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Chapter Text

Since he was a little boy, it was clear he had problems. There was always something wrong. Desmond recalls the whirlwind of doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, all trying to see what was wrong. They tried everything to fix him. Therapies and medicines and meditations and all sorts of things to get his mind to settle.

But there was nothing to be done. From what he can recall of his younger years, he wasn’t well liked by his peers. For good reason, so it isn’t as if Desmond can blame them. He was rather volatile. He was labeled as a bad kid for his behavior, though he excelled remarkably with academics.

The problem lies within him. It’s a wretched thing, that makes him yell and scream and throw things at people and hit. He doesn’t mean to. It’s sudden when it occurs. Something will set him off, and it’s as if he isn’t in control of what he does next. It’s always the straw that breaks the camel's back. It’s the girl that he pushed for talking too loud. It’s the fact that he stepped in a puddle. It’s the little things that always send him down.

And there were talks of dysfunctions, dysregulations, disorders. But talking about it didn’t fix it. Having the name for what was wrong with him didn’t make it stop.

And it isn’t as if he doesn’t feel remorse afterwards. He’s always horrified by what his hands can do, by what his mouth can say. He always seems to find the best way to hurt someone. To find the knife and twist.

But he could always rationalize it to himself. The other person always deserved it. Mary deserved to get shoved, she kept poking him. John deserved to get screamed at, he’d started running before the race began. He’d made Desmond lose.

One of the first times that he can recall that he knew there was something wrong was when he was five, and Theodore was two. Before then it’s a vague blur, and most of his recollections had some measure of irritation and fault within the other person. Very few of his memories before the Sycamores are without some manner of agitation on his side, though he supposes it’s just what sticks in his brain from that time.

Theo had been following him around all day, and Desmond has been showing, as he recalled, a remarkable amount of patience. He was crabby from the toddler’s constant babbling, and a good way to escape was always to run upstairs. Theo wasn’t good at getting up the stairs very fast, being as small as he was. But as he started to run, he felt a tug on the back of his shirt which made him lose his footing and trip. They both went tumbling back down the stairs. At this point Desmond snapped, as he was prone to do, and pushed Theodore back to the ground. He’d screamed himself red in the face, and it was only once his mother and Bronev came to check on the commotion that the wave passed.

He was shaking, he was tired, he was relieved. But Theodore…

Theodore was looking up at him with those eyes, holding his wrist. He was crying, and not in the way that he usually did when he didn’t get what he wanted. It was the sobs of a child in pain.

And Desmond watched numbly as Bronev took Theodore away. Not before the scolding of his life, of course.

The next part that he can recall is that he’s in his mother’s lap. She’s cradling him gently, and she smells like chamomile, like she always does in his memories. And she’s petting his hair like he’s not a monster.

“I didn’t mean to.” He hiccups,

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him. Is he gonna be okay?”

“He’ll be alright, Hershel.” His mother says soothingly, “and he’ll forgive you for this.”

“Am I bad?” He remembers asking her, looking into her tired eyes.

Desmond can no longer recall her response.

But he knew what he was. He was reminded every time he saw that cast on Theo’s arm. And he vowed that he’d never hurt anyone again.

He promised extra hard, to himself, and to Theodore, that he would never hurt Theodore like that again.

And to his credit, he found other methods to get out the ugly feelings in his chest. He didn’t lay a finger on his brother, on anyone for that matter, for a while. He locked the feelings deep into his chest, taking deep breaths when Theo asked too many questions or when someone in class breathed too loud, or when Bronev didn’t let him do something for some reason or another.

If he really needed to do something, he found a way to leave the situation, to dig his nails into his palms or tear at his hair or claw at his face or punch the walls or any manner of destructive thing until his racing heart settled and he could return to his mind again.

It became much harder after the kidnapping, if one could imagine. The stress of fully taking care of a six year old boy wasn’t very good for him.

He snapped a few times, but luckily it was only verbal outbursts. He managed to curb the worst of his instincts to push and shove and hurt. He kept those for himself for later, so he could punish himself for his thoughts.

And then Theo was gone too, and it was just him in that god forsaken house alone.

He managed well enough alone for a while, till he was stuck with the Sycamores.

He shouldn’t say stuck. They were nice people, really. And he did his best to please them, to be worthy of taking in.

But of course, as all things do for Desmond, it ended rather abruptly.

He only remembers before and after, but he was told what he had done.

There was a kid, notorious to Desmond at least for being a massive prick, that would pick on the girl that sat next to him in English. She was a nice girl, if only too shy to stand up for herself against the harassment. A perfect victim for a bully.

Desmond was told, as he sat in the principal’s office, that he had attacked the kid out of nowhere. That he’d simply lunged and started beating him with his fists.

And Desmond thought numbly, as he sat there and picked at the blood flaking on his knuckles, that even if he broke his promise he didn’t regret that. Sometimes the only thing a bully can understand is force. As expected, though, the prick’s parents were up in arms about Desmond being a danger to his classmates. He ended up being suspended for a few weeks. During that time he actually ended up getting more ahead in his courses, now that he didn’t have to wait for teacher instruction. He was more suited to being alone anyways. When he returned finally, the girl was terrified out of her mind, but nonetheless gave him a hug and thanked him. He never remembered what exactly he did, but he can almost certainly guarantee it was justified.

His adoptive parents treated him differently after that. They treated him like he was made of glass, or as if he was some wild animal they were afraid to approach.

But they started the cycle again, of doctors and appointments and medicines. And by the time he was fourteen, they found something that worked. Well, worked was a relative term. They found a medicine that effectively numbed him and quelled the rage. It was a bit of a trade off, they explained over and over. Sure, he might feel a mind numbing emptiness, but at least he’s not angry.

Privately, Desmond almost wants it back. He could take getting worse over and over again if it meant he could feel anything through the fog. He couldn’t care anymore. He missed caring. He missed feeling anything at all.

