"One sullen, cloudy morning,
The witch comes out to play.
The power at her fingertips,
Summoned into the fray.
Her enemy and friend,
Seeks only to contend.
Yet once the battles end,
They fall in love again."
Fireworks are normally only set off for celebratory occasions. A birthday, a wedding, or some other occurrence worth commemorating – all of these may be reasons for lighting the blue touch paper and watching as the rocket fizzles upwards into the stratosphere, a fiery arrow tracing a trail of infinitesimal sparks and pinpoints into the distance. For a single, breathtaking moment, the firework disappears, and one wonders whether it has been doused or somehow snuffed out. Then, it explodes, and the onlookers smile and clap, reveling in the patterns of blinding color, cheering at the aesthetic wonders of combustion and chemistry, before hurrying to set off the next one.
On this particular day, a frenzy of fireworks is ignited deep in the Forest of Magic, casting their vivid hues against the backdrop of bland green and dull brown. However, these are not the superficial, transient displays of pretty lights and flowery patchwork that most people may be used to. Draw too close to the fire, and you will invariably find yourself burned. Underestimate the bite behind the bark, and you will be torn apart by the hounds.
Whatever the two people who set the fireworks off are celebrating, only they themselves know. After all, neither of them exactly look in a celebratory mood.
"Tired?"
Alice, panting and sweating, glares up at her momentary adversary. Her frilly dress sticks uncomfortably to her skin, and her hat is lopsided, perching on the edge of her head like a gargoyle on the side of a cathedral. Around her feet are littered a plethora of fallen dolls, most of them singed and black with soot. Only her two most durable partners remain in the air beside her, hovering close to their master, watching keenly for any sudden hostile movement.
On the other hand, Marisa, who picks a twig out of her hair as she glances down at Alice, appears unfazed and untroubled. Her palms are alight with a volatile energy whose recently eliminated targets currently lie smoldering in the grass, and she casually lifts a hand to her mouth, blowing out the smoke seeping out from under her fingernails. Her smile has morphed into something of a victorious smirk, though Alice knows she does not mean any ill will. Quite the opposite, actually.
Not that knowing this grants the dollmaker any consolation, of course.
"That makes twelve in a row, by my count," continues Marisa. "What's wrong? You'll never beat me if you give up this quickly."
"I'm trying," Alice replies through gritted teeth. "I'm just… distracted."
"Distracted?" The witch tilts her head bemusedly. "Distracted by what?"
"Distracted by… this!"
From the thicket behind Marisa, two dolls rocket out of the shrubbery, their small, stubby silhouettes glowing with rapidly increasing intensity. Before Marisa can react, the dolls are upon her, latching onto her dress, stubbornly clinging to the fabric as she tries to push them off her body. They are already full to the brim with explosive potential, and even the great witch herself knows she can do nothing but throw up a barrier and hope for the best, which she duly proceeds to do.
The dolls suck in the air around them with a barely audible pop. For a harrowing split-second, all is silent.
Then, they burst into magical flame, roaring into fire and fury, their incendiary outpour ballooning into a cloud of searing orange and scorching red, sending a ball of pure heat blazing into the sky. The treetops shake in terror at the sight of their greatest foe; the branches and leaves cower in desperation, unable to prevent the hellish onslaught from crispening their surfaces; the grass below is flattened and blackened by the bomb's sheer, untrammeled anger.
The smoke billows into the open air. Within the fog, all is gray, and all is dust.
Alice silently wonders if she has gone too far. She has been subject to far worse, but she cannot help but feel consternation at the unexpected power of her ambush. Curiosity gives way to worry, which gives way to anxiety. What if the witch had been so unprepared that the blast harmed her? What if she had lost an arm or a limb – or her life? Though she knows Marisa is made of far sterner stuff than what is required to survive an attack of this magnitude, the thick smog casts a shadow over her thoughts. Every second that passes is a second spent in agony, and Alice fights the urge to run into the haze and find out if Marisa is alright.
Then, slowly, a figure emerges from the dark.
A sharp pang of relief shoots through Alice's heart. The ground is no longer quicksand beneath her feet. The birds sing, the flowers bloom. The world is well again.
"Wow, what a hit," says Marisa, dusting the soot off her blue dress. The tips of her hair are slightly frazzled, but she appears otherwise unscathed. "You almost got me-"
She can barely utter another word before Alice dashes forward and buries her face in Marisa's chest. Marisa, initially taken aback, slowly places an arm around Alice's shoulder, and a hand on her head.
"You're never beating me if you worry this much," the witch murmurs as she caresses and ruffles the blonde strands tickling her chin. In the now-unobscured sunlight, they burn brightly even without heat, twinkling and twirling under golden rays.
"I know," the dollmaker replies quietly.
"What you just did was great – I want you hitting me with everything you got. Blow me up, throw me into a pit, whatever. Next time, I want you to come at me like you mean it. You wouldn't be showing me the proper respect otherwise."
