This chapter was re-worked on 28/09/2022
I wasn't going to revise any interlude chapters, but when I added a scene to one of the extra chapters I realised that would link very nicely with one of the paragraphs of this chapter, so I made tweaks for that very reason.
Picture this.
The second weekend of Dark Moon has come around once again, which means only one thing. The Dance of the Water Nymphs festival, in which the water nymphs come out to play. As usual, any Saturday lessons have been completely cancelled, allowing the students the freedom to relax, prepare, do what it is they wish up until the sun sets. A number of them are making efforts to make the occasion more special-stringing delicate fairy lights in the trees along the river bank, making picnic blankets and snacks and drinks available, getting music ready. All of this is done under the guidance of some faculty staff who are also hoping that these efforts will at least lift spirits, even if only for the night.
Picture this.
As the afternoon gradually fades to evening, a girl sneaks her way to the end of the river to sit by the Portal to Otohime. There are no flowers in her hair despite her friends' kind offers to help her discover a new favourite, as it still feels too much like sacrilege-what happens if those new flowers turn out to hurt someone, too? She already feels guilty for the last conversation she had with one of the four trapped in this pool, the girl she could have loved. If she had known that fleeting thought would have led to this, she'd have swallowed them down. So instead, she swallows her own distress and tries hard to not think of it. Instead, she tucks her knees to her chest and gazes into the pool, straining her eyes for a glimpse of the four figures deep within it. Every time she catches a glimpse of the multi-coloured hair of that one particular girl, she has to bite her lip to stop herself from calling out, has to clench her fists to prevent herself from reaching in and trying to drag her out. Yet despite that, she sits and she watches and tries to remind herself that here they are far and away and safe, safer than she is.
Picture this.
Tucked into a small secluded alcove, a couple carrying matching swords exchange gifts. It is not a particular tradition of this festival to do so, but these two have never been traditional, as such. She has bought him a scarf, a long silky thing that is warmer than it seems, the colour of the shadows cast on the ground when sun filters through leaves. She bought it as it was, plain, but acquired aquamarine beads from the leader of her new and unexpected group of friends and haphazardly sewed them around the borders. It is an unexpected match to his gift to her, a dark blue cloak with a silky inner lining that cannot settle on being any particular colour with a fastening made of a single aquamarine stone. They help each other to put their gifts on, and then they kiss as if it is both the first time and the last.
(Since the cave, they have always kissed as if it is both the first time and last. In some ways both have always been true and one day it will only ever be the last. They know this. They just do not know when. They just hope it will not be soon.)
Picture this.
Eight freshman students spill out of their club room and careen down the corridor, as loud and laughing and alive as they have always been. If it wasn't known that one of them was missing, it'd never be realised for how silly they are. They cause an utter racket as they speculate about what tonight will look like and whether they'll actually manage to talk to the nymphs even though they know full well this is a ridiculous question. But where usually ridiculousness is their second nature, today they are making a particular effort to be so. To be bright and boisterous to make up for the one who is missing, to act as a beacon for her as if maybe, just maybe if they make enough noise it will be enough to bring her back to them. Even if it doesn't work, perhaps at least the extra joy will cushion the empty spaces and stop them from hurting, just for tonight.
Picture this.
Brushing past these eight students in all their nonsensical glory, a second-year girl with bellflowers already in her hair but still dressed in her school uniform stops to stare at them and shake her head, caught between annoyance and pity. Even with her comfort around hustle and bustle their antics are a bit much for her, but she envies them for what she sees as their ability to live with the uncertainty of not knowing for sure. That peculiar mix of grief and hope is still not something she quite knows how to live with, and it is almost enough to make her want to stay in her room. She also knows, however, that she cannot live with the silence that staying there would bring. So instead she will brave it, perhaps hoping that the momentous occasion will pave the way towards answers to at least some of her questions.
Picture this.
The two oldest of the group of reptilian students sit in their room by their vanity, already dressed in jewel-rich tones designed to make a statement as they fix their make-up. They are in their human shapes but they will have their scales out, framing the eyes made bold by curled eyelashes, studding those carved-sharp cheekbones. Their tails will swish out behind them as they stride and their claws will be painted bright, so that everyone will look at them and their friends and see. See that not only do they stand behind the mirror sisters but that they themselves are fierce and fearsome and that they will take down anything and everything else that comes to hurt them.
(And when they do take the anything and everything down, they'll look good doing so.)
Picture this.
High up in Room 777, the six still standing are helping each other to get into their festival outfits, the ones they had coordinated a long, long time ago, white and the deepest blues and greens, regal and elegant. They share drinks and try to keep their conversation light. But they cannot escape the fact of the six other outfits folded neatly on one of the tables. Once they are done here, after all, they will take these outfits and leave their sunset-soaked sanctuary, making their way to the infirmary where their other six lie suspended between this world and whatever lies beyond it. There, they will tenderly dress their friends in their festival outfits before then anointing their eyelids and lips with the potions that they hope will buy them just a little more time until they can find a cure.