And the destruction of himself didn’t stop. If anything it got worse. Pain was the only thing he could truly feel anymore, it was how he could know he was alive. No longer was he punishing himself for his urges, he simply did it to feel something, if even for a bit.

It continued far into college, where he met his girlfriend, who became his wife. He settled down, grew a family. He had a daughter. And he loved them. He truly, truly did. It was the only other thing that pierced the nothingness.

He also, during that time, reconnected with his brother’s parents. He was never sure if they knew what he’d done, but he made sure to check in every couple of months to check in on Theo. The Laytons were a lovely couple, and they were very kind to him; on occasion, they even insisted on having him over for dinner. His heart ached at times to see what he could have had, but he doesn’t feel regret for what he did. Desmond supposes that’s a pattern.

He was always acutely aware of Targent. Desmond wasn’t stupid. He’d done his research, and did his best to stay clear of their spotlight, of any spotlight at all. Even if he didn’t care much for himself or his own safety, he couldn’t allow anything to happen to his family. He wouldn’t even let himself think about how his birth father was the leader now. It would give him a migraine that he certainly didn’t want.

Desmond had thought he was prepared for anything. What he wasn’t prepared for was to find his door broken in. What he wasn’t prepared for was to find his wife holding their child, already passed, with the last of her strength.

What he wasn’t prepared for was to watch the life slip from her gaze as he pleaded for her to hold on just a little longer.

And once again there’s a fuzziness in his memory for a while. He can vaguely recall the days of never leaving his room, the funeral, the pulling himself together to get back to work.

At least Raymond stayed. His late wife came from a wealthy home, and he came with her in the marriage by choice. Raymond was always kind to him, seeming to have an uncanny sense of insight into the core of Desmond’s being. It was as if he could see all that resided in him. But surely that wasn’t so. No one could see the wretchedness that yearned to exit his chest and be willing to stay.

What he does remember, however, is looking at those damn pills, and choosing to chuck the whole bottle in the trash. He was done.

Raymond never mentioned it to him, but he’s certain the old man knew anyway.

And suddenly life held such passion for him. He could finally breathe again, could see again with all the colors he hadn’t for so long. He could feel joy, and sorrow, and disgust, and a whole spectrum of emotion he had almost forgotten he knew how to feel.

He could feel anger. He could feel hatred.

Sure enough, once that blockade was gone, all the ugly feelings that had gone away curled out from his soul, intent to drag their claws in and tear him up from the inside out.

Desmond recalled the promise he had made to himself to do no harm. That was long past. The world had abandoned him and spit on him with every chance it got, and who was he to not bare his teeth back?

Who was Targent to determine who should live and that Desmond Sycamore should just roll over and take it?

Raymond, bless his heart, was gentle with him even as he snapped over and over. The lid was loose, and it seemed that once he was finally free, his mind refused to be shoved back into that box. The breakdowns were near daily at some point as he adjusted to being off the meds. Raymond took it all in stride.

He’s not sure how many mirrors had to be replaced that he’d punched through. The sight of his reflection would set him off, to the point that his butler put a curtain over the mirrors so he couldn’t see. There was a med kit in nearly every room for him to use when whatever he did was over, when he returned to his senses exhausted and relieved and feeling horrible about it all.

Sometimes he wished for the meds back so wouldn’t have to experience feelings like this anymore.

Desmond needed a better solution. Life as it was wasn’t sustainable, and as tempting as it was to just end it all, something in him reared its head at the thought of dying before he could get his revenge. Targent had taken everything from him. Two families ripped from his hands, and Desmond would not stop until he watched the organization burn.

“You’ll need a disguise, sir,” Raymond said quietly one night. Desmond was hunched over the desk, restless. It was far past midnight, but he was far too high strung to sleep. He needed to plan how to take down Targent. He had a few amateur plans for machinery that could help, but at the rate he was moving he’d be little more than a fly buzzing in Leon Bronev’s ear. He needs something more grandiose. Something they can’t ignore.

He needs to rip that hellscape limb from limb.

Raymond set the teacup down quietly. Desmond huffed, irritation spiking. He was far too exhausted to blow up again, so he shoved his emotions back down to concentrate, “they’ll recognize you as you are, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps…” he acquiesces reluctantly, and begins to sketch idly at some scratch paper. A head, a body. Two legs, two arms. He sketches out a tricorn hat and mask, like those Venetian carnival costumes he was fascinated by when he was younger. The crown was a bit tall though.

As it turns out, that little sketch changed a whole lot. He workshopped it again and again until it felt right. The mask molded itself, fur changed to feathers, a cape to a cloak, and soon enough it all came together.

And so Jean Descole was born. It was easier to categorize for himself at least. Desmond felt everything. Desmond felt the grief, the joy, the everything. But the rage was molded slowly but surely, carved into an image. Finally, and for the first time, there was use in his rage. There was something more than monstrous to his fury. This was more than revenge, it was justice.

And as the costume came together, as he shifted more and blurred the lines on who he was and who he wasn’t, it became more comfortable.

The curtain fell once and he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He blinked.

There was no anger, no disgust. There wasn’t the image of a monster, or a man, or a living corpse. It was just him. He looked at himself through Descole’s mask.

It was only him. He was Desmond Sycamore, a dead man walking. He was Jean Descole, a broken husk of a man. He was Desmond Sycamore, an archaeologist who had lost his family. He was Jean Descole, a scientist with nothing left to lose.

He has but one purpose, one use.

One way or another, Targent will be razed by his hand. He doesn’t care how, he doesn’t care when. Even if it kills him, he will watch that damned organization burn to the ground.

He’s going to hell, and he’s dragging everyone down with him.

Chapter Text

The Azran were frustrating, to say the least.

Whenever Descole found that the answer was within grasp, it was torn from him again and again. Another ruin. Another cypher. Another pointless message directing him to a new location.

Within each ruin, there was one of three themes. Infinity, Harmony, and Healing. They seemed to be the mantras of the people from the past. It was their way of life.

Within Azran literature and mythology, each element was represented in a multitude of ways.

