To weave star and sky out of little else but thin cloth... is there no illusion Chaldea can't bring to life?
Fran sat in the fake sunlight, her legs curled up underneath her. That these magi would go to the trouble of creating an artificial sun to shine even through the deepest Antarctic freezes spoke not of compassion, but of a desire to promote morale, and thus productivity. Though that didn't mean she couldn't take advantage of their pragmatism for her own small slivers of joy.
Case in point, the bluebells just beginning to sprout from the earth, little tendrils of green that held all the promise of spring. It was two weeks on from when she'd planted them under the dragon's cold stare, and by all rights they should still be dormant. Parvati's blessing had reduced the time from years to mere months before the Hyacinthoides-massartiana hybrids would bloom, but right now it felt like an eternity.
Perhaps she should have chosen something else. But these were the first flowers she'd come to love, and she hoped to recapture some of the peace of her early days in their fragile petals. Back when she could lie under the gaze of a true sun and hold onto some feeble hope for a better life.
That accelerated growth had bothered the dragon when she'd come back the second time to scowl at the tiny wisps of green, enough to pull a dozen colorful curses from her snarling lips. Worried about the risk of flame, Fran had wanted to explain about the goddess' favor. But she couldn't force the words out this time—the explanation was too complex, too taxing to bull her way through. Especially when she had good reason to expect she would garner nothing but a sneer and an expletive at the end of it.
Instinctively, her hands had begun to speak for her, but she didn't need the blank look in the dragon's eye to know it was a wasted effort. The same could be said for the notebook she usually carried for such eventualities, even if tracing out words in ink felt stiff and slow compared to her preferred communication. The dragon was a cruel reflection of the saint, and equally literate. So she had surrendered to her cage and resigned herself to a grunt and a shrug.
Although the Avenger had surprised her when she'd first pulled out Anne of Green Gables, of all things. Her lesen—the digestion and processing of the text—had been broken into shards and sharpened to hurt, but that she had managed it at all was a surprise. More than that, she had learned the names and motivations of characters she professed to despise, far more than required to distress her target.
To hear those beloved names in someone else's mouth, even if spoken with scorn, had been like honey to Fran's ears. Papa meant to indulge her, but he far preferred mathematical treatises and mystery-thrillers to the pastoral romances she held dear to her heart. Uncle Charles wasn't much better, and… as fond as she was of Mordred, the less said of the red knight and literature, the better.
That was why when the dragon stomped up the hill again to spit more fire at her, Fran allowed it. Though a single word to Master would have ground the visits to a halt—even Avengers obeyed the power of the Seal—Fran held her silence.
Though the black wraith's thought process remained an enigma to her. Whatever new tracks her train of thought had jumped upon, it wasn't limited to books and blossoms. They had been fielded together on a few more missions since that day, she and the dragon, and she couldn't fail to notice that the other kept a much closer eye on her than before. At times she almost felt like a second shadow, looming in the periphery of her vision while they fought back the enemy. And if her words were as sharp as ever, they dripped a little less vitriol when she crossed the Berserker's path.
Every few days, without fail, the dragon would return to the grassy hill and hurl abuse at the fictional inhabitants of Avonlea. Though it was intensely irritating at times, withstanding the assault without being able to offer ripostes of her own, the situation did have its own merits.
To wit, the dragon sought her out. Her, Victor Frankenstein's ungainly puppet, stitched from spare parts that could barely stand to brush against each other. There was a novelty to it—expecting a visitor that came neither out of pity nor obligation, but simply for her company. And if not entirely pleasant, well... perhaps that was the best someone like her could expect.
The thud of metal boots climbing the slope made Fran raise her head. She hid a small smile.
Speak of the dragon, and lo, she appears.
"Who the fuck is this Montgomery bitch and where the fuck is she?" the Avenger snapped as she closed the distance between them. "I'm going to fucking tear her chest open and feed her bits to the crows! I'll draw and quarter her myself as soon as I see her! I'll hang her entrails over her town hall, and maybe then she'll see how fucking useful her God is!"
