A high-pitched shrill of a scream resounds the room and jolts her awake.
Lysithea shoots up in a panic, hands grasping tight at her blankets and groggy eyes flashing open. When her mind comes to, she registers the sight of a bristling Manuela pacing the floor beyond her bed, arms crossed at her chest, and temper running dangerously close to boiling point.
"Hanneman! Come out, you senile bastard!" she's yelling now, boisterous and irate.
Lysithea winces at the noise, covers her face with her hair to hide her embarrassment.
"Professor Manuela, I–"
"Do not start with me, young lady. I said it when you were a student: I do not enjoy people horsing around in my infirmary." The older woman shoots a narrowed glare at the girl before resuming, "Just wait until I wrangle it out of that imbecilic prick."
She keeps quiet, gladly content to keep her mouth shut and have her professors hash it out for themselves. Across the room, the former songstress stops pacing altogether, but Lysithea can still hear the click of her heels against the wooden floors, mingled with huffing and kissing teeth until the gray-haired crest scholar finally enters the room.
She dares to peek through her bedhead of hair.
Hanneman breaks into a grin. "Ah! My dear Manuela!"
"You idiot! I leave the monastery for a year!" she snaps.
"How are things going at the opera? Superb, I take it? You've arrived earlier than anticipated."
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Come, we should talk over a cup of tea–"
Her lips are pressed. "No! We are settling this now!"
"Hush now, darling. It's a beautiful morning!"
Manuela glares and jabs a well-manicured finger at his chest. "Quit being a dolt, and tell me what in goddess's name happened in here!"
Lysithea wonders just how much can be inferred from the room alone. Evidence from yesterday's trial are still lying about: concoctions sitting on the table, a single patient bed, scribbled notes spilling from the tables to the floors. It hardly requires an explanation.
"I – well, you see…we're conducting an experiment," Hanneman remains dumbly. Lysithea doesn't think she has ever seen the renowned researcher so stumped. Maybe even a little fearful.
He clears his throat and resumes, "I have recruited sweet Lysithea. Truth be told, she is a very important asset to our team."
Suddenly her eyes are flaring. Amber-coloured orbs with a shadow of fire and fury in its wake.
Perhaps it was inevitable – someone catching wind of their activities and shaking their head.
Manuela manages to get a hold of her bearings, even for just a second. "If this has anything to do with removing her twin crests…I swear to the goddess as my witness, I will burn down your damn office, poison you and throw you to a pack of giant wolves during feeding time!"
"How cruel! You wouldn't dare!"
"I would do it right this second!"
Lysithea feels it then. Acid and iron burning her insides. She cannot control it.
Suddenly, her shoulders hunch, she doubles over, and out of her mouth comes the foul and putrid fluids from the back of her throat. Blood and bile quickly sully her sheets. She leans back, head spinning as she manages to gag down another spill.
What follows is complete silence, accompanied by the mortified expression on Manuela's face and Hanneman leaving the room to fetch a bucket.
The aftermath is hazy.
Hours later, when the hysteria dials down a notch, Lysithea still ends up in the hot seat – face to face with Manuela's calculating gaze. It's as if she's a student again, about to be interrogated for tardiness or breaking curfew.
"Tell me, sweetheart. How did this come about?"
Earlier she managed to grill Hanneman and Linhardt for their stories, even though the nature of their research seems perfectly clear. No surprise both of them left the room rather disgruntled.
Lysithea's gaze flits to the window, idly wishing she were anywhere but here.
She clears her throat, prompting the younger girl to focus. "I implore you to be honest. I've known Hanneman for a very long time. That man will stop at nothing to complete his research, even going so far as using you for a test subject. It is despicable."
She shakes her head. "It's not like that."
"Speak your truth, girl. If you're lying to protect them, they've gotten too deep inside your head."
"But I'm not lying!" she exclaims. "Professor, I consented to this. All of it. The research, the experiments, the trials… If I'm protecting anyone, it's myself."
