Chapter 12: Time Machine
"Wh-What?" she roars, the impact of her pressing the earpiece into her head so large that it may just crack her skull.
Not but a single sound, save for the seemingly delusional girl in the back corner of the small restaurant, bellowing expletives to nobody in particular, resounds through the hut; the entire tea house has been brought to a standstill.
Scraping back her seat, the night walker's eyes widen. Did she hear that correctly? Is he serious?
"You're joking!" she roars, irritably smashing her fist against the tea-cup with strength that would rival even Mihile's.
With the sound of that shattered teacup, even the usually stoic manager, cowering behind the front counter, nearly jumps out of his seat in horror.
"You're fucking kidding me!"
As the scalding hot green tea blends in with the drops of red, she angrily grinds her fist against the pieces of shattered porcelain even harder, the pain unable to override her seething rage, as the night walker crinkles her nose in disdain,
"So, let me get this straight," she hisses through her sharp teeth, "You overwork me for at least six months, then you finally let me go on vacation for three months to make up for it…"
Caspeona heaves in a heavy sigh, feebly making an attempt to keep her composure, "And, one day in, after one single day…"
'What the hell did Eckhart get up to this time?'
"You're telling me that I'm going to have to take up the position of chief night walker?"
She blinks, as sound hisses through her wireless headset – the voice that crackled through became no more than a demonic rumble, as she drowns in her thoughts.
It's no question, of course, that Eckhart, the chief night walker of Ereve, is an extremely dramatic, unpredictable—even indecisive, at times—man.
"Oh?" she raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
On top of being a generally temperamental man, one that held in his thoughts and feelings, until he explodes into another fit of rage, or does something otherwise potentially dangerous and impulsive; Eckhart was extremely powerful.
"He left?"
Why he stepped down from this extremely prestigious position, after living such a privileged life (one that men and women alike could hardly even dream of living) is a mystery to Caspeona.
"And I'm the one you picked to be next in line?"
"Y-Yes," the strategist replies shakily.
Immediately, she grabs the plate of steaming pork dumplings, and flings it towards the wall to her left, not even batting an eyelash as it collides with the wall.
Smash!
Why she—of all people that they could have chosen—is filling in this prestigious position baffled her even more.
Squelch…
"Are you insane?"
With caution, the manager—secretly glad that the squishiness of the dumplings took the impact of her throw, saving him at least a few thousand mesos that he would need to fix a dent on the wall, or replace a shattered plate—steps up towards the infuriated girl.
"E-Excuse me, miss…"
"What?" Caspeona roars, shooting the portly man a much unneeded death glare, her rather grotesquely sharp teeth bared at him.
"If you must argue like this in my restaurant," he explains, trying to hide the quiver in his voice, as he warily eyes the poison-coated throwing knives sitting at the front of her belt, "Then, please, if you may, take it outside."
Caspeona can only blink, realising her sudden outburst is completely uncalled for. At least, from the incredulous glares of the other customers, that was what it seemed like.
Given the situation she is in, anyone would have thrown a plate of dumplings at the wall, or anything, inanimate or not, within their grasp.
'Keh, Eckhart, you,' with one last scoff, she reaches into her pockets, 'I have no idea what was running through your mind when you went into your little fit…'
Caspeona mutters an apology as she leaves her mesos on the table, hoping it will be enough to compensate for the damage.
Her eye twitches, as she leaves the restaurant, 'But, I assure you, you'll regret it…'
"Urgh…"
Slowly – very slowly, with a groggy grunt, Cecelia's one non-swollen eyelid flutters open to reveal a dull grey orb that barely shone in the fluorescent ceiling lights.
"'The hell…" Cecelia clutches at her bandaged head with a groan, heaving herself up.
She takes in her surroundings of a rather tragic-looking infirmary.
"… You must not teach Francis these sorts of things," Eleanor shakes her head, "He's only a ten year-old boy, after all."