Infinity was the mind. Infinity was creativity, light, and creation.

The symbol for Infinity was found in the homes of ancient scientists and technologists. The word for it was stamped upon inventions and engraved into buildings that had once touched the sky.

There was mention made of infinite energy sources, pointing to one location that powered them all across the globe.

Harmony was the heart and soul. Harmony was music and rhythm, connection and love.

The symbol for Harmony was found upon the pens of lyricists, on the bottoms of ink pots and the spines of books.

Healing was the body. Healing was nature, plants and animals and the physicality of the world around them.

The symbol for Healing was found on the instruments of doctors. It was found in makeshift hospitals and grave sites.

Paradoxically, Harmony also seemed to apply to controlling the environment. While Healing related to the organism itself, Harmony was created inside it by controlling the environment in which they live. There are stories of great weather machines, ones that create deserts and jungles and control the temperature and wind speeds.

Another common place for the principles to appear was upon the hearth. When visiting a potential azran site, Descole was sure to check around the oldest of buildings. More often than not, there was evidence of prayers or rituals within.

Ancient eulogies and funerals often would incorporate some mention of the family affinity.

While one would think that each principle would be ascribed to a deity, it didn’t seem to be that way. There was one father, and five Azran riders of the sky, but in all of Descole’s research he simply could not trace the origin of the principals of Azran life.

The lack of satisfying ties made Descole rather angry when he thought about it for too long, so he simply chose not to think about it.

As much as he hated the Azran, he wasn’t a fool. There was a reason he was considered an expert on the civilization.

He had received a lead on Harmony in a frequently mentioned myth. It was that of the Queen of Ambrosia, and the underwater city.

Those who talked of eternity and reincarnation were followers of Harmony. Well-wishes sent to grieving family members often included some mention of wishing them to be reborn as some majestic creature. Those who lost female loved ones, particularly those who held a love for music, made mention that their wife, mother, or daughter might have been the queen reborn.

Descole does not believe in reincarnation. If he were a reincarnation, it must be of someone who had committed a great sin. That’s the only explanation for such misfortune in his life.

The tale of Ambrosia is famous, relatively speaking. It was some old bedtime story, found in the dustiest of fairytales and some old bard’s song strummed on a German lyre. But Descole had been able to pinpoint a general location from a few different sites. If the pipes underwater weren’t enough to solidify that he’d found the right location, the seal imprinted upon boulders littering the island would surely have tipped him off.

And so, for the next few months, Descole spent his weekdays as a professor and his weekends on the island, searching for anything that he could find about the ruin. It was by far the largest ruin he’d encountered, and the amount of it left intact was remarkable. Truly a sign of Harmony.

Upon Ambrosia’s soil grew a particular type of tree. One that he hadn’t ever heard of before, nor had he seen documented on any other island in the area. Naturally, Descole referred to them mentally as harmony trees. The leaves were specially made with holes in the center that sang when the wind swept through them.

Though it generated a pretty tune, the whistling did grate on him after being played for hours.

He’d also spent a fair amount of time below the surface of the water, inspecting the ruins. There were mechanisms in place that appeared to work yet when properly activated. There didn’t appear to be any electrical components to it, nor any way that Descole on his own could force the city to rise.

The pipes displayed no signs of corrosion or tarnishing, despite being metallic. The buildings were something else entirely, having been battered and eroded by eons of the tide rolling in and out.

Upon further inspection, the mechanism was activated by sound. Particular frequencies were capable of resonating the conduit in such a way that under certain conditions, the apparatus would trigger.

It was certainly a puzzle. One that Descole was determined to figure out before Targent caught wind of the island.

It must have been turning in the back of his mind for weeks as he went about his usual routine. Day and night he mulled it over, but the answer remained just out of reach. Descole could sense it in the back of his mind, just beyond the taunting veil.

Then one day, one of his students sat down to have a meeting with him about something he’d assigned. He could hardly remember it, as his life had been something of a blur while he’d been trapped up in his mind.

The young lady, Nancy, was shuffling through her overfilled folder to try finding the essay, and out slipped a sheet of paper. On instinct he reached down to grab it before taking a closer look. It was handwritten sheet music, the staff wobbly and clearly rushed. The potential notes were marked only by a dot upon the page.

“So sorry, Professor.” The girl stammered, snatching it back, and Desmond sat back in his seat.

“It’s no trouble. I wasn’t aware that you were a musician.”

She tittered and stuffed the paper into her bag, “I’m not. It’s just something I’m trying out. I haven’t even touched my piano in years.”

Their conversation shifted once Nancy found her essay, but the black ink of the dots made their way into Desmond’s mind and behind his eyes. It remained splattered there, some kind of mess of tangled thread that he couldn’t untangle.

The next time he spies the Ambrosian seal, Descole let out a sharp cackle that turned into a somewhat maniacal giggle fit.

Raymond, as any good butler does, checked on him. “Is something the matter, master?”

“Raymond, oh Raymond.” He crossed one leg over the other and put a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sight of the infernal seal. Surely it would make him go mad to look at any longer. “I’ve figured it out.”

“You have?”

“It’s music, Raymond. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”

The Azran must have been laughing at him up from hell.

Of course it was music! Ambrosia, as the city of Harmony, had music as a key part of their lives. It was engrained in the very infrastructure of their homes. Their queen adored it. It was to be expected that the condition of their revival was to be deciphered with song.

What a fool Descole had been to not anticipate such a thing. He’d taken his share of classes in uni on musical appreciation. For god’s sake, he had a grand piano in the living room! He didn’t use the piano anymore. It belonged more truly to Evelyne, and since her and Naomi’s death it had been gathering dust. Or would have gathered dust, had Raymond not been an impeccable butler.

His hands twitch as he descended the stairs later that night.

Desmond sat upon the bench and rested his trembling fingers upon the keys. Back when he’d started learning to play, his instructor had complimented his hands. She’d said that Desmond had long fingers, good for playing piano.

He presses a key down, then again when he’d done it too softly for it to make any noise.