Manuela's eyes steel against hers.
"Swear it."
"I swear."
Lysithea is too fatigued to avoid it – Manuela flicking her index finger against her forehead, as if that will snap her out of it. Her reaction is seconds late, but she mutters a small 'ouch' and presses the sore spot with the palm of her hand.
"Why in goddess's name would you willingly put yourself through this danger? Have you seen the state you're in? Your body is weak enough with two crests, and even more if you tried to remove them! My god, you could end up more damaged–"
"I know that!"
"But do you know the risks? This is your life on the line."
Lysithea shakes her head. "Believe me. I've lived my whole life 'on the line', as you say, and I've done nothing about it until now."
"But the war is over! It is done. Why strain yourself more?"
"If the war left any impression, I should fight for the sake of living."
Manuela sits forward, and utters with perfect enunciation, "No. This is not the same. Do not compare the two. You are willingly gambling on death for the slim chance of living longer."
"So what would you have me do?"
Manuela sighs in exasperation. "Give up this reckless endeavour."
"No," she insists.
"Lysithea. Even with two crests, you might live a long time. Why would you–"
"Because I want them gone!" Lysithea screams, hysteria in full display.
Manuela blinks, stunned.
The younger girl leans back on her chair, unable to grasp the swirl of emotions coursing through her mind. There is a throbbing pain in her chest. She exhales a sigh of defeat.
Silence follows.
The back of her eyes start to sting. There's a heat rising in her body that she cannot fathom into words. It is strange – how her entire being feels like it's on fire. She cannot blame her exhaustion this time, or the medications pumped into her system. It is years of repressed anger and fear settling in her nerves, rearing against her heart, surging through the course of her tainted blood.
She bites her lip and braces herself.
"The war is over and my days are still numbered…" she breaks silence. Her voice is so quiet that Manuela just manages to catch it. "I fought in war, I paid my dues…I've done all I can not to be a burden. It's still not enough."
"Why not?"
"I…" She stares vacantly at her hands, chews her lips as she struggles to translate.
"The moment I was branded with these, these…wretched crests, I became so powerless. I was robbed of choices I can never make, and a childhood I would never wish on my greatest enemy… This power has never made me feel strong."
Lysithea exhales a rattled breath. Her hands curl into fists on her lap.
"Charon and Gloucester…" It feels odd calling them by name. They are such parasitic things. "I live my life at their mercy, and I don't want to live like that anymore."
Her stomach lurches again, eager to spit up more bile and acid. She knows without having to look into a mirror that her face has hollowed out, her skin has lost colour, and the bags under her eyes have darkened. A single trial could be her undoing. Subtly she wonders if this is what dying feels like.
"My dear, you're in pain again."
Manuela leans forward, readying her hands for another heal spell, but Lysithea halts her across the table with a shake of her head.
"It's fine," she says, despite wincing. "The pain right now is nothing to what I felt then."
The older woman stares thoughtfully, and she's biting her lip now. If the pity in her eyes is any indication, she might be reconsidering.
"This research…there is no guarantee, child."
"Yes. I know."
"And even if your crests are removed, there is no telling how long you have left."
"…I understand."
The older woman sighs. "I am resigned to think nothing will change your mind."
Lysithea swallows hard, and shakes her head.
Her chair creaks against the floorboards when she takes a stand. "Very well."
Despite the initial flare-up and protest, it is Manuela who nurses Lysithea back to health. The younger girl almost forgets she was a physician during her tenure as a professor.
"Lin, did you come up with this all by yourself?" In her hands, Manuela quickly flips through Linhardt's notebook of scribbled drafts and loose pages. Her eyes fill with visible awe and wonder.
Judging from his expression and tired gait, the green-haired scholar has not slept for three days, so Lysithea expects him to be a bit short today.
"Not entirely. Most of the work is sourced from the dark mages."