Fran suppressed an amused sigh. She had expected melodramatics the moment that the dragon reached Chapter 7, where Marilla coaxed Anne into prayers at bedtime and came away shocked at the girl's paltry religious education.
Even if she couldn't quite resist rolling her eyes. A French farmgirl from the 15th century would most definitely have said her prayers every night, and every Sunday too. Fortunately (or perhaps it was a disappointment? She couldn't quite decide which), her bangs concealed the gesture from the dragon's irate gaze.
"Complete and utter horseshit. God is eternal and wisdom and justice and la-de-fucking-da. God wants little girls to say their prayers," she intoned in a mocking singsong. "God wants them to be quiet and kind and seen and not heard."
A gauntleted fist smacked the book. Fran would have cringed if this hadn't become a staple of the presentation, and she knew the volume would ultimately come away unharmed. Not that the dragon understood about first editions, but it seemed even she respected books on some level, despite Hans' annoyed snarking to the contrary.
"This is the same piece-of-shit God that kills those girls' parents," she continued, "and sticks them in an orphanage for child abusers and pedophiles to pick up. Fuck prayers!"
The very same God who put Matthew and Marilla on her path, and opened their hearts for her.
The words pushed themselves into her hands, she could feel her fingers itching to speak. But it would do no good.
"And on top of that, he's got the nerve to demand you say your prayers properly, the way those old fucks like them. Those assholes with the fancy clothes and the big houses who claim to be servants of this very same God. And he never stops them, never. Even I smack wyverns when they get out of line, but he can't be bothered to reign in rapists and torturers."
You're missing the point. Montgomery isn't dictating to the reader how they should pray, but rather offering insight into Marilla's character and values.
As much as it pleased her to have someone that could speak about the story to her, it frustrated Fran in equal measure that she was unable to make her own points. She had never so sympathized with Tantalus, desperate to quench her thirst, only to have the water inevitably recede before her parched lips.
"And it's not enough to fucking police how you say your prayer, oh no! They lock down the contents, too. That rag of a holy book says whatever you ask for, you'll receive. Faith can move mountains, all that bullshit." Armored fingers clawed through ash-gray hair. "And there's Anne, asking for the bare minimum—staying in a happy home, growing up beautiful—and don't give me shit about looks not mattering, we know they do—and Marilla craps all over her for it. Come the fuck on."
Marilla is astonished more than scornful. She was never permitted to express herself that way, and so cannot help but see it as a fault in Anne's education. She's trying her hardest to impart her values to a little girl she wants to raise right.
The desire to speak the words, to communicate with the person across from her, felt like a fire in her throat. Like it would burn her if she held back, even if she already knew what attempting to speak aloud would cost her.
Grimacing, Fran painstakingly molded her lips around the correct phonemes. The nerves in her mouth and jaw were tangled, frayed connections that rarely transmitted signals as they should. Every syllable she shaped felt like forcing herself to breathe with an iron weight pressed on her chest, like acid lapping beneath her skin.
"Mmm… Maril-la…" The name scorched on her tongue, but she pressed on, driven by the desire to connect. "...raised… t-that… way." She took a big gulp of air to push down the pain. "Wants… to… r... raise… Anne… right."
The dragon curled her lips as Fran laboriously finished her sentence, her eyes gleaming gold. "How fucking arrogant of her. Anne may be a pathetic orphan, but at least she can appreciate the things around her. They all dulled away for Marilla a long time ago. So who's happier, huh?"
Being happy isn't the only thing that makes a life worth living, or that we should strive for. Even if I wish I could grasp it in my palm, and hold on for once.
"H-hap-py… not… all. P..." A spasm shivered up through her jaw before she mastered it. "Prot... tect… what… love. F-for… for… children."
What I might have been, had fate seen fit to turn even a corner of her smile towards me.