Cecelia raises an eyebrow.
"He still doesn't know what castrate means," she mentally cringes at what she is about to say next—the forced formality feeling strange as it leaves her mouth, "L-Lady Eleanor."
Who even refers to people as 'Lady' nowadays, aside from the people in those really bad English dubs of anime? She almost gagged as the words left her mouth.
"But, Cecelia," Eleanor narrows her eyes, "You're giving him the wrong ideas."
'What the hell is this?' she thinks, eyes widening.
'Your death, maybe?'
Cecelia gulps, as she steps back, making sure her glare was as intimidating as possible—it usually worked on the playground, back when she was seven, or so, to ward off the bullies…
But, as she would guess, Eleanor simply laughed; a shrill, high-pitched sound, that sounded much like a cursed banshee.
"Are you trying to initiate a battle?" she snickers, "You're not even armed! It would hardly be fair at all."
'No, I'm trying to prevent myself from getting into a so-called "battle"…' Cecelia narrows her own eyes at her.
"Don't worry, my dear," she lifts her staff, a glow emanating from it, "This won't hurt."
The last thing she sees with wide, nervous eyes is Eleanor lifting her spear-like staff…
"… Much."
'The second time in one-and-a-half days,' a melodramatic sigh echoes through her mind, 'Good job, Cecelia.'
"Hey," she interjects, "it's not my fault that Eleanor's into corporal punishment."
Her inner-self (whom she hadn't bothered to name, since she was—and is—still her, thus she went by her name) simply shrugs, and with a sigh, she presses a finger to her under eye area.
"… Ow-ow-ow."
Cecelia winces as she pokes her left eye, still bruised black, and swollen.
'I must congratulate you, however,' inner-Cecelia says dryly, the sound of slow clapping echoing through her brain, 'you survived.'
Clap, clap.
"Shut up, you."
She waves away the strands of hair that fell to her eyes, as though swatting away her own unkind interjections.
'Pft.'
Completely bored of looking around the room after the fifth time or so—not that there was anything interesting to look at in the first place, anyway—Cecelia turns to the girl laying in the bed next to her, still knocked out cold.
'What the hell did Eleanor do to her?' she flings her legs over the side of the bed, hoping to inspect further.
"Wh-What…" Reina whimpers.
Ba-thump: Cecelia clutches at her chest, where she swore her heart just jumped ever so slightly.
'Holy crap…' she flinches hoping she hadn't woken her up from a deep sleep – or so it seemed.
Reina mumbles inaudibly, as she twists and turns in her sleep, the covers getting tangled in her legs and arms.
"R-Reina?"
"… Wh-What is your purpose?"
Reina pulls the lever, as the grand machine, made of the finest copper and steel, takes a large, booming step back.
"What is the meaning of all this?"
'Why have you…'
Taking another stilted step back, her eyes widen in disbelief – munching on a piece of meat, the men, clad in black uniform trimmed with gold, simply shrug.
"Girly," one of them swallow, some pieces of meat still stuck in an untamed, rust-coloured beard, "we need t' survive, y' see…"
"Reina?"
"Aaaaah!"
Cecelia swore she could feel her eardrums bursting—or squealing as they each died a horrible, painful death—as she let out a bloodcurdling scream, her previously sleepy eyes now widened with dread.
Reina heaves in heavy, nervous breaths, a layer of cold sweat growing on her forehead, as though she had just run a great distance.
… Her eyes were widened, bangs sticking to her forehead, almost as though she had just run for dear life.
"A-Ah…"
"Ssh, it's okay…"
Reina pants, her eyes widened as they flicker wildly around her, taking in her surroundings. It takes a few minutes for her breathing to be even, and she lies back down onto the bed again.
Clearing her throat, Cecelia finally inquires, "What's wrong?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're crying."
'… Again.'
The peculiar dankness that soaked her cheek seemed to ever-present—Reina hadn't even bothered to notice it anymore.