"…Dark mages? What in heavens are you talking about?"
He sighs, and she knows him well enough he is rolling his eyes.
She explains in his stead to spare him the trouble. "They recovered hundreds of files from the Agarthan base. Professor Hanneman requested mine. You're free to go over them as well, if you wish."
Her mouth forms a perfect little 'o'. Afterwards, she resumes with the notebook. "Regardless, if you were this knowledgeable and passionate about medicine, how come you never offered to help in the infirmary?"
He responds with a miffed expression. "Professor, there is only so much work I am willing to do."
Hanneman chortles in the background. The older man has spent the last hour sitting comfortably in the corner of the room with a book in hand, and not a single page has been turned.
Manuela's gaze cuts to him like a hawk, and he flinches. Of all the people in this room to receive her pardon, he would be the last.
"And what is your role in this project? I have yet to see you lift a single finger, let alone offer any input towards this…" She gestures ambiguously towards the room. "…questionable line of research."
He feigns an offended front. "I thought it obvious. My role is to supervise. Overlook the process, if you will."
She rolls her eyes. "Still meddlesome you are. Completely useless too, it seems."
His jaw drops. "Wha– I also produce the materials, and provide the workspace. Sometimes I brew tea."
"Workspace? This is my infirmary."
He gestures grandly to the table, littered with crest tomes and tools. "And these are my instruments."
"None of which were ever allowed inthis room. Goddess, how many times do I need to say it?"
"Oh dear, are we still fighting about this? I had no idea."
Linhardt coughs out loud, silencing the two. He turns, subtly vexed by the noise.
"While this has been a lovely conversation…" he drawls out slowly. "…could I ask for a bit of silence? If not, then at least refrain from this childish bickering."
Lysithea cannot help herself.
Laughter, mostly at the absurdity of it all. Linhardt acting like the only adult. The ongoing spats she remembers from her academy days. The bizarre tension lingering about. She apologizes to everyone in the room, unsure what for, but she does not stop smiling.
"Let it go on the record that I still do not approve of this," Manuela mutters to Hanneman, even as she's donning gloves for the procedure.
Several weeks have passed since the first trial, and Lysithea's counted down to this day with mixed feelings. It is a new day, with a different formula and method. Since Manuela's untimely arrival, she is constantly reminded of the risks and costs. Her own mortality, even. There is no telling how this will end, but she has always known this.
Lysithea consents to the procedure.
"We will run the infusion for approximately ten hours, which is doubled from the previous trial. A few modifications to the concoction and procedure have been made since then," Hanneman explains to the room. It settles her nerves, even for a short while. "I will supervise. Linhardt will take charge of the infusion itself, and Manuela will sedate our subject to monitor and ease potential side effects. Any noticeable setback, we will halt the procedure entirely. Is that clear, Lysithea?"
She nods once.
"Then we shall begin momentarily."
Linhardt moves to set up her lines. His hair has gotten so long. She only notices because it's not tied up today, and falls loosely down his back. It makes him appear more relaxed and at ease.
She leans towards him. "It'll work this time. I know it."
He raises a brow and the corner of his lips upturn briefly. "And if it doesn't?"
She shrugs. "Then we try again."
He catches her by surprise – one of his hands moving to cup her cheek. His expression is all sorts of things. A delicate line between hopefulness and uncertainty, but with a hint of eagerness above it all.
"I'll see you when you wake up."
His arm falls to his side and she misses his touch. He is not the affectionate type, which means she tends to overestimate his gestures.
She does not know what to make of it. Their relationship has always been gray. She has no label for it, even though watching him fuss over formulas and lose sleep over it makes her want to halt this project altogether, if it means he can rest. It comes from a place of gratitude and respect for his work ethic, but there must be something more.
