It's a warm morning when the Parisian chill gives way to sunshine. Blake is
struck across the eyes by the rising shine, jerked from her rest and left
squinting blearily into the beam. The moment she takes notice of her
surroundings, she knows something is off.
It's quiet.
Her building is never quiet.
She's up and out of bed in seconds, still in yesterday's clothes. Her hair is a rat's
nest, cold clammy skin sticking her shirt to her chest and back. She searches
the other half of the room for Ilia, and instead finds a woman sitting opposite of
her. A familiar woman.
Round black and orange ears pierced with thick gold rings. Calculating, burning
yellow eyes. A litany of vitiligo stripes lining muscular arms and curling up under
a sharp chin.
Sienna Khan looks exactly the same way she did six years ago, when Blake first
met her in London.
She was a different person then.
Sienna's different, too.
Her age is catching up to her, though. Subtly, as if age is afraid to take hold of
her. Silver winds through the black spiked locks at her temples like the creeping
fingers of time. The creases under her cheekbones belie a lifetime of severe
expressions, but her beauty never wanes. She's always been a powerful woman,
and even the poor accommodations of Blake's apartment can't take away from
it. She sits on Ilia's ratty bed like it's a throne, her striped umber shoulders
glowing in dawn's bright touch as she leans back on the heels of her palms.
She ticks up a dark eyebrow.
"Rough night?"
Blake clears her throat, hastily tucking her shirt into her trousers and raking her
hands through her hair self-consciously. "Uh, no. Not-not really. Sorry, what
exactly are you doing here? Where's Ilia?"
Sienna idly plucks a loose feather off her black tulip-shaped trousers, ankles
crossed in front of her. "She's recovering from the festivities upstairs. I wanted
an update without the possibility of retching to interrupt it."
Nerves spike under her skin, violent enough for her hands to twitch. She's not
sure why.
She got the job. She accomplished what she needed to, and nothing happened
with Yang to get her in trouble really. They just talked.
So why would admitting success feel like lying?
Blake swallows the cotton in her mouth and nods quickly, "Of...of course. I'd
offer you something to drink, but I'm afraid all I have are empty absinthe
bottles."
Sienna waves a hand dismissively, "I'll manage without. Tell me about last
night."
Blake tries not to fidget under that luminous glare, forcing herself to stand tall
in the face of it.
"They hired me to write Spectacular Spectacular. Or...at least, Satine did." Blake
glances at the open window, the carcass of the Rouge lying dead in the morning
light. "It's being funded by Jacques Schnee."
Sienna's shoulders snap back in surprise, her eyebrows rising into her hairline.
There's a spark in her eye that faintly tingles over Blake's skin. That look, a
familiar calculating burn. She knows it used to have blue eyes. Nausea builds
behind Blake's nose, her lip nearly curling at it..
"Jacques the Leech? My my…how interesting." Sienna's focus cuts back to Blake,
and she straightens. "I want detailed reports on his movements, specifically.
How much money he's spending, which dancer is his favorite. Etcetera."
Despite the fact that the idea of spending any time with the Duke makes her
want to throw him off the top of the Eiffel Tower, Blake hesitates. The act of
gathering information seems harmless, but Blake knows better.
What would Sienna do if she knew Satine was the Duke's favorite?
Is she putting Yang in danger by proximity?
She asks slowly, "What are you going to do with that information?"
Sienna's eyes narrow, and she leans forward, elbows propped onto her knees.
The loose fabric wrapped in layers around her torso sway from her shoulders
with the movement. "...Why do you need to know? Has someone already caught
the Duke's eye?"
Blake doesn't move. Predators sense movement.
She doesn't even think about it really. Damning herself to secrecy.
She lies, "He's more interested in the money, honestly. He wants to buy in on
the Moulin Rouge."
Sienna purses her lips, and shrugs. "That tracks. We'll still use it for the courts.
He's throwing his money away and we'll take advantage of that. Another feather
in the cap, another brick in the wall. Incompetence is human, after all."
"It's not just human."
"No, but they don't know that, do they?"
"They might."
Sienna ticks a fingernail against the dimple in her chin, studying Blake with a
critical eye. Her skin crawls with the speculation. Sienna is a woman with a goal,
and if Blake doesn't fit into that goal, she'll be as good as gone.
Maybe that would be for the best. It's what she wanted in the first place. To
leave. Freed from this final favor. Freed from Paris. Does she want to be freed
from Satine?