"But I-"
"If you trust me to get back up, then the best thing you can do for me – and to me – is your best." Marisa gives Alice's shoulder a quick squeeze. "Okay?"
"…Okay."
"There's a good girl." Marisa presses her lips to Alice's forehead, smiling as she meets the dollmaker's uncertain gaze. "Now, shall we go have lunch?"
The next morning, they stand several dozen paces apart in the same clearing. The scorched marks are there for all to see in the grass between them, but some semblance of natural order has been restored in the short time they have been away – a few leaves are scattered across the ash, the exposed soil is wet with dew, and a floating dandelion drifts across the expanse.
As always, the land of Gensokyo proves itself to be irrepressible. It was here long before them, and it will be here long after. In short, they have all the time in the world for a fight.
Alice's fingers twitch. Marisa narrows her eyes. The space between them stills and becomes frozen.
Then, they begin.
Alice's dolls immediately click into gear, piercing through the air in frightening unison. Some are rigged to explode upon contact; some carry magical bullets and projectiles; some are merely there for distraction and encumbrance. Yet all move with a singular focus that has been absent for the past dozen skirmishes.
Marisa, seeing this, quickly readies herself as well. Sparks fly forth from her fingertips, and with a clench of her fist, spears of lightning fan outwards and rush to meet the dolls head-on. She knows the strategy – she has seen it a hundred times. Each doll has their own job to do, and they are thus constrained by their purpose. A bomb, once discharged, cannot explode again; a doll whose magic has been spent becomes little more than an immobile lump of wood and cloth. Deal with each one appropriately, and she has little need for worry.
Yet before the lightning can even reach their intended destination, a sizeable cluster of the dolls are ignited and exploded without so much as a sniff of contact. The detonation generates a massive wall of smoke that, carried by the brief but powerful gusts of wind that frequent this clearing, roll over the grass and surround Marisa's position, obscuring her vision within a miasma of sheer gray.
Marisa is not perturbed by this change in developments. All she has to do is raise her own defences, wait for the fog to dissipate, and strike down any errant enemies that might seize the opportunity to attack her whilst she is blinded. But as the haze clears and the Forest returns to view, she realizes that Alice has vanished. She looks around, but the dollmaker and her scions are not there. Only the faint chirping of crickets and the cool breeze that meanders through the trees are left to greet her.
Then, she feels something pressing against her throat. In the corner of her eye, she spies the chrome handle of a small blade.
"I think that's my win," whispers a husky voice behind her. The voice is unnaturally composed, so far removed from what she has come to expect from the person from whom it emanates, that the witch cannot help but detect a faint tingle, a mildly tangible numbness seizing her limbs. Marisa is not fearful, but neither is she totally calm. For the first time in many a year, she is wary of the one who she thought she knew better than any other.
In this moment, it is not her beloved Alice, so delicate and fragile, who demands her surrender. Instead, it is the cryptic dollmaker who inhabits the Forest, the enigmatic puppeteer whose intentions and motivations are forever a mystery to all. It is the shadow that moves between the trees, the unknown entity whose true face can never be seen.
It is the one who she first saw on that fateful day.
Marisa puts her hands up and chuckles. "You got me. I guess I let my guard down a little too much, seeing as you haven't tried something like this on me in a while. Well done."
Slowly, the blade retracts from her neck, and Marisa can breathe again. She turns around apprehensively, expecting to find a cold, hardened stare meeting her gaze. But all she sees is, once again, the familiar Alice – the blushing, vulnerable, earnest and occasionally amenable maiden who manifests in her fondest memories and sweetest dreams.
Alice's features are an amalgamation of joy and awkwardness, though she cannot bring herself to look directly at her opponent. "I'm glad," she says softly. "Thank you for encouraging me yesterday. Recently, I have been a little bit… distracted by things. Your words put my heart at rest." She smiles, and the midday sun smiles with her.
Before she knows it, Marisa's arms are wrapped tightly around Alice's gossamer frame again, much like the day before. Only this time, it is Marisa who makes the first move.
"Oh, Alice," she breathes as she nuzzles her face into Alice's hair, letting the sweet aroma of the dollmaker's shampoo fill her racing thoughts. "What would you do without me?"
"What indeed," mutters Alice, though she does not prise herself from Marisa's grasp. The tiniest of hands are placed on Marisa's back, like the paws of a small animal melting in its owner's embrace. In truth, Marisa muses as the two of them stand in the crisp forest air and bask in each other's warmth, it is not just Alice that needs Marisa. Already the witch cannot imagine a life without her other half – something that would have been laughable, if not unthinkable, before she had met the dollmaker.
Deep in the Forest, the fireworks carry on. They continue to sparkle and fizzle, spraying their cheerful fire across the heavens. They care not for the state of the weather, for their radiance cannot be obscured by any cloud.
But their vibrance is bestowed only upon those who have lit them.