"Nothing," she wipes away the useless, hollow tear.
"Bullshit."
Snapping her head up, she tries not to cry out in horror at her profanity; rather, she would try and slowly get used to it. Would she really be stuck with her for as long as she will live, for as long as she would be stuck in this cursed prison of an organization?
"B-But, really!" Reina attempts feebly to defend herself, lying through her teeth, "It's nothing!"
Sighing, Cecelia finds her forehead being buried into the centre of her palm,
"When people cry, Reina," the ebony-haired girl seethes in exasperation, "It's usually because they're inflicted with some sort of painful, strong emotion; nervousness, anger, sadness…"
She narrows her eyes.
"It's biology," Cecelia finishes rather anticlimactically, "That is, simply put, how it all works."
Reina finds her gaze falling to her lap, as she looks down at her hand, and that sparkle of silver…
"So, tell me," Cecelia places a hand on her shoulder gently, "What's wrong?"
Flinching at the sudden contact, she still responds,
"I've been thinking. That's all, really."
"Thoughts can drive you into tears?" Cecelia inclines her head in confusion, and in disbelief. Biting her quivering lip, Reina looks up, but dares not look at her possibly incredulous expression.
"Crying and whining, Reina," Cecelia warns, "Won't get you anywhere in this life. People won't help you just because they feel sorry for you."
"I do not need anyone's sympathy."
"Then why do you cry?"
"I cry for myself," she declares, clenching her fist, as she holds it up to her chest, "I cry for what I have lost!"
"What've you lost?" Cecelia sighs, "What have you lost that makes you worry over it so much?"
"I cry, because I fear that, if I don't, I won't even have tears left to shed – I'll have nothing, except a ghost of what was once called 'hope'," frowning, she continues, "I won't even have memories. I don't have memories right now."
"Why do you hold so much sentimental value toward your past," Cecelia retorts, looking her up and down, "When you don't even know what it is?"
"W-Well…" she purses her lips, eyes shutting slowly as she stops to think—what could she say in reply to that?
"If you do not even know what this ring represents, girl…"
The woman's ruby red lips curve into a daring smirk, as she admires the jewellery adorning her slender finger with obsidian eyes,
"Then why do you hold so much value towards it?"
'It's the exact same thing as she said…' Reina lowers her clenches fist down to her lap, 'and, still, I have no answer…'
"I wish to go to Ludibrium, one day," she says all of a sudden.
"What?" Cecelia frowns – confused, at her sudden confession. Ludibrium, needless to say, was far too cheerful for her tastes…
Why in the world would Reina want to go there, of all places?
"There must be time machines in Ludibrium, right?" Reina gazes wistfully at the crack in the wall, "That means I have the ability to go back and witness everything that…"
"Stop it."
Reina's head snaps up, as she stares, incredulous, at the defiant girl crouching next to her, brow creased both in confusion and annoyance:
"Why does the past matter so much to you?"
"So I can find out the truth about my life."
"The truth?" Cecelia howls, "You want to know the truth about how you were born, and how you lived?"
Reina nods, resolute—determined.
"You're stupid," Cecelia sneers haughtily.
"What?"
"Can't you see that you are who you are now, not because of what you know," Cecelia blinks, "but, rather, what you don't know?"
Reina blinks back, astounded—Cecelia was, indeed, correct. What she did know hardly affected her as much as what she didn't…
"You see, Reina," Cecelia begins, "I occasionally have little arguments with myself. That makes me a really messed up person, you know?"
'Oh, I'm sure she didn't know that already.'
Ignoring her own sardonic remark, she brushes the words away; "But being messed up makes me, well… me," Cecelia smiles softly, "No matter what sort of pills my mother tries to feed me, or whatever my classmates say about it, I tell them that I don't want to be anything else other than crazy."
"Would you not want to fix being crazy?"