The noise that the instrument emits is ugly, far out of tune after years of disuse. Nonetheless, he plays a song that he still knows well. One that Desmond had played for Naomi when she demanded it and sang to her when she couldn’t sleep.

The piano warbles out mournfully as he presses down. D, G, then A, then two Bs.

Descole will need it tuned before he attempts to use it to work with the Azran ruin. It’s a delicate mechanism. B, A, B, then two Gs.

If he had to guess, it operated on a system that requires perfect pitch. One wrong note and the city would not rise. G, A, B, C, E.

Desmond paused, then took his hands away. He ought to actually convert the stars into notes on a staff before anything. He pulled down the fallboard and stepped away.

The piano gets tuned, and he and Raymond go through the hassle of loading it up and transporting the piano to the island the very next day.

It didn’t work. Of course it didn’t, because the Azran love to spit at Descole at each and every turn.

He knew he played the song perfectly, and yet the contraption wouldn’t activate. There was something that he was missing once again. Another hurtle for him to jump over.

Raymond just tutted and bandaged his hand after Descole landed a harsh punch to a nearby tree, startling the birds away. The man just silently fumes.

“Perhaps it would be good to just take a moment to rest?”

“I don’t have the time for rest.” Descole hissed, wrenching his hand away to stalk back to the airship.

There was no time for it. No time to stop and smell the roses, or anything of that sort. Yet just a week later the scientist found himself sat on the beach. The sand in his shoes agitated him to no end.

But the breeze was cool and the sun was warm, and the clouds lumbered across the horizon in wispy white streaks. The water lapped at the shore, and Descole traced the movement apathetically.

A hermit crab scuttled around a few feet away. Its little feet passing quickly over the sand as it went about. The world must have seemed infinite for the pereiopod. It would live on the beach, inhabiting one shell or another until it eventually died or was preyed upon by the gulls in the area. Such is the way of life.

Then, it made a peculiar noise. Not the hermit crab, but rather its foot as it clinked upon something residing under the sand. How curious.

As the animal continues on its path, unbothered by Descole’s piqued interest, he scooted over. Indeed, as Descole passed his hand over the spot where the crab had resided, there was metal beneath the surface.

He couldn’t simply leave it. There were one too many questions.

For a city that resided atop the waves during its time, what was the purpose in piping something beneath the ground? Perhaps it was a physical tether to the island, to root it? It wouldn’t catch any wind, thus it’s not for the same purpose as those which move vertically and reverberate in the wind.

The man isn’t exactly careful as he excavates what he can of the pipe with his hands. He has no formal tools, so it’s a matter or pushing around the white grains with his hand to uncover it. What is revealed is intentionally patterned grooves within the metal that spiral from the center. The pipe beneath the earth spanned around 30 centimeters in diameter, and Descole still couldn’t determine the purpose, even as he dug rocks and other stuck particles from the grooves.

He didn’t discover the purpose until the tide came in and washed over the part that Descole had been working on. As expected, the water found its way into the holes of the piping, trickling down.

From within, a warm shimmering ‘plink’ occurred, then another, then another. It was a distinct melodious noise, entirely intentional. One note played after another, overlapping as the tide allows more water into the crevices. Descole eventually narrows it down that it must be an instrument similar to a steel pan or rain drum that exists to be played when the tide comes in.

Another piece of the puzzle slots into place as Descole carefully feeds water into the pipe to hear the melody on its own. There must be more than one part of the music needed to make the city rise once more.

There must be harmony.

Testing his hypothesis, Descole transcribed the notes onto his piano and played before the gears. They moved, if only marginally, and when played in tandem with the other song, ticked further. Yet there was still difficulty.

Nonetheless, the recent breakthrough had put a pep in his step, and his mind returned to a pensive state rather than rolling frustration. His demeanor about the house was so noticeably different that Raymond felt the need to comment on it over dinner a few days later. It immediately soured Descole’s good mood, which surely wasn’t the intention but his butler found it rather amusing.

He researched further, fine-tuning his method. The mechanism was a fickle thing. A piano wasn’t good enough; the pipes would only resonate to the right amount when it was sung to. It would require a person with a perfect pitch.

Descole was very much not that person. He wouldn’t call his singing voice perfect, but he’d done his share of humming to himself. Desmond would croon to his daughter when she had nightmares, and when he’d been younger, there were fuzzy flickers of smoothing Theodore’s curls and trying to imitate his mother’s breathy lullabies.

The melody of the sea invaded his mind as he worked. It was as if the song lived inside him, beating with his heart and seeping into his bloodstream. Most of the time, Desmond didn’t notice that the notes escaped his throat until Raymond or his student or colleague pointed it out to him.

His fingers itched to play the song from the seal. It haunted him deep into the night when he tossed and turn. The twinkling lights taunted him from outside the window until he eventually headed downstairs to play the ditty upon the grand piano. Once it was clear that he couldn’t cause the city to rise on his own, he’d lugged it back to the house to live in its rightful place beside the bay window.

The witching hour, Descole found, was the perfect time to sort his thoughts. If he paced the foyer enough times, his anger would be quelled enough that he could head back to bed. If all else failed, he returned to the piano like a man possessed.

The man always warmed up the same way. He shut his eyes and tried to picture Evelyne at his side as he placed his fingers upon the keys. E, D, C, B.

What Desmond needed now was a singer. Someone for his final performance. He also needed someone with more knowledge of music than he. G, A, B, C, then E.

Someone dependable, that wouldn’t rat him out if he were to explain his plans. Or someone foolish, gullible. Someone desperate. E, D, C, B, G.

Recently in the paper he had read about a famous composer, Oswald Whistler, and how he was stepping out of the limelight to take care of his daughter.

Musical talent seemed to run in the family, as his daughter, Melina, was also something of a musical prodigy. She had been in starring roles from a young age.

