Chapter Text
“Run… please run.”
Her silver eyes were wide, pleading with him, shaking her head in desperation. But he saw it in her face—she knew he would not. He could not. If he ran, they would all die. His choice had been made long ago: if it came down to it, he would give everything to keep her alive.
Maelle pressed her hand to the barrier, only to recoil with a sharp hiss as it shocked her, panic flooding her eyes. Inside the enclosure, Gustave staggered back, bloodied and weakened, pain crawling through every nerve. Slowly, he turned to face the man who had slaughtered his friends and comrades. Gustave knew the truth—he would not win. This was his last stand. But if it was the end, he would make it count.
“Why… why are you doing this?” he asked, voice breaking, desperate for even a shred of an answer.
The elderly man only approached, cane striking stone with each step. The sound echoed in the chamber, sharp and merciless, like a predator’s tread. His eyes glinted with confidence, with cruelty. He had no intention of answering. Only killing.
Fear surged in Gustave’s chest, but he clenched his teeth, steeling his nerves—for Maelle’s sake. With a ragged breath, he charged. His blade lashed out again and again, each strike fierce, desperate. But the old man did not flinch. He absorbed every blow, unfazed, as though allowing the attacks to fall against him.
“Let her go. Please…” Gustave begged, his voice trembling. But still the man did not speak. His gaze was cold, unyielding, daring Gustave to continue.
With a growl, Gustave pressed on, blade crashing against cane in sparks of fury. Finally, he gathered everything—his arm shaking as chroma swelled, lightning sparking and building until his entire body trembled with the force of it. With a cry, he unleashed the storm, a massive bolt tearing forward.
The white-haired man’s eyes widened, caught off guard, as the strike hurled him backward, stone shattering under the impact. Gustave staggered, breath ragged, a faint smile tugging his lips. For a fleeting moment, hope bloomed—the enemy had not risen.
He turned to Maelle. Her eyes shone with relief, mirroring his own. But then her expression shifted—relief collapsing into horror.
Gustave froze, dread creeping up his spine. Slowly, he turned.
The man was already rising, unscathed, cane in hand, as if nothing had touched him.
Hope drained from Gustave’s body. His gaze fell, voice low and weary. “For those who come after… right?”
Maelle’s tears blurred her vision as she slammed her fists against the barrier. “No… no, no, no! You promised—!”
But Gustave faced forward again. With a final war cry, he hurled himself toward the enemy, body burning with the last remnants of strength. His blade arced—only for his world to tilt violently as pain lanced through him. He collapsed, the impact reverberating through the chamber.
The world was fading. His breath slowed. He could no longer feel his limbs, only the heavy pull of darkness. Maelle’s screams pierced the void, her voice breaking with terror.
But he could not move. The lull of sleep was stronger.
And then, darkness embraced him like an old friend.
He felt weightless, suspended in a void. It was comforting, almost like sinking into the softness of a mattress.
But then he froze.
When he shifted his weight, he could feel it. Was he… dreaming?
One eye cracked open. His vision blurred, shapes melting together until they resolved into something soft—pillows. He blinked rapidly, heart racing, then sat upright with a ragged breath. His hand flew to his chest. The wound—gone. No pain, no blood. As if it had all been a nightmare.
He turned his gaze outward. He was in a room—large, grand, the kind of chamber he imagined might have belonged to Lumière at its prime. Windows stretched high, revealing cliffs of black obsidian stone beyond. Alien. Unfamiliar.
Had he not died?
His breath quickened as the memory slammed into him—the white-haired man, the strike, Maelle screaming at the barrier. Where was she? Where were the others? Did they survive?
The door creaked open. Warm light spilled in from the corridor. A small figure appeared in the frame—a young girl balancing an armful of folded clothes. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.
“You’re awake!” she cried, voice bright with glee. She tossed the bundle onto his bed before darting out into the hall, her voice echoing:
“Maman! Maman! Uncle Gustave is awake!”
Gustave sat frozen, staring after her. Uncle? He had never seen the girl before in his life—certainly not in Lumière. And yet she knew his name.