Cecelia simply shakes her head, "If I was anything other than crazy, then I'd just be your generic teenager; another Miss Bitchface who has aimlessly roamed this Earth."
Cecelia narrows her eyes, a smile still playing on her lips,
"You're a sad person because you cannot find your past," she tilts her head, her wistful smile turning reassuring, "and you have had a hard life trying to find it—it doesn't exactly get much easier from here, you know."
"I am aware of that, Cecelia," Reina's eyes grow listless.
"But that makes you stronger, Reina," Cecelia says methodically, "It makes you, y'know, you."
Reina narrows her eyes; but what of her past made her, well, her?
What happened to her that made her the way she was, stuck in the situation she was in? Like anyone else, she can't help but be curious about it…
"You don't need a time machine, Reina."
"And what makes you say that?"
"Because life, in itself, is a time machine," Cecelia laughs, "And the only direction it goes is forward. You shouldn't worry about your past, because you can't step backward to try and fix the person you are today – you can only deal with what's wrong with you now, and fix it for later."
"What about my past, then?"
"Forget–" Cecelia shakes her head, "Don't worry about your past. Whether you find it or not—somewhere down the road—shouldn't matter."
Reina mirror's Cecelia's expression – on her face was a contemplative smile, with a tinge of longing.
"You are correct, Cecelia," she finds a small laughter bubbling from inside of her, "I should look forward to the future, for it is pointless to linger in the past; and ponder over what cannot be changed…"
"You should live for the present," Cecelia offers, "It's better than brooding over the past, or wondering what the future holds – not when there are problems to be solved today, or were supposed to be solved yesterday."
"What…" Reina tilts her head, "Do you live only for today? Do you not wonder what the future holds for you?"
Cecelia pauses in thought.
"Because, if I try to see what my future holds," Cecelia elaborates—thinking off the top of her head, as per usual, of course, "Then I see nothing."
She makes her way back to her own bed with a sigh, "Such the cynic I am, no?"
"I think thinking about what could be is more exciting than thinking about what is," Reina discusses, "But I am very sure that you disagree."
"I do," Cecelia leans back onto her flat, rock-hard pillow, "I really do."
"What is your reason for doing so?"
"Because, in the future, all I see is my future and my life going to crap," Cecelia smirks, resting her hands on her stomach, "There's not much to look forward to, see… Birth; school; exams; university; dull, redundant job; retirement; adult diapers; death…"
"Why is your view on life so dark?"
"Because life isn't as pretty and sugar-coated as most of those stupid fairy tales make it to be, Reina," Cecelia huffs, "In an ideal world, everyone find their prince charming, have a perfect family, own two Ferraris, live in a fucking castle, and become an astronaut, or a pop star, or a doctor – or whatever the hell we wanted to be as a kid…"
She heaves in a heavy breath, as she continues darkly.
"In an ideal world, everyone would live their life exactly the way they planned it," Cecelia lowers her darkened gaze, "But we don't live in an ideal world. We live in a shithole."
Reina fixes her a look, as Cecelia grows quiet.
"You're interesting to talk to, you know?" Cecelia looks to the cracked ceiling, "You might be a tad bit younger than me, but you have a lot more to say than most of my classmates… It's amazing how they can run their mouths like tap water, and yet say absolutely nothing at all."
"What do your classmates say?"
Clearing her throat, Cecelia prepares to give the worst impersonation ever known to man:
"Aha, oh-my-God!"
Considering her over-exposure to the group of girls who rolled their skirts up to their butts and kissed posters of a certain fifteen year old pop star with the voice of a chipmunk, coupled with a couple of (free, thankfully) Speech lessons, Cecelia's interpretation of her classmates was oddly, perhaps painfully confronting albeit satirical.
"Taylor Lautner's abs!" she grins unashamedly, "Like, oh my God!"
After a plastic – though incredibly pretentious – giggle, Cecelia finds herself gagging from the sheer overload of stupidity that she had just made Reina witness.