Sienna remarks, "You take after your parents." and Blake's thoughts clatter to
the floor, startled.
Her heart double taps at her sternum. Blake gives a weak smile. "Thank you."
Her parents. What would they say to her if they saw how wholly she's fallen
under the Rouge's spell? How her iron resolve melts in the presence of a
courtesan. Ironic that after years of revolution battering her body, Blake's true
death-of-self arrives on the high heels of an unclaimable woman.
What a terrifying thing to consider.
Sienna rises, that ever-present authority exuding from her as she cocks a hip to
the side. Blake's reassured that they're nearly the same exact height. It helps
her feel like they're on some sort of equal footing.
"If you encounter any one else who might...be of help to our cause, let me
know." Sienna makes for the door, but she pauses halfway there. She glances
back at Blake.
"You're always welcome to... do more with us, you know. Commit to the cause,
maybe put your skills towards something that actually uses them. This White
Fang is different from your parent's. Different from what Adam wanted to make
it into. I promise that, at the very least."
Blake bites back the instinct to bare her teeth. To refuse in the most visceral
way she knows how.
The soles of her feet have rooted themselves to the chilled floor. Pressure pulls
on her spine; the depths of which make her feel like she's trapped in the
deepest part of the ocean. Nausea swims at her molars, teasing the back of her
throat in acid.
She gives a nod, but it takes nearly all of her strength to do it.
"I'll...keep that in mind. Thank you, Sienna."
Sienna eyes her as she reaches the doorway, one striped ear flicking irritably.
It's clear she wanted a better answer, but Blake won't give her one. The tension
in the room fills like a heavy gas - unseen. Making it hard to breathe.
But Sienna acquiesces with a tilt of her head, and disappears from the doorway
without another word. She takes the heaviness with her, and Blake stumbles
into the creaky chair at her desk, like the heaviness of her presence was the
only thing keeping her upright.
Gods, if her parents could see her now.
Blake leans into the chair hard enough to make it protest. She wonders if her
parents would be proud she's helping Sienna, or if they'd tell her she isn't doing
enough. Wonders if they'd tell her to do something, to be somebody who
changes things for the better, instead of hiding in her room and writing for
hours. Like she's been doing for the past month. Months. Year?
She thinks of the letter she sent to London a few days ago. Thinks of her
father's fanged smile, the warmth of her mother's hands as they braided her
hair so many years ago. She thinks of the love she came from, and feels so
infinitely far away from it. She's only a country away - a ferry ride, really - but
it's also the other side of the world. The other side of who she used to be. She
left a chunk of her soul behind with her parents. She lost another piece in Paris.
It's an ache of a distance she can't bring herself to close. She's stuck here,
trying to find a meaning to it all. Essentially alone.
The room around her stretches to accommodate her thoughts, protracting and
expanding until the ceiling looks like it'll produce clouds at any moment. Until
the door feels like it's leagues away. She sprawls in a chair that's too large for
her. The desk looms high above her head.
She's always been small in her loneliness.
It's a suffocating existence, sometimes.
Chafed by the sudden emptiness, she heaves herself to her feet. The room
snaps back into its proper dimensions, and she strips to nothing. She bathes
from one of the cold water basins, throws on a fresh shirt and trousers. She
prefers them to dresses nowadays, but she didn't used to.
She just found that it's easier to run from batons in trousers than a dress.
She glances at herself in a cracked mirror by the sink, taking in the cut of her
unbound chest and the white fabric tucked into black trousers. Her mother
would have loved wearing clothes like this. She shakes the thought away before
it can squeeze more pain from her.
Her attention latches onto a weathered black Homburg hat hung off the corner
of the mirror. A deep, satin purple ribbon wraps around the base of the crown.
She hesitates, then plucks it off the mirror. There's more room for her ears as
she fits it over her brow, grabbing a thick black duster on her way out of the
apartment.
The old hotel she lives in is just as rotted on the inside as it is on the outside,
but the other patrons have turned it into an ecosystem of life. Even in the
building's decay.
As she hurries down the stairs, chatter trickles through the thin walls and open
doors. The dark wood bannisters drip with swathes of colourful fabric and string,
hung for the seamstress on the third floor. Baubles clack and clatter with ringing
metal as the inventor two doors down works on his latest creation. Blake passes
a pair of little people singing a duet, where one gives her a friendly wave that
she returns. A gecko faunus walks along the stairwell railing on their hands,
shooting her a wink when she skirts the upturned flutter of their dress.