"Fuck the children!" spat the Avenger. "The little shits grow up to be bastard kings and fake monks, all the trash that earned my flames. Ever seen a little boy club his sister over the head and steal her toy? Don't try to tell me children are innocent."
But they are innocent, even in their cruelty. And that is why we teach them empathy. Patience and understanding.
"Inn… innoc-c—"
Bone slid violently on bone as her jaw dislocated under the strain. A sharp stabbing pain radiated from the joint.
Gasping, Fran covered it as best she could with a gloved hand. She could still hear the clickety-click of the bone trying to catch and missing, sending pulses of agony searing through her head.
The dragon's gaze narrowed, then she raised a hand. "Stop that. Stop that right now."
"...c-cent…" Brutal electricity seared through the nerves in her jaw. Clack.
"Fucking stop!"
The dragon knelt in front of her and grabbed her other wrist, squeezing tight enough that she would have winced if not for the acid gnawing through her face. She could feel a sharp stinging in her eyes.
"Fuck, are you crying?" The pressure around her wrist lifted some, but didn't entirely fade. "Shit. Look, just… breath, okay? Deep breaths. Think of... I dunno, some fucking happy shit. Think about Anne skipping through some roses or something."
The small peal of laughter choked in Fran's throat. Little by little, she relaxed as much as her spasming muscles allowed her. After some time, she couldn't tell how long, the pain became tolerable. She could breathe again.
"This isn't working," grumbled the Avenger. She tossed the book down on the grass (another wince from Fran) and stared hard at her. "Enough with that shit. Do that thing with your hands."
Fran blinked.
The dragon huffed. "You heard me. Wave your hands around, and I'll guess. How hard can it fucking be?"
"More difficult than you think," Fran signed slowly. Every curl, every bounce of fingers and hand was exaggerated as much as possible, just like when Papa first taught her to speak this way. Hoping against hope that it would get through, even if just the broad meaning.
But the dragon only frowned. "That's too fast, do something simpler."
Fran tried not to sigh. "Hello, nice to meet you." The salute-like gesture, the slide of the hand upon the other, the two index fingers meeting together, before one pointed towards the dragon. All simple, clear, and done with slow and precise motions. She had to get this. Had to.
"Is that hello?" The dragon crossed her arms. "That's a lot of bullshit just to say 'hi'."
The harsh words couldn't snuff out the little spark of joy Fran felt. She nodded gently.
Maybe this can work after all.
But that was the only phrase that was even halfway-understood. Comments about the weather, the grass, the flowers, the book—all were met with a flat stare and a growing scowl. Irritation flickered deep in those golden eyes, and she feared an outburst of temper at any moment. But the other said nothing, just growled deep in her throat as Fran's fingers faltered and eventually fell silent.
It is as I feared. Her hands slumped in her lap. There is no bridge over this chasm between us. Now she will tire of me.
The Avenger's eyes drifted up to the tree's branches, the silver-green leaves shaken in a mild wind.
Fran should have looked forward to resuming her solitude. Peaceful moments in the breeze, accompanied by her books and her thoughts. The dragon would stomp away and turn her fire elsewhere.
It should have been a relief. Instead, it filled her with a quiet despair.
I should never have expected anything at all. A defective doll like myself can only hurt and disappoint.
Averting her gaze towards the bluebells, Fran silently waited for the dragon to leave. There was nothing she could do to prevent it. Her jaw still ached. But it was a manageable hurt compared to the uncomfortable pit in her stomach.
"This is a waste of time," said the dragon at last, pivoting on her heels. The book was unceremoniously slid beneath her cloak.
And so, we come to the end of the road. The pain dulled into numbness, the thinnest coat of ice over her skin.
The other took a few steps down the hill, then glared over her shoulder. "Get your shit together by next week, or I'm gonna be pissed. Got that?"
Mismatched eyes widened. I… next week?