"Jesus fucking Christ," she sighs, rubbing her temples, hoping that the stupidity wasn't contagious, "I really hate my generation…"
"Taylor… Taylor Lautner?" Reina raises an eyebrow, "Jesus – effing – Christ?"
'The worst book to have ever existed doesn't exist in this universe,' she explains to herself, 'and neither does the concept of God and Jesus, apparently.'
"Superstar from where I'm from," Cecelia explains, "You probably don't know him."
Reina hums in mock understanding, nodding slowly, her expression still ridden with confusion.
'… The next God-knows-how-long …' Cecelia glances over to the other hospital-like bed, a smile tugging at the edge of her lip, 'should be quite interesting…'
Fumbling with her pockets, the manager takes a step back, a bead of cold sweat threatening to roll down his forehead.
"Sorry for the trouble."
He lets out a sigh of relief, as she, instead, pulls out a beige sack from her near-limitless pockets. Gold coins almost spurted out of the seams; the sackcloth looked as though it would threaten to burst at any moment.
"Have a lovely day," she gives a plastic smile, and a gentle wave with her good hand, before she haughtily steps out of the store, clutching at her bleeding hand.
As soon as she was out of sight, she heard the tea house roaring back to life—as it once was, before she decided it would be most appropriate to obliterate everything in sight.
"God dammit, Neinheart!" she hisses into the earpiece once again, her pockets now much lighter than she'd like them to be, "At this rate, I'm going to go broke!"
'Board the ship first thing tomorrow morning, eh?'
Caspeona casually places her hands in her pockets, as she strolls along the dirt path, kicking dust at helpless shrooms…
"You better pay me back…"
Eleanor never liked being alone.
Swirling the bright purple liquid in the transparent glass vial, she peers at it, as she, for once, leaves her precious wine glass sitting on top of the table, and the endless piles of paperwork that she should be signing.
She stares at it, in amazement, as though it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
Eleanor never likes being alone, with nothing to accompany her, except the memories, his voice, and the piles of paperwork at her feet.
Because, when she is alone, she reflects – and she remembers…
'If you drink this, my dear,then you shall be all-knowing.'
Clasping onto it tentatively, fourteen year-old Eleanor stares at the bottle with anticipation, and curiosity, violet eyes sparkling with mirth, "What's in this bottle, my Lord?"
'Right here, in this vial, child,' he drawls, 'is the secret to eternity.'
… And Eleanor really hates remembering.
"In this bottle, right here," she brings it closer to her face, swishing the glowering liquid inside, "is the secret to eternity, huh?"
'What exactly do you mean…?'
"… Eternity?"
Thankfully, the paperwork managed to cushion the fall of the small bottle, which otherwise would have shattered into tiny shards of shining glass and sparkling magic.
"Oh…" with swift, nimble fingers, she quickly stows away the strange concoction, "Francis! H-Hello…"
Though she never planned on drinking it in the first place—as he was known to be a rather untrustworthy man—Eleanor decided that, for all it's worth, he could be telling the truth.
As slim a chance as that was, the witch still kept the potion in the inner corner of her bottom drawer, and will keep it there for as long as she would live…
"I… Haha…" she laughs uneasily, "I d-didn't see you there."
Shutting her desk briskly, she flashes a smile.
"I'm bored, Eleanor," he whines.
"I'm sorry. I've given you nothing to do," her smile grows weaker, as she eyes the paperwork before her, "Would you like to–"
"No," he says swiftly, "thanks for the offer, anyway."
"Hm, it's alright," the witch hums, "It wouldn't be legal for you to even sign any of this paperwork, anyhow…"
Letting out a sigh of relief, the child puppeteer saunters over to the front of her desk, and pulls out the chair.
"What exactly is it that you want?"
Eleanor was never quite one to like small-talk.
'So, I heard it was supposed to be sixteen degrees today.'