"Bit early for visitors, Blake!" A man calls to her, viscous blue paint dripping off
his yellow monkey tail.
The door to his art studio is wide open as Blake descends past the hall. A giant
canvas of blue ribbons rip across the fabric behind him, the paint still glossy and
drying too slow. She watches the rogue droplets race for the floor, a smile
twitching at the corner of her mouth.
Attempting a hesitant smile, she replies, "Agreed. I'm stepping out for a bit
before anyone else gets the same idea." She glances past him. "Forgot your
paint brushes again, Sun?"
His face splits into a brilliant, wide grin. He gestures to his canvas proudly,
wiggling his blue-tipped fingers and tail. "I'd like to see anyone who can paint
like me with brushes!"
"Oh, of course." Blake gives a playful nod, "You're painting for the Louvre, then."
Sun throws his head back and laughs loud enough to draw several inquisitive
glances.
Blake's lips quirk into a full smile, waving at him as she continues her descent.
"On that note, I'll leave you to your art."
"Good day! I'll get you tickets to my exhibit!"
She snorts in amusement and leaves him, practically running the rest of the
way to the first floor. Sunlight greets her with a brisk sigh of wind, the clamor of
the old hotel fading into the clips of horse hooves on cobblestone. Blake takes
her first step out onto the street, vendors crowing out of sight. Walking away
from the loneliness she left upstairs, though the cloud of it lingers at the corners
of her mind. Reminds her of what she has to come back to.
In a fleeting thought, she wonders if Yang ever feels the need to get away. To
wander the city and pretend like she's just another face. Another body in the
machine.
Blake starts weaving through the alleys of Montmartre, lost in thought until the
street splits open into a wide courtyard, the cobblestone melting to smooth
brick beneath her boots.
The Palais Garnier frames itself against the blue sky, all glinting gold statues
and deep arches. A glass dome lined in greening copper sits at its apex. It's
made of stone that looks like bone from a distance, elaborately adorned with
gold dragons and complex carvings. An artistic vision heralding the coming of
the gods.
It's a beautiful work of art and architectural brilliance, but she sees it often
enough. It's always looked like an ostentatious jail cell to Blake; the exalting
pillars spaced along the second floor like bars of a prison. Where the rich submit
themselves to operatic wailing for hours, and leave with only a fair bump in
social credit. She stifles a snort at the thought.
The noise of bustle seeps into the fabric of her father's hat, seeps into her ears
with a dissonant hum. Pigeons cooing in flocks of dozens, regular working folk
chattering from the steps of the opera house and throwing them crumbs from
their lunches. She passes a few visiting crowds that stand gaping at the opera
house, and Blake moves past them. Heading back into midday traffic.
The munitions factories cough up smog, wreathing the skyline over the Seine in
ominous clouds. Blake passes by a few women and men in trousers and hats,
rushing towards one of the bridges. Probably headed back to work.
She steers away from their path. Instead, she falls into step behind a small
family and follows them into le Jardin des Tuileries. The Tuileries Gardens, built
to make the gap between the Louvre and Palace of Concord a gorgeous interim.
Trees burn their autumn colours in perfectly uniform lines, the scent of freshly
cut grass and bread wafting in from food vendors that linger in the main
thoroughfare. Though the summer heat has begun to wane, the touch of it still
lingers in the brick walkway. Blake can almost feel it on her fingertips, reaching
up from the ground like a hesitant lover. Like Yang's touch the night before.
Blake closes her fist at her side, shoving her hands into her pockets with a small
huff.
Flowers bloom in calculated spaces, large red roses peeking their vibrant heads
from the hedges of an octagonal basin. Children dart like busy bees between
their parents, quite a few of them carrying handmade toy boats and making a
beeline for the pond.
On a whim, Blake redirects her path to follow them.
People sit in scattered groups around the edge of the water, both faunus and
humans brought together by their children hoping to play in the water. Several
toy sailboats glide through the brilliant blue waves like an armada of pristine
white fish, a gaggle of people cheering them on as they race with the wind - but
one sticks out amongst them.
A dark and glossy wooden ship with red sails darts its way across the length of
the water, away from the others. Catching the light are two strings of thin
gutwire, one leading from halfway up the main mast, and the other tied to
mizzenmast behind it. Blake follows the string's flash, all the way into the hands
of a girl sitting at the shore.