With a potential avenue, he does a bit more research into the Whistlers. They seem fairly average. Melina’s mother had died in childbirth so Whistler raised her alone. Whistler himself had quite the pedigree, having come from a long line of wealthy musicians. One article describes watching one of his operas, and that seeing him actually conduct, it seemed to the viewer that he was intrinsically tied to the melody, and that it came from within his very soul.

The young Miss Whistler had a history of health problems that often led her in and out of the music world. She starred in a fair portion of her father’s operas, but no one dare accuse her of nepotism. Her voice, supposedly, was angelic.

An old interview with her father details how he ‘knew she was destined for the stage’, as when she was a mere four years old she was learning to play Chopsticks. Supposedly, the woman had perfect pitch.

Melina and her father were the piece he was missing. The perfect pawns to use for his plan and then throw away.

If he could design something, some kind of showy, convoluted machine to lure them in, perhaps it would be perfect.

‘Dear Mr. Whistler,’ he writes in his best pen.

‘I have been listening to your work for years now, and attend each and every opera that I can. I’d consider myself a devotee of the arts, even if my career choice is rooted in science.

I will get to the point, as this is not merely an expression of my admiration for you and your work. It saddens me to hear of your daughter’s affliction. I, too, lost a child once.’

Descole’s pen stutters as his hand begins to tremble. It leaves a large ugly stain upon the page, and he wastes no time in hurling the pen at the wall. His breathing has begun to stutter as his pen just had, and he stumbles to his feet.

“Master?”

“Raymond.” He tries not to let his voice break as he balls his hands into fists. Perhaps his nails will break skin and he will ruin the letter further with his blood. It wouldn’t be the only thing.

“The hour draws late. Perhaps your time would be better spent in bed?”

Even to himself he sounds petulant. Descole hopes the cloak masks the wobble to his knees. “I’m busy. Leave me alone.”

His butler takes a step forward. “What are you writing?”

“Letter. To Whistler.”

“And might I take a look?” Another step, and Descole blocks the way. As he should have done so long ago. He should have shielded them from the men at the door. He should have been home sooner.

“No.”

“Very well.”

An impasse. Blood has begun to rush in his ears, and it paints the back of his eyelids. It’s all he can see when he shuts them now.

There’s so much blood.

His hands feel wet, and when he looks at them, there’s little crimson rivulets emerging from crescentic wounds made by his nails. Descole’s vision wavers dangerously, and then he’s gone.

‘Even the fear of losing a child is terribly taxing, and one that I would not wish it upon any parent.’ is what ends up in the final letter, sent out the next morning. ‘Thus, I have a proposal. As a scientist, I am quite familiar with machinery. I would like to create a new technology to help Melina recover faster, so that she may return to pristine health.

This offer is one borne of kindness, and thus there is no strings attached. This new technology might help other parents as well, so that they may not fear such loss. I seek to prevent it.

If you are interested, please write to the enclosed address with a date and time that would work best for you. I would like to meet in person.

Best wishes,

Jean Descole.’

Within the week there was a letter in Descole’s hand. Quite desperately, the man had found a time and place.

‘I sincerely hope that we may work together,’ read the chicken scratch that was far worse than his own.

Mr. Whistler was a tall man, or at least he would be if he bothered to stand up straight. Years hunched over a piano must do something to one’s posture. His frizzy hair was streaked gray with stress and he frequently ran his hands through it as Descole spoke with him.

His eyes darted this way and that, and he couldn’t seem to stay still. If his hands weren’t creating a larger mess of his hair, they were adjusting his circular glasses or wiping them or fiddling with the napkin in his lap. He was rather ratlike, if Descole had to find a way to describe him. It was almost amusing.

It was evident that he was much more adept at composing music than conversations as he fumbled over small talk.

“I’ll be straight now,” Descole took pity on the man. “I have a plan to create a machine that would save your daughter.”

It wasn’t a lie, per se, just not the full truth. The scientist had created schematics of something that looked vaguely medical, that he proposed with a helping of jargon that he’s certain a simple man like Whistler wouldn’t be able to parse. By the end of the meeting they shook hands with another meeting the next week where Descole could see the young Miss Whistler in person.

She didn’t seem all that ill. Or perhaps it was that her presence was akin to that of a star. She was something bright, yet just out of reach.

Whistler fussed over her, going so far as to cut her food as if she were a toddler and not in her mid-twenties. Descole held in his irritation, but the young woman did not. Her scolding was as soft as her voice.

“What’s that you’ve been humming?” Melina asked after the man’s mind had drifted. He’d been humming the song from the rain drums again. In his mind, he’d dubbed it a Song of the Sea.

“Something of my own design.”

“No need to be embarrassed,” the woman laughed and it devolved into a fit of coughing.

A long buried part of Descole, one that had been left in his old home, rears at the sound. The sound of sickness, of death.

Silently, he poured her more tea and pushed the honey closer. He chose chamomile for a reason.

His plan shifted a tad. Weekends were no longer spent seething on white sandy beaches, but meeting with the Whistlers for tea.

One day, as Whistler invited him in, there was a sweet melody drifting through the hall.

“Is that…?”

“Melina, yes. Did you want to sit in? She hasn’t sung like this in weeks.” And then he continued babbling as they turned away from the sitting room and down the hall. He ignored it in favor of listening to the song.

There was something entrancing about her voice. Truly, the articles hadn’t lied when describing her vocal ability. He felt a bit odd as Whistler pushed open the door and they both stood in the doorway.

Melina’s room was what one would expect with Whistler as a father. Adorned in plushies and pink and all sorts of pillows and blankets were piled upon the bed. A grand piano adorned the corner, where a young woman was playing.

It was not Melina. No, Melina was stood just beside, leaning against the instrument and singing breathily.

The music stuttered as the two girls noticed Descole’s presence, and then the notes tapered off.

The other woman was redheaded, in a true sense of the word. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but it was a deeper sort of titian than an auburn or copper. Freckles spotted her cheeks and she looked at Descole with big brown eyes. There’s a sharpness to them.

“Hello, father,” Miss Whistler greets him, then pauses, “Oh, you haven’t met Janice yet. Janice- this is the man I told you about- Mr. Descole.”