She seems to notice the small and trivial details: he loves pastry desserts more than any other food. He has delicate hands and long fingers, but his palms and fingertips are lightly calloused from magic burns. He's impartial to his crest, but glad it serves primarily to heal, rather than inflict hurt. Lysithea enjoys learning all of these things. Though his quirks may be odd and peculiar, they are also endearing. Maybe this is what it means to adore someone.
Sometimes, a part of her wishes they could be more than this.
"Dear, I'll be putting you to sleep now," Manuela pipes up.
She recovers from the distraction. "Of course."
The older woman shoots her a wink and a knowing smile. "You are sure about this?"
Lysithea smiles easy as she lays her head down on the pillow. "I'm sure."
Magic spills over her, and she allows her last thoughts to dwell on him.
When she finally comes to, her mind latches on to the sound of whirring machinery. It is a familiar noise – one of Professor Hanneman's crest instruments. She looks to the window and finds the dark of night brightened with the tinkling stars.
How long have I been out?
It is a struggle to push herself to sit up. Her body feels unusually heavy. She tastes plaque in her mouth, and her mind is sluggish in jogging her memory.
"Ah, don't move so quickly," a voice pipes up beside her.
Professor Hanneman.
Her eyes widen at the sight of him. She attempts to speak, but what comes out is a rough, garbled sound. Her throat is coming up dry. He hands her a glass of water and she gulps it down in one go.
"You've been out for a week."
She almost spits out the water. "A week? I thought…"
"We ran the infusion for three days. Manuela insisted, to ease your recovery and prevent any caustic side effects. It worked out for the best, but you're probably feeling wearier than usual."
Lysithea suddenly makes sense of her slack limbs and general lethargy. "Am I going to be okay?"
He chuckles heartily. "Of course. We're coming to a close, you know. I can feel it in these old and rickety bones. Later, we'll run your blood through the detection machine. We will know then whether we succeeded or not. If you ask me, I'm very optimistic."
She nods slowly, and offers a thoughtful gaze to the older gentleman. "…Thank you, Professor Hanneman. I'm saying it now, just in case I forget later."
"Perhaps a bit early? We do not know yet if your crests are removed," he points out.
She smiles. "The effort is enough. Besides, you're good company."
"Well, you have a right to life just as much as anybody. And… I may as well retire on a good note. Recently, I've been entertaining the thought of hanging up my cap and robes for good. Perhaps it is time to pass the torch of crestology onto the next generation."
She glances earnestly. "The monastery would not be the same without you. Who would keep Professor Manuela in line if you left?"
Hanneman scoffs, "That difficult woman…do you think she's still angry with me?"
Lysithea just laughs.
The next day, she has to lean on a wooden crutch to stand upright. They insist she perform the test alone, and do it as others would – holding her arm above the crest analyzer machine to determine the results of their research. It feels bizarre offering her hand to the device. For so long she's avoided it, just to keep others from discovering her secret.
Quelling her nervous energy, she stills her hovering hand and waits with bated breath.
Time has never ticked so slow.
Perhaps because there is nothing.
She waits more, a few minutes of expecting those familiar patterns to glow.
Nothing.
Light glows from underneath, and it does not dare to illuminate those cursed and wretched crests.
Finally, there is nothing.
Her hand falls back to her side, and she lets out the breath she did not know she was holding.
This is a moment worth a lifetime of pain and tears. A risk worth its gamble. A dream becoming reality.
She cannot keep steady, and her crutch clacks to the ground as she drops to her knees.
There are no words to describe this new freedom.
Lysithea was cursed, once – but as she revels in the realization that she is no longer chained by demons past, she is also thankful for that haunted time.
Soon, the pain will dull and with it, her suffering can fade into history.
Later that night, Linhardt occupies the stool at her bedside. He is relaxed and engrossed in a book that has nothing to do with crests. Hanneman left some time ago, whisking Manuela into town to celebrate their success in a more robust way. She is still too weak to join them.