The door opened again. He looked up—and gasped.
“L-Lune?”
She smiled softly, stepping closer. “Hello, old friend.”
His chest tightened. She looked the same, yet different—an aura about her that unsettled him. Questions spilled into his mind faster than words could form.
“W-What happened? The cliffside—Maelle? Are they—?”
Lune raised a hand, stopping him gently. “You should get dressed first,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”
He looked down at the clothes tossed across the bed, then back at her. But before he could speak, she had already turned, slipping silently out the door.
It clicked shut, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
He stared a moment longer, confusion knotting in his chest. Slowly, he flexed his prosthetic arm, the weight of it grounding him. Then, with hesitation, he pulled back the sheets and glanced down—only to tug them back quickly, throat clearing.
Perhaps… it was best she had given him space to dress.
It didn’t take long for him to dress, but the unease didn’t leave him. The suit was the same one he had worn in Lumière—how had Lune gotten it? Had they gone back to Lumière while he was unconscious? Questions spiraled through his head as he stepped into the hallway.
Then he stopped dead.
He knew this place.
This was the surreal manor he had stumbled upon in the Flying Waters—the place where that strange, faceless humanoid creature had wandered its halls, where he had found Maelle.
But now, it felt… different. Alive.
He moved forward, one hand gripping the railing, following the sound of muffled conversation drifting up from below. His steps carried him down the sweeping staircase, through the carved archway, into what appeared to be a dining hall. A fire burned to the left, and beyond it a cozy seating area.
Then he froze.
Two children shot up from the sofa the moment they saw him.
“Uncle Gustave!” they cried, running to him and clinging to his legs with delighted squeals.
Gustave stared down at them, wide-eyed, before glancing up.
“Éloi. Maelle. Give your uncle some space,” Lune said with a sigh.
Maelle?
The name hit him like a blow. He looked from the girl to Lune, struggling to speak.
“Maman…” the girl protested, pouting, “But I want to play with Uncle Gustave!”
“Me too!” the boy added, bouncing on his heels.
“M—Maman!?” Gustave echoed, his voice rough with disbelief.
Only then did he notice—Lune looked different. Her hair was no longer the practical shoulder-length she had always worn but long, loose, and nearly waist-length.
“Enough,” Lune said more firmly, and the children reluctantly released him.
A woman rose from the corner—white hair, pale skin, her face partly concealed by a mask. Gustave stiffened at the sight of her, his hand unconsciously hovering ready for battle. But the children seemed unbothered, taking the woman’s hand without hesitation.
“Thank you, Alicia,” Lune said softly.
The masked woman nodded and led the children away, their chatter fading as they disappeared up the stairs.
When the room was quiet again, Lune turned to the nearby bar and uncorked a bottle.
“A drink?” she offered.
Gustave hesitated, still trying to catch up, but finally nodded. Maybe strong liquor would help make sense of this insanity.
Lune poured two glasses of bourbon, handed one to him, and raised hers before taking a slow sip.
He downed his in a gulp. “How long has it been?” he asked, his voice low, cautious.
Lune’s eyes widened—and then, to his shock, she laughed. A warm, unguarded sound.
“Not long,” she said, gesturing for him to sit. “A few weeks? A month, perhaps. I’ve lost track.”
“Long enough for you to sprout two children?” he said incredulously, settling beside her.
Her smile didn’t falter. “It is short to you, but for me? It’s been years. Decades.”
Gustave shook his head. “I don’t follow.”
“You’re not meant to,” she said, almost casually.
He narrowed his eyes. “Since when do you avoid questions?”
“I’m not avoiding,” she said, setting her glass down. “It’s just… I’m not sure you’re ready for the answer.”
“Try me,” he said, leaning forward.
She opened her mouth to speak—
“Père!”
The children’s voices echoed down the hall.
Lune muttered a curse under her breath, a flicker of irritation crossing her face.
Gustave blinked, alarmed by her reaction, but followed the sound of running feet. He reached the staircase just as the children’s laughter rang out—followed by a man’s chuckle, deep and unfamiliar.