She's older for this crowd. Maybe only a few years younger than Blake. Her dark
hair is fluffy and short, flyaways drifting in the breeze and brushing the lighter
end tips against her hollow cheekbones. A little gaunt, a little shaky, but the
light in her gray eyes is nothing short of lively. She's grinning with abandon,
steering the boat with expert tugs of the strings wrapped around her fingers.
Situated far away from the other people playing at the pond, Blake's feet take
her closer before she thinks better of it.
"Is this spot taken, miss?"
The girl nearly jumps out of her skin, the boat jerking dangerously to the left. It
keels close to the surface, and they both yelp in panic. Blake lunges for a bit of
the string and gently lifts it, the main mast just narrowly kissing the water
before it corrects. They stare at it innocently gliding over the pond again,
Blake's heart pounding a rhythm in her ears.
When they're assured the little ship won't try to dive under the waves again,
Blake and the girl sigh in relief together. Blake lets the string fall back to its
controlled tension, laughing breathlessly. "My apologies, I didn't mean to startle
you."
"No worries!" The girl chirps, laughing with her. "I've made more of these than I
can count. Don't tell the gardeners though, they might find a graveyard under
there."
Blake smiles, charmed. There's a bit of familiarity that has her pausing, though.
Something in the girl's smile that tells her she's seen it before. She can't quite
put her finger on it.
"You sail often, then?" Blake asks, sitting beside her and leaning back on the
heels of her palms.
"Only on nice days like this. My sister says it's good for me to get out."
"Protective?"
The girl chuckles, the sound coming from her throat with a rasp at the tail end,
like her body didn't want to let it go. She clears her throat thickly, glancing at
Blake from the corner of her eye. "Just a little. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your
name?"
Blake blinks, shaking her head, "Forgive me, I'm a little scatterbrained today.
My name is Blake. Yours?"
"Ruby!"
The name is accompanied by a chipper grin that Blake can't help but smile at.
Still, that incessant voice at the back of her mind keeps whispering to her about
that smile. She recognizes it, but can't remember the last time she recognized a
simple smile from someone's face. It confuses her more and more as the
seconds tick by. Maybe she's seen Ruby at a protest?
Blake sits forward, braving the question on her tongue. "You seem oddly
familiar. Have we met before?"
"Don't think so?" Ruby tilts her head back, contemplating with a pout.
Her eyes catch a bit of sunlight, and the gray washes into a lifeless silver wall.
Only for a heartbeat, but it shocks Blake from the warmth of the day. "I don't
get out much, actually."
"Oh."
Blake has met plenty of people who conceal their emotions. Everything from the
average person struggling with their life, to nobles and dignitaries that her
parents used to meet with. They all hold varying degrees of walls and protection
for their thoughts, but she's never seen it quite like this before.
Where Ruby's cheerful demeanor hasn't changed in the slightest. Her mask is,
by all accounts, flawless. If Blake had blinked at all, she wouldn't have thought
anything could bother the girl.
But now that she's seen a hint of melancholy that she wasn't supposed to see,
she's not sure what to do about it.
Ruby glances at her again, and tugs her ship to sail to the end of the string. She
says, casually, "What brings you to Paris, anyway?"
Blake straightens up a little. "What do you mean?"
Ruby grins at her, nudging Blake with her elbow. "Your French is very British."
Blood pools in Blake's ears and she winces a little, "Gods, really? I've been
trying to fix it for years now."
"Keep trying," Ruby suggests helpfully.
She laughs at the embarrassed groan Blake gives in response - but it's short
lived. Her laughter cuts itself on a heavy cough, Ruby's head whipping to the
side and diving into her elbow. Blake hastens to grab the strings and correct the
ship before it dips again, but her priorities diverge as Ruby's entire body seems
to exorcise itself of air. Coughing, and coughing. Gasping for breath, a wounded
noise peeling out from her lips.
"Ruby-?"
"Ruby!"
A shock of electricity zaps the base of her skull. Her hat nearly flies off as she
points her ears. She knows that voice. She's sure its tenor is carved into her
soul.
Yang is a vision in her yellow sundress and shirtwaist coat, her mane of gold
flying out behind her shoulders as she hurries over to Ruby and Blake from the
other side of the pond. The fear on her face dashes any fluttery feelings in
Blake's chest, and Ruby's casual mention of sister echoes in her head. The
familiarity suddenly makes sense. They smile the same.
