too… Papa, Mama, Sis. I know I’ve said that it’s getting better, but… I haven’t moved on. And I don’t think I ever will. Even now… every night, I’d talk to the image of them through my window. Like they’re still there.” Sinclair dabs at his eyes with his sleeves, yet he smiles, just for her; a dazzling beam that can rival the sun itself. “They’ll always be a part of me. But that’s not such a bad thing, I t-think. What they call moving on is just… learning to live with grief, you know?”
Don Quixote bursts into loud, ugly sobs again, her arms wrapping around Sinclair’s shoulders in a warm hug. Her face is squished up into his chest as she cries, her tears soaking into his pajamas, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Sinclair’s hands wrap around her waist, his face nuzzling into her neck; she feels the dampness of his tears on her skin. Quixote desperately clutches fistfuls of his shirt, as if he’s her lifeline keeping her afloat.
It still hurts so much, yet, it’s so, so warm.
She doesn’t want the feeling to melt away.
“S-stay for the night. Don’t go.” Don Quixote manages to mumble, the sound muffled in Sinclair’s chest. She pulls back slightly to rub her eyes again, grumbling at how puffy and swollen they feel.
“Alright. I’ll go take my blankets and pillows. Some food, too. We can make a pillow fort or something, okay?” Sinclair squeezes her hand once more, before he stands from the bed.
“That sounds good. Thank you…” His gaze holds the weight of so much kindness; Quixote still can’t bring herself to stare back.
“I-I’ll be quick! I promise!” Sinclair dashes out the door, his hurried footsteps dissipating into the corridor of Mephistopheles.
Exhaling softly, Don Quixote approaches the dimly lit corner. The pages of the book stay unturned, the fabric hasn't been cut nor rummaged through, and the last gemstones on the mask remain unglued. As they will be for eternity. They are all stagnant, like a bud nipped too soon before it could bloom.
Reaching into her shirt pocket, she cups the base of her Father’s pendant, pressing her finger to the sharp surface and feeling the familiar indent on her thumb - likely from all the times she’s pressed it against her finger. She licks her dry lips briefly. It will be embarrassing, really, if a Second Kindred were to be caught talking to herself like a madwoman. Especially if Sinclair were to burst in through the door at any moment…
Closure seems like anything but possible - yet Sinclair’s said he hadn’t reached that point either. The least she could do was to tend to the fresh wounds, before they could fester and consume her from the inside out.
Step by step.
“Kh-hm. Um. Yes. I said I would share m-mine adventures with thee. And so I shalt. I shalt share mine dreams with thee as I see fit. So I shalt not lose mine way anymore.” She’s aware of the burning sensation on her cheeks. She must be beet red already. Her thumb grazes the edge of the pendant again, seeking comfort.
“Today, I’ve come across mine eight-hundred and sixty-fourth dream, forsooth. I would like to… To keep thine - our - memories alive. I wouldn’t let the past chain me down. However, I shalt not lose the memories we share into oblivion again. Thou art all part of mine loving family. Thou always shalt be.”
“Still… I’m not sure if I can achieve such a noble goal.” Her hand finds comfort in clenching around the sharp edge of the necklace. Her eyes flit across the fabric, the book, the mask. “H-However! As a noble companion of mine once said, the great Don Quixote would never give up, knowing that thou art all counting on me!”
Ah, Wings, how does she end this off?
“And! That is all for today. I will return ‘morrow with more dreams to share!” Stumbling backwards, Quixote sniffles, her throat constricting again. She hooks the pendant on the stand, right next to the mask, as it sways back and forth like a pendulum.
It’s almost like she can hear her Father’s laughter echoing in her ears. Quite an ingenious idea. He’d say that, if he were here with her.
“Don Quixote, I’m back! Ahh, This thing’s heavy…” Sinclair’s voice drifts from behind her door, snapping her out of her trance.
Quixote reaches for the doorknob, twisting it open. There stands a dishevelled Sinclair, his cheeks red and panting slightly. Three velvet cushions and a neatly folded fur blanket are clasped under an arm, another blanket hastily thrown over his right shoulder. His other hand is gripping onto a plastic bowl of what appears to be chocolate sticks, and her favourite multicoloured worm gummies.
The soft, orange light from the corridor of Mephistopheles streams in, a similar warmth Don Quixote had once tried to shy away from. Sinclair’s at the doorway as he always has been. Even when she locked her unlovable, disgusting self away with adamantine chains, he stood there, coaxing her back to them with a gentle hand.
Sinclair, her key.
“What are you gawking at? Do come in.” Quixote smiles. Sinclair lightly grumbles something about how cold the corridors are. In response, she gently lifts a pillow and smacks the top of his head. Laughter fills her ears, before she could even register it as her own.
The chains over her heart haven’t been lifted yet. She’s not sure if they ever will be. Yet, even with its weight, she didn’t know it could feel this warm; and so, Don Quixote allows herself to bask in the brief respite of joy.