(But before this, they will fail to notice that their kind-eyed leader will sneak away for a moment just before they leave to down the contents of another bottle. It's a futile prayer of his own.)
Picture this.
When the six get into the infirmary, a calm boy will be there, having briefly stopped to visit a friend of his own before making his way down to meet others at the festival. His eyes will be drawn to the six, in particular the boy with the crown. It is far, far too early to call what they have love, but nonetheless this boy with a crown is precious to the calm boy. They have not talked for a while, too caught up in their separate streams of grief, but the calm boy senses the emotions of the boy with the crown, keeps a special lookout for them. He keeps his head down and makes sure to slip away un-noticed, not wanting to disturb the tender ministrations the boy with the crown and his friends are carrying out. But the calm boy misses him, and vows to himself that he'll look out for him at the festival and find a way to reach out there instead. To show that he is still here, always will be.
(He wishes he could do more than that, though. Prays for it. But the shape of those prayers are to him as unreadable as expressions on faces.)
Picture this.
The second-year girl with her corkscrew pigtails slips away into the backroom of the infirmary to give the other students a moment of privacy. She will not be attending the festivities tonight-somebody needs to stay with the comatose students, and the day staff have been rapidly trickling away while the faculty seem pre-occupied. She would not even consider asking her junior to stay instead, because that girl, that gentle girl with her pretty turquoise eyes and loving heart, she's never experienced the festival before. But the second-year girl has, and she will be able to get a glimpse of some of it through the windows, so she believes she is missing nothing. And she will not be alone either, not with her dolls all lined up on her shelves, dressed up and adorned with flowers, smiling their painted smiles full of secrets down at her. With them around, she could never be alone.
Picture this.
As dusk starts to fall, a group of four skip down to the riverbank, all of them hand in hand, stumbling but happy, one of them over-dressed and the other under-dressed and the other two somewhere in-between. The only girl of the four of them, their sweet one, stops when they find a suitable spot, letting go of the hands she is holding in order to spread out the blanket and put down their basket. It is their softest one, their heart who sits down first and the rest around him-the sweet girl to the right of him, their spark on his left and the warmest before him. And once they are as they should be, they settle down and wait for everything to begin.
Picture this.
Another group of four also prepare to sit down, having finished helping with the set-up. They are better able to chat without working too hard at it, but even for them the strain of the year is weighing on them. While waiting, all of them look up at the sky and are torn between marvelling at the beauty of the night and experiencing dread-laced wonder at the void that still exists there.
Picture this.
The festivities are just starting to get underway, but this small girl walking through the South Wing does not rush to get to them. Rather, she walks slowly but with purpose, her goals tonight just that little bit different. With the feline she has come to love safely ensconced in her room instead of draped across her shoulders, she feels empty and bereft but knows that it is better this way. Perhaps by most standards she is utterly without faith, but faith comes from many places and her irreverence makes her determined, more than anyone, to finally get the truth. It is awareness she carries deep beneath her surface, and as she stops by the Angel Tree she does not fully realise she possesses it. Nonetheless, she finds herself looking up at the glorious branches and the leaves that shimmer despite the coldness of the month, pressing her palm against the smooth bark and thinking of all the things she is wanting and hoping. After a moment or so passes, she steps back, blinking, and reaches in the pocket of her pretty skirt to pull out her phone. She checks the time, puts the phone back and takes a deep breath before striding off.
(She hasn't realised that in a way, she has just prayed too. Perhaps that is for the best.)
Picture this.
The last colours of sunset are fading away for good, the sky is pure black and sparkling and more and more students are arriving to the river banks, in groups and pairs for the most part, with only a few solitary figures here and there. Many of them keep their guard, for though their Night Patrol duties are not taking the same form tonight, they still feel the weight of responsibility. Despite that, however, the festive mood touches all of them. When the river starts to glow and the first nymphs appear they cannot help but feel their spirits lift. These students have been through so much in this past year and even beyond that, in their lives before Kawaakari. They deserve so much better than a single night of unfiltered happiness. But they will settle for having that single night, yearning with every fibre of their being for it to come true, to will it into being.
But that isn't how this works. That is not how anything works. The tapestry is silently being woven into the background, and all their threads are still being tugged into place. Fate is such a fleeting, ephemeral concept, more than anyone can really realise and yet here they are, these threads that keep weaving themselves, persistent, insistent. Here the students are, more tangled than they know.
A storm is brewing. An eclipse is nearing.
And it is coming for all of them.