The ginger, Janice, nods her head to him with a smile.

“Did you need something?”

“No, no. Just wanted to hear you sing, my dear. It’s been far too long.”

After they leave the girls, Descole can’t help but inquire.

“That’s Melina’s friend, Janice. She comes over often, so you’ll probably see her around.”

Over the months that he played pretend with them, he learned a lot about Miss Quatlane. Melina liked to speak about her a lot. For instance, the woman was also an opera singer, though originally her major had been in humanities. The two met when they were 14, and had been attached at the hip ever since. Janice liked cherries and lilies and dogs. Janice liked the color purple. Janice, Janice, Janice. Every conversation between Descole and Whistler’s daughter somehow strayed to the other woman.

The pink that bloomed on their cheeks when the two were together was enough of a giveaway that they were not, in fact, ‘like sisters to each other’ as Whistler had said. Either he was oblivious, or he was stupid.

Definitely both.

Janice liked to wear lipstick. That wasn’t information provided by Melina, but rather by Descole’s own observations. The same pink tint remained on Miss Quatlane’s lips each time the two saw each other. And that same pink lipstick somehow made its way to Melina’s lips when she returns after seeing Janice out of the house.

How curious, he thinks to himself sarcastically, they must use the same brand. It’s the only explanation.

Things seem to be working well for his plan. All he must do is wait for the perfect moment to bring the pair to Ambrosia, and then all would be fine.

Yet as all things seem to do in Descole’s life, something went wrong.

‘Come as soon as you read this. Melina is sick.’ Is all the letter said, sealed in a simple envelope. And even though it was pouring like all hell, Descole went.

Melina was indeed sick. If it weren’t for the slight rise and fall of her chest, and the deep rattling noise from her lungs, one would think the woman was dead already.

Janice rested in a chair by Melina’s side, clutching the pale hand in hers.

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” She asked him tearfully.

Descole shakes his head, looking beyond the women and out the window.

The young miss Whistler did not recover. Not in the way Descole had hoped she would. She could no longer sing, and he had lost his chance to get the city to rise.

Unless…

“Mr. Whistler.”

It was rather early in the morning to be having a drink, but the man was more than a little wasted. Whistler looked up at Descole, the whiskey glass halfway to his lips.

He looked even more disheveled than he typically did, with his tie loosened and his sleeves up to his elbows. Whistler made some little noise of acknowledgement that irks Descole.

“How would you feel about moving? Fresh air might be good for your daughter.”

There were ruins on the Ambrosian soil of a castle. It wasn’t anything Azran, instead looking more akin to the gothic style. The infrastructure, amazingly, was relatively intact. So over the months Descole had it refurbished and touched up and he’d added a bit of his own monochromatic flare to the place. Great portions of it were hollow, merely for show as no one was actually going to be living there, but there were functioning facilities at the least.

So within the week Descole had moved the Whistlers off to an island in the middle of the sea. Melina had been placed where the queen’s chambers had been. There was a large balcony to one side, and light streamed through the window at sunset to naturally illuminate the room.

He kept the place supplied and hired a few new people to take care of the pair should they need anything. There was always someone who could operate a plane if something were to go wrong.

The problem came with Miss Quatlane, who somehow managed to find the address he used as a middle point for his letters and sent him a passive-aggressive note that she would like to meet him one-on-one.

“Good evening, Miss Quatlane.”

“Good evening.”

The young woman seemed to Descole entirely different from the one he’d been seeing occasionally. Gone was the relaxed smile and casualty. Miss Quatlane had her hands folded in her lap with her head high. Her gaze was sharp and calculating.

“Might I ask why you’ve requested me to meet you?”

“I would like to see Melina.” It was more of a demand than a request, and Descole felt his eyebrow twitch under the mask at her audacity. She thinks she has any sway over him?

“It’s necessary for her recovery that she remain quarantined. To remove her from the island now would reset any progress we’ve made.”

“Then take me to her. Let me live there with her, or at least visit.”

Descole leaned back in his seat, studying the woman.

“I’m not certain that it would be for the best.” He wouldn’t like anyone too close to his plans if they were unnecessary, but Janice seemed almost an extension of Melina’s being. There wasn’t one without the other.

“Please…?”

Perhaps having someone besides an overbearing parent would improve Melina’s spirit. Especially one as close to the woman as Janice was.

The next day, he knocked upon Melina’s door.

“Miss Whistler? You have a visitor.”

Janice, evidently, couldn’t wait for a dramatic entrance, and rushed past him to throw herself at the woman, who sat up.

“Janice?”

“Melina!”

Descole politely looked away as the ginger grabbed Miss Whistler’s jaw and began littering her cheeks with pink lipstick marks.

They’re absorbed in their own little world until they remember he’d there, to which both stop and stare at him like deer in headlights.

“I won’t tell your father, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I don’t take issue your relationship.”

“Oh thank god,” Melina giggled. “Thank you.”

The blonde recovered in her strength, losing her pallor and beginning to take walks along the beach with supervision.

“Melina, do you recall the song that I was humming on the day we first met?”

“No.” The answer is simple, and Descole almost laughed. Instead, he moved to the piano.

“I’ve been drabbling in music composition.” The music lives in the back of his mind, and he lets it flow from his fingertips. It’s the song of the seal, which he’s dubbed as a song of the stars.

“It’s very pretty.”

“There’s another part. One for a person to sing.” He handed the page to her, and she softly hummed the song of the sea.

The air seems to still in response to the melody, as if the world was holding its breath for her. It’s not the same as when Descole had done the same thing; it’s as if the island only recognizes her. It seems his theory was right at least in part. Melina was his key.

But the young woman only makes it halfway before she began to cough, and Descole handed her a handkerchief as he suppressed the urge to rub her back.

Janice stayed at Ambrosia on the weekends and visited every few days, though it became more frequent as Melina’s health worsened. They had long since reached the crest of their upward trajectory, and it was on the decline once more.