'Oh, you bought a new washing machine, that's lovely…'
'Ah, what was it like at the bank?'
In actuality, she never really cared about that skirt in the shop window, the trip to the market, nor did she care whether it was raining or sunny…
"I just want to talk," he states curtly.
"You never just want to talk," Eleanor crudely laughs, "You only want to chat with Baroq, or with Orca. Not the old, crazy woman sitting in her office – never me."
"Orca's busy, and Baroq's still away…"
"What exactly is it you want?" she repeats, harsher this time around.
Rolling his eyes, in a very Francis-like fashion, he finally sighs, "I sense something strange is going on," Francis intones, "something very strange."
"Such as what?"
Francis looks down to the ground, twiddling his thumbs,
"… I have this weird feeling that there's someone—or something—after me…"
"Hm, interesting…"
The whimsical, crimson-haired man examines the doll closely, tracing his finger along the patched crevices.
"This is what you've found in eliminating all those pigs?"
"Yep!" she exclaims rather cheerily—far too cheerily, for Roca's tastes, but it's still refreshing to see someone so enthusiastic about their work.
"Right-o," he nods, looking at the doll from different angles, twisting it around, here and there, poking and prodding at it.
Tilting her head to the side, her jet-black ponytail nearly reaches the floor, "Is there anything you want me to do, now?"
"Not much, really," he waves her off, "Not until you're stationed in Henesys once again. For now…"
The thunder breaker bites her lip, a frown creasing her pretty face.
'What…?'
Yet, she lets him continue, as he gazes into the slowly-setting sun;
"Your service in Henesys is now complete."
Eyes glittering with happiness, a smile slowly—very slowly—creeps up her face.
"R-Really?" she grins from ear to ear, laughing rather haughtily, like the ten year-old she once was, killing a tino for the first time with those brass knuckles of hers…
Is she truly one step to being on par with Hawkeye, or amongst the elite child prodigies like Andrew?
Is Casmilia really one step closer to being a chief thunder breaker?
Nodding, Roca gives a small, whimsical smile, as he turns back to her.
"Tomorrow morning, come back to receive my progress report," he extends his hand, "I want you to deliver it to Neinheart, along with this doll."
"W-Wait…" she blinks, "Does that mean I won't see you again?"
"You have truly been a pleasure to work with, Casmilia," he begins, "but I must bid you farewell, until you are assigned more missions around these parts."
In disappointment, Roca swears, for so much as a brief millisecond, that she had a glimmer of discontent in those hazel eyes of hers; of course, like the optimistic girl she is, that dejectedness was transformed into determination.
"You, too," she swirls on her heel, making sure her long, ebony ponytails don't slap him in the face as she does so, "It was fun working with you."
As Roca waves her goodbye, he sighs—half in satisfaction, and half in exhaustion—she makes her way to the nearest inn.
'I'm not a kid anymore, Andrew…' almost suddenly, there is a bounce in her step, 'You just watch!'
"You have served your purpose well, François.*"
The shadow of a boy kneels at the foot of the grotesque figure of a man, his face hidden underneath a cloak as black as night,
"Lord Asmodius…"
"Yes, child?"
"For what reason did you command me to cast spells upon those mushrooms, then, subsequently, plant dolls into several monsters ?"
"For revenge."
"Revenge?" he intones, "revenge for what, and on whom, exactly?"
"You will find out in due time, my friend…"
As a contorted laughter rings, like a cursed, demented church bell, through the cramped, glowering space that he liked to call a 'room'…
"… In due time."
Laughter has never sounded so cynical.
"Nonsense, Francis!" Eleanor hollers, "As long as I am here to protect you, you needn't worry."
With a wry laughter, she leans back in her chair, "Aha… Oh, Goddess…" she wipes a tear, shed from hysteria, from her eye, a smile still playing on her lips; "We're the Black Wings, darling. There's always someone after one of us!"