Blake lets the strings go, and Ruby's dark ship tips over in the water as she
moves to her knees, uncaring of grass stains. Her palm falls between the girl's
shoulder blades with a soothing pass.
"Breathe Ruby, you can do it," Blake says softly, the ridges of Ruby's spine
prodding at Blake's palm through the maroon red scarf draped around her
shoulders.
She shudders on a deep, painful wheeze, and Blake murmurs, "Good girl, try
again for me. You're doing fantastic."
Ruby chokes on a quiet sob, a tear squeezing out from the corner of her eye as
her body convulses with another coughing fit. Through the minute it takes Yang
to reach them, Blake coaches her to breathe. Rubbing her back, speaking soft
and low.
Ruby manages to suck in one, two, three gulps of air without choking, and as
Yang rounds the last few metres, she wipes her mouth on the scarf and croaks,
"Th-thank you."
Alarm spikes through her heart at the slight red edge to her teeth. She looks up
as Yang freezes beside them, staring at Blake as if she's seen a ghost.
"She's okay," Blake says numbly. She can't feel her fingertips suddenly.
It is no secret that Yang is beautiful. Anyone could rant and rave about the line
of her jaw, the cupid's bow of her lips, the soft smattering of freckles across her
cheeks and the tips of her ears.
But if Blake thought she was beautiful at night, it is inconsequential compared
to her in the daylight.
It quickly becomes apparent that the Moulin Rouge has committed a grievous
crime. That Yang's work forces her to live in the night is treason against nature.
She was born to be in the sun. It's obvious by the way light seems to cling to
her wherever she steps. As she stands there, Blake holds in her chest that
familiar tug of knowing.
It's you, it's you, seems to tap against her ribs.
She's convinced she sees Yang's hands twitch towards her. To strangle or to
hold, it wouldn't matter. Blake wants it, regardless. Addict .
She swears she sees something spark in that amethyst iris. A want. A craving. A
destiny. Maybe it's the same thing that has Blake's skin crawling with tension.
But Yang doesn't speak, and the look on her face changes. Blake's ears pin
back, hidden.
Ruby shakily unties the strings on her fingers, the tips turned reddish purple
from her ship pulling itself to the bottom of the pond. The wires slip into the
water, and Yang seems to jerk back into herself. The mask falls into place -
similar to the one she wore the night before, but it's thicker in the daylight.
Walls stacking themselves higher and higher, until her face becomes impassive.
"I think we've had enough fresh air today," she says to Ruby, grinding the words
between her molars, "ready to go?"
"Yeah," Ruby says tiredly.
She tries to get to her feet, but her foot catches on the hem of her black dress
and she stumbles. Yang lurches to catch her, but Blake is already there. Helping
her up, hand on her elbow.
Ruby tries to protest, "You don't have to-"
"I'd like to help," Blake interjects, glancing warily at Yang. "If...that's alright
with you."
Ruby leans into Blake's side to catch her balance, looking between her sister
and Blake as if just realising the tension they both hold.
The response is just a smidge too clipped. A fleeting hiss of a thing. "I think I
can get her home just fine, thanks."
Blake isn't the strongest individual, but Ruby is only a few centimetres shorter
than her, and her weight is lighter than it should be. Worry for this kind stranger
seizes her like fingers gripping at her ribs. She has the craziest urge to push .
"We're headed the same direction, I can-"
"No!"
Both Ruby and Blake flinch at the snap. Yang instantly loses the hostility in her
stance, but she doesn't apologise verbally. She takes Ruby's elbow with an
apologetic glance, pulling her from Blake and into her side.
"...I'll take her home. Enjoy the rest of your day, Blake."
Ruby doesn't seem to have the energy to protest, though she looks between
Yang and Blake as if a new puzzle just dropped into her lap. She mouths a soft,
"Sorry," to Blake as Yang starts leading her away.
Distantly, she hears Ruby asking, "How did you know her name?"
But they leave her range before she can catch the answer, which is fine.
Blake watches them until the pair disappear into the bustling streets. Yang
doesn't look back once.
The loneliness of her apartment finds her there. Standing at the edge of the
pond. Hands empty and cold, her mouth dry as the wind whips its way between
her bones.
She stands there until the sky becomes a fresh bruise.
And then she heads home.
Avoiding the Moulin Rouge.