Descole had funded getting doctors in and out with no results. Each was just as perplexed as the previous, and it agitated the man to no end. Finally, one pronounced that whatever ailed the young woman would likely be terminal, and they should prepare for the worst case scenario.

The mood within the castle was sour afterwards. No, sour wasn’t the proper descriptor. It was more akin to a saturnine or sepulchral atmosphere. Melina was a living ghost.

She began to look the part day by day as her appetite decreased. Her cheeks and eyes sunk, and Miss Whistler looked rather like a breeze would knock her over. More time was spent asleep than awake. She didn’t sing anymore, and she hardly talked.

What Melina did was smile. She would squeeze Janice or her father’s hand and smile at them with the strength of the sun on a winter’s day. Melina smiled at Descole as well, and it curdled something in his gut.

“I’m busy.” He snapped at Raymond as the man tries to cajole him into eating. At that point he was several hours into hyperfocus and knew that if he were even to stretch his cramping hand that he would lose it.

“And what is so urgent, might I ask?”

“I’ve had an idea.”

Descole was too far in to give up on Melina now. If his route to the Azran legacy slipped through his fingers once more he’d surely go mad.

That and there are two long-dead pieces of himself that claw at his ribcage from the inside, trying to crawl their way out.

Hershel Bronev cries for his mother. He makes his way into Descole’s hands, forcing them to twitch and tremble when Melina coughs.

Desmond tugs at his heart, pulling the strings in an attempt to regain control of their husk. Desmond Sycamore drowns their thoughts in sorrow, breathing life into their heart so that it may pang at the thought of Melina’s demise.

What pesky specters they are. Jean Descole cares for naught but himself. He’s a selfish beast, an astringent wraith with one purpose. He refuses to rest in his grave until Leon Bronev lays with him.

The machine came to life over hours of sketching boxes and gears and mechanisms. Lines are easier to sketch than curves, architecture is easier to put on paper than organic life, and technology is easier to deconstruct than the brain.

The machine in his mind could save Melina. Perhaps not her body, but her spirit. Her soul.

Whistler hopped on the idea immediately, even without Descole explaining his plan in detail. Whistler didn’t have any details on how the machine works, on how his daughter’s memories would be stored, nor on how to get a vessel to transfer it into, but he practically begged Descole to get started before it was too late. It seemed he’d given up hope for her to recover, and his neuroticism was getting channelled into hounding the scientist about whether or not his contraption was finished yet.

It was coming together piece by piece. The machine had one essential purpose, that being to copy the young Miss Whistler’s mind. Every synapse, every thought, every memory. From there, with some electrodes and a proper host, it would suppress the vessel’s mind and implant Melina’s in its place.

Descole had lied just a tad in explaining. In his defense, Whistler likely wouldn’t have agreed in any other way, and he hadn’t let Descole properly elucidate.

He had lied in saying that the vessel to Melina’s mind would become her. In fact, it was an entirely temporary solution. The scientist didn’t know how to create a blank slate. He didn’t have the prowess on wiping a person’s memory, nor did he have the mechanical skill to create a robotic body for the young woman to inherit.

The vessel would be Melina long enough for the two to raise Ambrosia, and hopefully long enough that Whistler could grieve and be at peace and let her go.

Only one part was properly constructed and realized at that point. There was no way to get the memories out of the machine apart from Descole’s theoretical concept. What was working was the memory extraction and storage. At the very least they could keep Melina there until he can truly construct the second part of the machine.

Descole sat beside Melina as he worked, sketching mindlessly and trying new designs. Some bulkier, some slimmer. Some with knobs, hinges, bits and bobs and levers and panels and switches to flip and buttons to press, others with hardly a thing on it. Whistler insisted that someone be at her side at all times, and he was tied up in supervising the construction of Descole’s machine. It didn’t requite such scrutiny, but Whistler’s focus seemed to have shifted from his still-living daughter to the machine which could give her new life.

Descole detested it. He could be spending his time savoring the last moments with his daughter, and instead he was fucking off to obsess over a machine that was destined to fail. Does he know how many people would die to be in his place? Does that man know that Desmond would kill for a chance to have said goodbye to his family before they passed on?

“Mr. Descole?”

Melina, sometime, had awoken.

“Yes. It’s me.”

She tried to sit up, and Descole watched the tremor in her arms before she lays back again.

“How are you?”

Even when her body is failing and she was practically panting with the effort required to get to a half-sit, Melina still tried to make small-talk.

“I’ve been faring well.” He didn’t ask how she was. He already knew.

“What are you working on?”

“You are aware that there’s a machine being built that will let you live on, right?”

Melina nods, turning her head listlessly to watch him.

“I am constructing the second half of the machine- the one which will allow that to happen.”

“I see.”

There is silence, and then Melina tried to sit up again, which caused a fit of coughing.

Stiltedly, he handed her a handkerchief and tries not to show outwardly that his heart is trying to beat out of his chest. Descole hopes his hands don’t betray him by tremoring.

He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t attached to her. It was simply the vestige of a childhood fear.

Eventually Melina stopped trying to talk. Descole isn’t one for needless conversation, so he remained silent as well. The young woman read until her eyes began to flutter, and the scientist plucks the book from her hands after she finally falls asleep. Carefully he set her bookmark inside and set the book aside.

A creak of the door made him look up to see Janice.

“Hello.”

She strutted to the chair, heels clicking, and he watches as she picks up his schematics.

“What is this?”

“Nothing you should concern yourself with.” He held out his hand, but she grips it to her chest, eyes narrowed.

“What are your plans really?”

He was certain that she couldn’t see his eyes behind the mask, but he glared at her nonetheless, saying nothing. He just keeps his hand extending, willing himself to remain calm.

“Why do you always wear that ridiculous mask?” Her face twisted as she fired question after question. “You’re hiding something. You have to be. Why do you care about what happens to Melina? What is this island, and why do you have them here? Mr. Whistler might trust you, but I do not. Now tell me.”