Instead, she finds herself catching up on correspondence in the dim glow of candlelight. She lowers her quill once it becomes nightfall, and her gaze flits to the window once again. Beside her, Linhardt turns the page. He's been quiet company all day.
She resists temptation to scold him for reading in the dark, because she does not have the heart to do it. At the end of the day, there is only one thing that needs to be said.
"Thank you. For everything," she says, even though she feels words are not enough.
Linhardt glances up briefly and then closes his book shut. He sets it atop the bedside table.
There is no invitation, but he nudges her arm and she moves herself to the edge of the bed until they are lying shoulder to shoulder, closer than they've ever been.
She sneaks a glance at his profile. "This bed is too small for us."
His vacant gaze stays on the ceiling. "It's no problem. You're tiny."
She hits him on the shoulder with the back of her hand, not hard enough to mean it.
Afterwards, it is easy to match her breaths to his. Soft inhales and exhales. She wonders if he has always been so stable. A steady calm in trying times. An anchor she's honed herself against like a slow healing. A well-deserved respite. Time could suspend itself in this delicate moment and she would not mind at all.
His eyes are closed now, and his breathing is light. He's fallen asleep, she realizes.
Earlier, he had asked how she felt without the weight of two crests.
Light, she told him.
He did not prod any further, only smiled, but she felt so much more.
Happy, she ached to tell him. This is a freedom I could not afford, a future that was never mine until now. I love this feeling, the chill on my skin as I think of the endless possibilities. It is the same feeling I get when I look at you, Linhardt, and now I understand why.
Lysithea wakes to a warm morning, and the yellow-orange hues of sunrays lighting the room. She can hear his soft breathing beside her. As she works her way out of her covers, she acts in quiet so he doesn't wake. She pads to the window, casts her eyes to the bright morning.
Three years have passed since the war's ending, and she's never felt relief until now. Finally, she can tell her family and friends how she survived more than the war. How she spent so much time counting her days. Those twenty years consumed with dark nights and uncertainty.
Finally, she sees her future clear as daylight.
Linhardt finds her in the greenhouse later. She's sitting on her knees, digging into the dirt and tending to a small crop of daffodils growing wild and unchecked. He watches silently as she harvests a few of the larger flowers. Perhaps she will press them later to send back home.
"Lysithea?"
She looks over her shoulder, stands and then gestures to small patch of yellow flowers. "What do you think? These were the daffodils I planted years ago. I can't believe they're still here."
He regards her small garden, brimming with life. "They're beautiful."
She removes her gloves. "Did you need me for something?"
"I suppose it's more of a question," he says.
"Sure, go ahead."
He tilts his head to one side, a single brow raised. "What are your plans moving forward?"
Lysithea glances briefly at her basket of picked flowers. "Well, I was thinking of returning home, and sharing the good news. What about you?"
"I was considering taking some time off and taking a break from research."
She nods. "As you should. You deserve it."
There's a beat and a pause.
Lysithea waits.
"There's something else I had in mind…" he starts again, ears reddening. "Would you be willing to spend that time with me?"
She observes the hesitation in his voice, and the flushed skin of his face.
"What would we be doing if not conducting research?" she asks.
He shrugs lightly. "I can catch up on lost sleep. You can garden to your heart's content."
Images flash through her mind, and they are so peaceful. Beautiful, even.
"That sounds like bliss," she tells him.
"Do you accept?"
Her heart leaps to her throat. It is strange, being unable to read his expression.
"Do I accept? Are you proposing?"
His tone is blunt, but steady, just like he is. "I am."
Her smile disappears altogether, more out of disbelief than anything.
"How long have you been…?" her voice trails off. His gaze is so honest, she regrets asking.
"Everything I've done in the last few years…" he says with a tender voice. "…I did it so I could fulfill the promise I made to you here in the monastery, so many years ago."
"Oh."
In that exact moment, her mind is made. And when he moves forward to takes her face in his hands, it is Lysithea who leans forward to kiss him.
It's the only answer he needs.