"Isn't that sort of life torture?" Francis asks, "Always having someone, or the thought of someone, or something chasing after you… how have you dealt with it all these years?"
Dryly, Eleanor lifts up her wine glass, before taking a sip.
"This magical concoction," she says, glancing at the deep purple lipstick stain it left behind, "has also helped me deal with the other sadness of life—the death, the destruction…"
Eleanor takes another sip, tilting her head back ever so slightly.
"The murder…" she slurs.
"What's so great about wine, Eleanor?" Francis frowns, "I've heard it kills people."
Eleanor, once again, sets her glass down onto the ever-present paperwork lining her desk,
"Don't you want to have a taste, m'dear?" she gestures to the drink.
"Isn't this illegal?" he questions, with a raised eyebrow, as he slowly raises the cup to his lips.
"I've had my first sip of wine when I was your age—maybe a tad bit older," Eleanor smirks, "Though I didn't think it was half bad. I'm sure you'll be able to handle it."
'The girls, surely, wouldn't…' she wanted to add on.
Blinking, he tentatively takes a fraction of a sip.
"What does it taste like, Francis?"
Francis gags, as he quickly sets the glass back onto the table, a splotch of the crimson liquid dotting the paperwork.
"It…" he purses his lips, eyes squinted, "Like money…"
A clap, like a small crackle of thunder, followed by a tingling laughs rings through the spacious office;
He wipes his lips on his sleeve, gagging,
"It tastes like money…"
"Aha… Oh, ha, wow…" Eleanor tries to hold back laughter, failing to keep her face in a deadpan, "m-money… Haha!"
Francis finds a smile creeping up his own face – though the spicy taste still lingered and danced on his tongue…
"Haha…" he giggles.
Of course, half of Eleanor's savings was invested into saving up for a new Jacuzzi to be placed in the recreational room; the other half went to saving for the best, most delicious merlot or Bordeaux—not that Francis seemed to have had any taste for wine, at his age.
Their facilities were bearable, at best, but that would have to do, right?
What was life if you couldn't enjoy it sitting in a bathtub, swirling a cup of wine after a stressful day at work, anyway?
As laughter dies down to mere chuckles, Eleanor leans against her desk, in frail attempt to get closer to the boy; "I'm surprised, Francis," she cups her cheeks in her hands, elbows still leaning upon her desk, "that Baroq isn't your biological father."
"Aha… Ha…"
His laughter grows darker, and yet, she continues, "That's exactly the sort of thing that he would say."
Francis lowers his gaze, smile slowly widening – though not in merriment, like most smiles indicated.
'… Ha.'
"I really do wish that you and Baroq were my real parents, you know," he says mournfully.
Eleanor snaps out of her dream-like trance, her lips previously creased into a small smile now twitching downward. A tense silence sits between the two of them.
"… Oh, my," she chimes in rather awkwardly, "Well, won't you look at the time!"
She rises from her chair, and takes Francis's trembling hand in her own,
"We must summon the rest of the live-in residents to dinner, yes?"
Curtly, Francis nods, as he is practically dragged out of the room by the Black Witch.
A flash of lightning brightens the murky, cloudy sky, followed by a clap of thunder, the symphony of storm accompanied by the tiny pit-pat of rain against a makeshift shelter…
"I-I really needed to plan this out more…" his teeth chatter.
A boy priest trembles, hugging his faux chipmunk tail as much as he could around his over-exposed form, pulling his duck cap lower.
'I'm sorry, the last ship to Orbis has just left,' the shipmaster had cried, 'I'm afraid you'll have to catch the next ship, scheduled for tomorrow morning. I see you have brought camping supplies; the nearest inns most likely won't take many more people after this time, so I suggest you spend the night here…'
Shutting his now dulled green eyes, he lets sleep overtake him, not knowing whether he would wake up in the morning – without his fingers or toes turning blue, anyhow.
'I really should have planned this out …'