“Grand-père!” Éloi cried.
And then Gustave saw him.
The white-haired man. The cane. The predator who had cornered him, who had cut him down.
He froze, every muscle locking as his breath caught in his throat. The man’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight of him.
And in that moment, Gustave felt the world tilt.
Then—Lune’s hand landed gently on his shoulder.
“Gustave…”
He jerked away from her touch, eyes wild.
“What is this?” he demanded, his voice cracking. “Are you with him!? No—no, you’re not her. Who are you?”
“I am not your enemy,” Lune said softly, hands raised just enough to calm him. “And neither is he—unless you make him one.”
“Make him—?” Gustave spat, his voice cracking as he swung toward the white-haired man. “Do you have any idea what he’s done—”
“I do.” Lune’s voice cut through him like a blade. Her tone was immediate, unflinching.
Gustave froze, thrown off by her certainty.
“But if you draw on him now,” she went on, her eyes narrowing, “you will never see Maelle again.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. His breath caught as he staggered back, one hand clutching the nearest balustrade.
“What did you just say?”
“Maelle is alive,” Lune said evenly, stepping closer. “So is Sciel. So is your Lune. But they do not know you survived.”
He felt the floor tilt under him. His voice came out broken, hoarse. “I… I died?”
“Yes.” Lune’s tone softened, but only slightly. “And we brought you back. But if you throw your life away a second time…” Her arms crossed, her silver eyes glinting. “…we won’t do it again.”
The silence stretched, heavy as stone. Gustave looked from her to the man with the cane, his body trembling with anger, grief, confusion.
Finally, he forced out a single word. “Fine.”
“Good.”
The word was simple, but in Lune’s mouth it sounded like a verdict. She turned, gesturing toward the fireplace.
“Then sit,” she said. “We’ll talk like adults.”
He walked with heavy steps back to the fireplace, the echo of Lune’s voice still ringing in his ears. She followed, calm and collected, as he poured himself another drink and downed it in a single motion. When he finally looked up, she was standing by the hearth, her eyes fixed on him with quiet intensity.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Your Expedition — what’s left of it — is alive and safe,” Lune said evenly.
“If she’s out there,” Gustave said, pointing toward the doors, “then who are you?”
“I’m also Lune,” she replied without hesitation. “Where I come from is… complicated. A different reality, if you like.”
He let out a humourless chuckle, poured himself another, and drank. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe it or don’t,” Lune said, her tone cooling. “It changes nothing. The situation is dire.”
That gave him pause. He lowered the glass slowly. “What situation?”
“Your Expedition almost caused a complete Gommage,” she said.
Gustave froze, then shot to his feet. “What do you mean?”
“They nearly killed the Paintress.”
His brow furrowed. “But the Paintress is our mission, Lune. Have you forgotten?”
“No,” she said firmly. “We were wrong. She’s the one holding the Gommage back. The real threat is the Curator.”
“The— the creature we found in that other manor? The one at Flying Waters?” His voice hitched in horror. “How do you even know this, if you’re not… her?”
“Because I lived through it once already,” Lune said quietly. “In my lifetime, the Gommage happened. Lumière was erased.”
His breath caught. “You… you did?”
“Yes. And if we fail now, it will happen again.” Her eyes locked with his. “Do you understand the gravity of what you were about to unleash?”
He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. “How— why are you even here? How did you—”
“One question at a time,” she interrupted gently. “You’ve just come back from death. I’d rather not overload you.”
He exhaled sharply, hands clenching at his sides, before forcing out, “Then at least answer me this. Why was that white-haired man so hell-bent on killing us?”
“Because you were after the wrong enemy,” Lune said simply.
But he could tell she was withholding something. Her composure was too perfect, her words too neat.
“Who is he?” Gustave asked, his voice low.
Lune’s expression flickered. “He was the commander of Expedition Zero.”
His head jerked back. “Expedition… Zero? Then he’s—”
“Immortal,” she finished. “Yes. You can’t kill him, no matter how hard you try.”