The dragon disappeared down the path without another word. Fran was alone again beneath the rustling leaves and distant clouds. But she didn't feel the crushing weight of solitude fall down on her shoulders, as she had feared.
A little smile crept over her face.
There is no bridge across the chasm... but perhaps there is a hanging rope.
Walking into the soft din of the busy library almost made Jeanne reconsider coming here at all. The noise in her head was so loud already that she had trouble dealing with more of it on the outside as well. But she was too fucking stubborn to run out with her tail between her legs—especially when that green-haired carrot fuckboy looked up and nodded at her. She didn't need to be acknowledged by obnoxious heroes like him, but now that she had been seen, she couldn't back down.
Her heels didn't have the same satisfying sound on the library carpet as they did on the tiling of Chaldea's regular corridors. But that was fine—she didn't plan on staying here long. Just grab the book and go.
Yeah, because that worked out so well last time, moron.
Shut the fuck up.
She ground her teeth and forced herself straight to the reference desk this time. There was some relief in the fact that it was the book on duty rather than any of the usual assholes. The other even smiled at her as she approached, and for a second she actually believed that maybe this wouldn't be complete and utter shit after all—
"The prodigal daughter returns, to the dismay of her entire family."
Well that lasted all of two fucking seconds.
Her feet ground to a halt as the blue twerp stood in her way again. His arms crossed as he stared up at her, as usual entirely unperturbed in the face of her murderous glare.
"I don't have time for your shit today," she said quietly. "Move."
"And see you burn another bookshelf to cinders?" One eyebrow raised. "No. You may have Shakespeare on your side, and you may even have convinced the other two to allow you to return, but I see you for who you are."
You fucking... stop, stop. Don't lose it again. Don't give him the pleasure.
"I don't care if you jerk off to pictures of me when no one's looking," she growled. "I won't say it again. Move."
"Oh, so the brute finally advanced beyond primary-school levels of verbiage? I'm almost impressed."
Her fist tightened, itching to backhand this fucker into the wall. Some passersby shot the two of them glances and gave them a wide berth as they made their way to the exit.
"You're really asking for a slow death, aren't you?" She leaned forward threateningly, but he didn't give an inch.
"Oh, I've spoken too soon." He shook his head and sighed. "The beast rears its ugly head after all. Why don't you save us all the trouble and leave already? Even you must have figured out by now that you're not wanted here."
The noise in her head became deafening, a howl that demanded blood. Her chest burned—she tasted fire on her tongue. Ashes, only ashes would be left once she was done with this stupid fucking bratty piece of—
Tears spattered down on white fabric as the girl's mouth spasmed, forcing out each word like it was a shard of glass. The same look as on that burning dockside, her club trailing through the ashes. Fucking painful, unbearable, even more than the silences that stretched between them.
She bit her tongue so hard it bled, iron on her teeth as she forced the anger back into her cage. It hissed and spat in betrayal as she slammed the door on it. The noise went from deafening to ear-shattering, and her lungs grew heavy. It took all she had not to clutch at her chest.
"What's wrong?" the boy-author asked pointedly. "Cat got your tongue?"
Acid pooled in her mouth, demanding to be spat as she snapped his spine like a tree branch. But this pain was nothing compared to what the Monster dealt with on a daily basis.
"...please let me through," she muttered through clenched teeth.
A pause. His eyes widened. "Excuse me?"
"You fucking won, okay?" Her sneer, still as natural to her as it had always been, lacked its usual strength. "Now can I go get my damn book?"
Another sigh. "Will wonders never cease? Fine, go on."
Now it was her turn to be surprised. "Yeah? Fine, good."
She brushed past him without another word. The humiliation biting at her heels softened to a nip at the sight of the little book's beaming face.
"Hi! What can I get you to make you happy?"
Fuck off. She swallowed the invective down.
"You got anything on…" She glanced around. Nobody was looking their way, but she lowered her voice anyway. "Sign language."
