Real Me
Figaro was quiet at night. Too quiet. So quiet that the lack of city noise made it impossible for her to sleep. She was used to the loud noise of machines puffing smoke nearly every hour of every day: of the clashing of blades on the sparring ground, of the shouts of her comrades whilst they sparred…of the jovial laughter that floated from the recesses of the mess hall…and it was at that moment, that she realized she was home sick. How ironic, she thought. The one place she barely escaped with her life, she yearned to return to with a desire she thought was not possible for her to feel.
Her musings were too much for her to bear any longer and she rose from her bed, dawned the robe provided to her and ventured to explore the desert kingdom. There was not much of interest: Beautifully decorated halls, paintings of former monarchs, the sounds of an engine room. Not much to no—The sounds of an engine room? She thought. She traced her steps back to the noise and followed it down a flight of stairs. Down those stairs was a door: the door in which the noises were coming from. Without another thought she pushed the door open.
The room was filled with noise, beautiful noise to her ears. The sounds of steam working through gears, of cogs turning pieces of machinery. All of the sounds she had sorely missed from her home. She wasn't expecting to find this treasure here: But she also wasn't expecting, to find the King of Figaro sitting at a table near the engine, alone. Shocked, she couldn't help speaking to him.
"Edgar?" she called softly, but her voice carried throughout the resonance of the nearly empty room.
He turned his head and smiled that boyish smile she had learned to expect from him.
"Ah milady, would you please sit down? I didn't realize I'd have such lovely company tonight, otherwise I would have prepared some wines," he joked.
She sighed exasperatedly and sat next to him.
"What are you doing down here?" she asked. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"
"Yes, I suppose I should. But shouldn't you be asleep, as well?"
Her face flushed.
"I'm sorry I didn't mean-"
"It's alright," he said warmly. "I was joking. But I am curious: what are you doing up so late?"
"Couldn't sleep"
"Ah, I see."
Silence, silence, silence…
"I missed home," she finally said. "It's so quiet here and I remember Vector being so active and loud even at night and I just…needed some noise. It's silly."
"If it matters to you it's never silly, milady."
"I…"
He looked at her with the most serious expression she had ever seen him dawn. She took in a breath sharply, and stared into his crystalline eyes, captivated.
"It doesn't matter what they did to you, or what you did for them. If you have fond memories of Vector, of growing up there, of the noises of the people, of the city that make you feel welcome and safe, then that's fine. There is nothing wrong with missing a home in which you spent your entire life. Why do you think I'm down here so late, after all?" he quirked a smile that reached his eyes, which in turn, made her smile.
"Thank you," she said, her voice husked with unshed tears. "I just, I…"
She choked on her words while a sob threatened to escape her. Noticing this, he took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
It eased her grief. For once, she gave into her weaknesses and basked in the comfort he offered her.
The two held hands for the rest of the night in silence.