The anger began to boil in his veins. It isn’t quite that he’d been suppressing the rage, but rather that it hadn’t made itself known in any serious degree. But that insolent woman just kept looking at him.

Descole couldn’t stand it. The feeling that he was being put under a microscope, that his innards were being bared.

Why did he care about Melina?

He did not. Descole didn’t care.

Why was he putting up with them? Why was he feeding and housing them?

Why was he making a machine to let her live longer?

Why his heart warble like a caged bird as Melina deteriorated day by day?

“It’s none of your business. I don’t need to justify myself to you.”

Descole attempted to control his breathing, letting his hands fall to his sides and balling them into fists. If he just kept breathing, he wouldn’t lunge for Janice and attempt to wring her throat.

The images come to him in giddy red flashes, all the violent things he could do to her. Every tool at his disposal that could be used to maim that pretty visage.

Everything looks like a nail when one is holding a hammer, and every household object could become a murder weapon if Descole didn’t keep his feet planted firmly to the floor.

“This is my business! You promised that you would save her- what happened to that machine you were making? You told Melina that you would save her!”

“Have you ever tried creating a machine that intricate in mere months, Miss Quatlane?” Descole hissed, “It’s a herculean task, especially for one person. I presumed I’d have more time.”

“You seemed so confident earlier.”

“Circumstances change. You should be glad that your lover has another chance at life at all.”

And then, because Descole cannot stand to keep his mouth shut, he tacks on, “Unless you’d prefer her dead? I can take care of that, if it's the case.” He made a sweeping gesture to highlight the sword at his hip.

Janice’s eyes flickered down to it, then to his face. He relished in watching the dread set in.

“Not so cocky now, hm?” He took a step forward, no longer bound by his determination to avoid conflict. The younger woman took a step back. She was afraid of him. Good.

She should be. A sick part of him, the bestial, crazy part of him, took pleasure in the way that Janice’s face grew more pale.

“You’re insane. I knew it.”

“I am not insane. I am a man with a goal, and I will achieve it. I will not allow you to stand in my way.”

“You’re insane.” She reiterated, and the spark of terror turned to an ember of rage and determination.

“I am helping you. I am saving Melina. I don’t appreciate your insolence.”

“I’d hardly call inquisitiveness insolence.”

“Give me those blueprints.” He held his hand out once more. They could go without a fuss, so long as the woman just did what she was told.

Of course she did not.

“Answer my questions first.”

Descole thought that he would burst a blood vessel. Instead he mentally reigned himself in and nodded.

“Why the mask? Why the costume?”

“I prefer that my identity is hidden.”

“So you have something to hide.”

Yes, he drawled to himself. That was the point of a mask.

“My privacy is important to me. I prefer to deal with my clientele anonymously.”

“Why Melina?”

“I-” I had a daughter once.

Desmond bit his tongue hard.

“I sympathize with losing a loved one too soon.”

This seemed to soften Janice, and her grip loosened on Descole’s sketches. “Who..?”

Descole didn’t want to say. None of your business, he spat internally. The audacity made his blood boil.

“My daughter,” Desmond confessed. The bird in his heart sang. “And my wife. I don’t want anyone to go what I had to go through.”

The ginger’s expression indicated that he had gotten through to her. There was no need to continue speaking.

“My mother was ill when I was very young.” There is an odd quality to his voice. Was he ill? Or perhaps it was another person who manipulated his vocal cords. “We weren’t certain that she would ever recover.”

The fog had begun to set in, and Descole would much prefer to get out of the room before he inevitably broke and spilled his heart onto the floor. The dam had been cracking for far too long, and it was a matter of time before his porcelain mask shattered completely and fell from his face. Metaphorically, of course.

“I’m sorry. That is all I have for now.” Janice set the papers upon the bed and began to make her way out of the room, brushing by Descole’s side.

Only, at the last moment, he spotted a hand coming for his face. Descole’s instincts kick in and he snatched up the woman’s wrist, encircling it with his hand.

They were fragile. Surely the scientist could have squeezed a little tighter and felt them snap beneath his touch. Instead he studies Janice as she winces, then yanks her closer until they are face-to-face. He was certain that she’d be bruised, but he couldn’t make himself feel bad. The punishment for her transgression was light in comparison to what he could have done.

“Watch yourself, Miss Quatlane.” He hissed in her ear, then let her go. Descole focused on the blueprints instead of the hastening cadence of the woman’s heels upon the floor. He needed to get back to work, he thought as he smoothed out the paper from where they’d crumpled in Miss Quatlane’s grip.

Three days later, the machine was complete. Descole oversaw the whole thing as Melina’s mind was copied, turned into strings of code and stored within the machine. Little 0s and 1s were the evidence of the scientist’s success, of the woman’s mechanical copy. Miss Whistler seemed a tad disoriented upon reawakening, but he determined that there shouldn’t be any lasting effects. This was merely a second chance, in the case that the woman does not recover.

Within a few minutes of returning to her chambers, Miss Whistler’s eyes are slipping shut with Miss Quatlane by her side. The woman doesn’t speak to Descole, and the scientist doesn’t attempt a conversation. Tranquility and quiet would be best for recovery either way. He would ensure that the conditions were ideal, even more so than before, for the woman’s recovery.

Beneath his skin, within his muscles and tissues and organs, energy thrums. He’d hate to classify it as anxiety, or worry, but it’s far from excitement or frustration. He had no appetite for dinner that night, and there was no shortage of tossing and turning in his bed. Descole’s eyes remained open as he listened to his own heartbeat echo in the empty room.

The next day, he stands in the doorway as Miss Whistler hands Miss Quatlane a pendant. Descole watches her eyes shut, and he knows.

He knows.

The man turns around and walks down the hall as the two other inhabitants of the castle began to increase in their volume.

No amount of screaming, or crying, or pleading, will reawaken the dead. Descole knows that well. So he says nothing.

A singular drop of water stains his cheek, caressing its way down his jaw. How odd. The sky was perfectly clear that day.