Chapter Text
Expedition 32 – Chapter 10
The Shadows of Memory
When Lune entered the room, she saw Verso standing motionless at the window. The sun shone mercilessly through the glass, yet his gaze was frozen like stone.
Carefully, she went over and drew the curtain until the room lay in half-light. “Verso?”
No answer.
She saw the rigidity of his posture, felt his absence. She had seen him like this before, more than once, and every time she had felt helpless. Whatever she tried in those moments slipped into nothingness—seeming only to irritate him rather than help.
Even now, when she laid her hand gently on his shoulder, his body tensed as if he might shake her off.
Slowly, Lune withdrew her hand.
“I’ll… be downstairs, if you need anything.” Her voice was quiet. Hesitantly, she left the room and closed the door behind her.
Verso lifted his eyes. She had been there—he felt it. Her warm, delicate presence. Yet the cold inside him was stronger, pulling him into its spiral.
He saw his father and Alicia’s father—the rage in their eyes, how they had attacked their children under the claim of wanting to save them.
He saw the ruined face of his mother, when they had no choice but to kill her—the confused, sick woman too strong to be calmed.
He saw his little sister dissolving into white petals, and Maelle showing him, in that instant, the coldest look he had ever seen on her.
He saw his elder sister Clea, utterly destroyed by her own idol.
And he saw Julie—how she had looked at him as his sword pierced her.
None of those moments would he ever forget. They crushed his heart, made the world around him dark. His eyes were dry, his head dull and empty. Everything felt heavy, and he would have liked to sleep, if only he could. So he sat there, staring into the past.
Downstairs, Lune practiced on her guitar. Verso covered his ears, because every sound disturbed him.
Lune brought him a glass of water and set it on the windowsill. He needed to drink. But she knew that in this state even coffee or tea might be too much. And alcohol would be dangerous.
She swallowed. Later, she would probably drink a glass of wine herself. Or two…
Friends came by. Sciel sat down beside him, tried to speak with him—in vain.
Maelle stood silently in the doorway, looking at her brother with quiet sorrow, perhaps sensing that her presence might only make it worse.
At least Verso would smile whenever Alan padded up to him, lay down beside him, or set his paws on Verso’s knee, panting and gazing at him with loyal dog eyes.
“I’m taking Alan out. Do you want to come along?” Lune stood in the doorway, and was glad when Verso nodded. He walked silently beside her, holding Alan’s leash, watching the dog sniff at every lamppost and bench.
After a while, he took Lune’s hand, squeezed it, and said softly: “Thank you.”
Since the Gommage Maelle had performed for the victims of the Alt-Lumiere massacre, opinions about her had been divided. Some revered her like a goddess, others feared the “new Paintress.”
What many had at first marveled at in awe—her gift of bringing back the dead, of conjuring blossoms, of making the impossible real—soon turned into mistrust. Voices grew louder that no longer saw her as a blessing, but as a threat. Some called her a saint, others a witch.
On the streets, people whispered behind their hands, asking whether her deeds were not against nature itself. Pamphlets appeared, speaking of “false miracles.” Isolated fanatics were already calling for her to be brought to trial—or even burned at the stake.
Although Maelle was immortal, she soon no longer dared to go out alone. The constant pleas from those begging her to bring back their loved ones weighed heavily on her heart. And whenever hostile fanatics appeared, she feared not for herself, but for her brother and her friends.
Verso stood in the atelier, his arms crossed, watching his sister. The painting that emerged beneath her fingers was mesmerizing. Stroke by stroke, Lumiere of her memory came alive. He shook his head at those in his family who had refused to see her talent.
Though the atelier lay in a secluded part of the house, voices from the street still drifted in—impossible to tell whether they came from admirers or enemies. There had already been brawls, almost always sparked by furious fanatics.
Maelle stood at the easel, her brush clutched as if it were an anchor.
“They won’t stop,” Verso said quietly. “I know they can’t kill you. But they can force you to fight again and again. They can destroy your work. And they can hurt your friends.”
Maelle turned to him. “And what do you suggest?”
He stepped away from the window and began pacing slowly. “We could leave the city. As I once left with Father, when they grew suspicious of us. Somewhere no one can pursue you. Far from all this hatred.”
Maelle shook her head. “I won’t run away.”
“I want you to live.” His voice was rough.
“I live here. This is my home, my work, my world. This…” She looked around. “…this is my atelier. I am proud and happy with Gustave’s work.” She stepped toward him, the brush trembling in her hand. “I won’t let a few fanatics take this from me.”
Verso twisted his mouth into a mocking smile. “You could paint yourself a new atelier in the mountains in no time, Maelle—and you know it.” Then his gaze grew serious. “Sometimes pride is deadlier than fire.”
“They can’t hurt me, Verso.” Maelle walked closer to her brother. Drops of paint fell from her brush, glowing as they touched the floor before dissolving into petals. “But they could burn Lumiere to the ground. They could strike you. Gustave. Lune. Sciel.”
He raised his head, his eyes full of worry. “That’s exactly why I want to take you away.”
“And that is exactly why I will stay.” Maelle spoke softly, taking Verso’s hand. “I am not only responsible for myself. I carry all of them—this city, this canvas.”
The silence hung heavy between them. Verso exhaled slowly. He had anticipated her answer, and yet he had hoped to convince her otherwise.
As the day of the Gommage drew near, guards and patrols were strengthened in both cities. Once again, letters from Expedition 31 appeared, posters on lampposts and walls. Yet the police managed to prevent anything worse.
Still, there were further murders in Lumiere—a blow to Gustave and Emma, who took it as a personal failure. No “It wasn’t your fault” or “You can’t be everywhere at once” could ease the bitter weight on their hearts.
The people had not expected the day of the Gommage to become another day of mourning. Now they stood at the harbor—their heads bowed, some with tears in their eyes. The dead received a solemn burial at sea.
Again, a group of fanatics was found who had taken their own lives in ritual murder. With the Monolith sealed and guarded, they had chosen the Paintress Shrine in Alt-Lumiere instead.
Julie’s terrified eyes. His sword in her chest. The tangled rush of necessity, rage, and despair.
The pain came later. Dark tar that swallowed him whole. Heavy, hot, threatening. The fierce wish to sink into it, to bury his immortality, to suffer forever.
“Verso?” A faint whisper, a hesitant hand. Her slight body, settling beside him on the bed.
No anger that she drew him out of the tar. The pain remained, as did the exhaustion.
The room spun. He saw himself from above—and her at his side, her long black hair. He saw himself resting his head on her shoulder; saw how she turned toward him, her warm arms encircling him. And he heard the quiet “Shhh” as he began to tremble and tears burst from his eyes.
With a shudder, he fell back into his body—from the darkest corner of the room into the space touched by the faint light of night, slipping through the window to enclose them both. He felt connection, yet still pain.
He wept until only a film of salt covered his face.