The book looked faintly disappointed. "We do, but nothing with stories in them. There are pictures, but they're so dull…" The scowl on Jeanne's face made her sit up straight on the cushions piled on the chair to give her height. "Ahem! Beginner, intermediate, or advanced?"
"...beginner," she muttered, even though it felt like yanking a tooth out.
"Sure!" She hopped off her chair and disappeared into the back area, leaving Jeanne standing awkwardly in front of the reference desk.
All this for a fucking book club consisting of a grand total of two members.
She slouched against the counter and blew out a breath.
Never thought you'd be able to count yourself in one, did ya?
A snort.
Only club that would take me.
Still better than nothing.
There was nothing to say to that, so Jeanne contented herself with shooting dark looks at every Servant that walked by. A few minutes later, the book returned with a slim volume cradled in her arms.
"Here you go!" she chirped as she slid it across the counter. "It's due back in two weeks, is that okay? Oh, do you want me to write it on a bookmark? I've got a blue one with a dragon on it."
"Yeah, no." Jeanne grabbed the book and strode away without another word.
"Enjoy!"
Sugary-sweet bullshit, but it didn't irritate Jeanne as much as it should have. The rules weren't the same for something that wasn't quite human.
The fluorescent lights of the hallway felt harsh after the warm lamps in the library. Jeanne raised her hand against them until her eyes adjusted, then glanced down at the book in her hand.
ABC Sign and Color.
A fucking book for children. Scowling, Jeanne quickly skimmed through the offending pages. There were a lot of pictures—everyday scenes and objects, accompanied by matching hand gestures. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Yeah, okay. I can do this and find out what happens next to dipshit Anne.
Grinning, she sauntered back to her room. Looked like her intuition held true after all. The day wasn't complete shit.
Even the sight of her other self coming down the hallway wasn't enough to spoil her day. At least until she opened her stupid mouth.
"So you went back after all?" Her blue eyes sparkled with a delight that should have made Jeanne's stomach curdle. But she wasn't going to let even the saint ruin this.
"Stop looking so fucking smug about it."
"Did you finish the other one already?" she continued. "That's great!"
This stupid bitch thinks that I'm a better reader than her and she's impressed?
It's fucking worse than that. She's happy—even proud of you. Not a jealous bone in her body.
"No, I didn't," she spat, then shouldered past her.
Only for the saint to fall into step beside her. "That's alright. I'm still only halfway through Le Petit Prince, and I've been working on it for a month."
She didn't know what book that was, and she didn't care. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"
"Not particularly. But you look like you're on a mission," said the saint, refusing to take a hint.
"You're not my goddamn mother." When the other opened her mouth, she harshly added, "Or my sister. Fuck the hell off."
Hint finally fucking taken. The saint nodded and left her, turning on her heel back towards her original destination, whatever that was.
Huffing in satisfaction, Jeanne was halfway back to her room before her feet halted at the turn-off for the arboretum. It was late morning by Chaldea's fucked up internal clock. Two days before the usual day, and the girl rarely showed up before noon anyway.
But the hill would be a change of pace. She didn't need any other reason than that.
Jeanne resolutely turned left and headed for the artificial sunshine. Far better than the sickening holy light that the saint constantly radiated. And if she caught a glimpse of pink hair while she was there, well, that wasn't anything to complain about.
I won't bother giving you apologies or excuses on why this chapter was delayed because, ultimately, you don't care. Things happened. But I will give a specific thank you to AO3 reader Lanymme for leaving a wonderful comment and providing us both with the motivation to finally finish this. Though this story may be small, the love we feel from the readers is there, and it makes it all the more rewarding to tell the tale.
Fran's characterization, mannerisms, and the depiction of her sign language is inspired heavily by our friend Extarsis's Bloom. Without that fic, I don't know if Tunko and I could have ever written this one. Go check it out, and then go check out her other works, because she's an amazing writer and an even better friend.
Your ending theme is The Clouds Breathe for You by The Glitch Mob.
As always, thanks for reading.