Gustave’s gaze darted between her and the door, suspicion sharpening. “You’re living under the same roof as him. What’s your connection?”
Lune’s mouth twitched. She gave a soft, almost amused chuckle. “You might want to pour another drink before I answer.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Because he’s my father-in-law.”
The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor.
“You’re… what?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”
“But how— what—”
“Then… those children?” Gustave whispered, pointing toward the staircase.
Lune nodded without hesitation. “His grandchildren, yes.”
Gustave’s breath hitched. “W—were you forced—?”
Lune laughed — bright, sharp, startling in the quiet room — before sighing. “No, Gustave. Nothing like that. The other you even attended my wedding — with Sophie.”
Her words struck him like a blow. He froze, eyes wide. “S—Sophie is alive?”
“Not here,” Lune admitted, her voice softening.
“I… see,” he said quietly, slumping back into the sofa. His fingers twitched, restless, before he asked, almost in a whisper, “Then how could Sophie be alive if the Gommage never happened?”
“It’s… complicated,” she said carefully.
“Try me,” he urged, his voice sharpening, a flicker of desperate hope flashing in his eyes.
Lune opened her mouth — but another voice cut through the room.
“Is everything alright?”
Gustave turned sharply, his glare meeting a stranger’s silver eyes. The man stood framed in the archway, his dark hair streaked with white, his presence steady and unnervingly calm.
“It’s fine,” Lune said, her tone softening as she smiled at the man. Then she turned back to Gustave, her voice firm but not unkind. “We should end this talk here.”
“But—”
“I’m exhausted,” Lune interrupted, pressing her fingers to her temple. “I have something to show you tomorrow. Ask me then.”
He hesitated, his lips thinning, then finally nodded. “Alright.”
“Good.” She gave a small, approving nod. “And don’t drown yourself in liquor tonight.”
He opened his mouth to retort, then stopped as she turned away, joining the silver-streaked man at the archway. They walked upstairs hand in hand, their steps quiet but intimate.
Gustave let out a long, shaky breath, the echo of the closing door ringing in the grand hall. He pressed a hand to his forehead, slumping back against the sofa.
What on earth had he just stepped into?
Sleep continued to evade him. He had tried—gods knew he had tried—but every time he closed his eyes, he felt as if he’d only just awoken from an eternal slumber.
He had died, after all. And now here he was, given a second chance.
But why?
Gustave stood at the window of the manor, staring into the strange, quiet grounds beyond. Everything about this place unsettled him. The way the air felt too still, too focused—as if the world itself were arranged around this house.
And worse still—he was sharing a roof with his killer.
And that man had somehow…become Lune’s family?
His mind could not wrap around it. The very idea felt obscene. Lune, who had been stubborn, fierce, unwilling to forgive those who wronged her—would never have allowed this. This had to be some alternate reality. Some trick.
Either way, he was here now. And staring into a world he no longer recognised.
Was he even still on the Continent?
A soft knock broke him from his thoughts.
“Y-Yes?” he called, startled by how hoarse his own voice sounded.
The door creaked open and a young girl peeked through. The same girl who shared the name of his daughter-sister figure—Maelle.
“U-Uncle Gustave,” she said tentatively, “Maman wondered if you’d like to join us for breakfast?”
“B-Breakfast?” The word caught in his throat. The Expedition had lived off stale rations for months—eating well felt almost wrong. But he nodded slowly, and the girl’s face brightened as she swung the door open wider.
She held out her hand.
For a moment, Gustave just stared at it, then took it. And in that instant, he really looked at her—those silver eyes, unmistakably like the murderer’s. But her lips, her face, her expression—those were Lune’s.
A memory flashed unbidden. Not an obsidian-haired girl dragging him away, but a red-haired one instead.
He shook it off violently. Now wasn’t the time to get sentimental.
The child led him through the quiet halls until the sound of plates clinking and voices chattering reached him.
And then they reached the dining hall.
Gustave froze.
Lune sat at the table, her son—Éloi?—beside her.
On her other side was him. The man from last night. Talking casually with the masked woman seated across from him, as though this were just another morning in a peaceful household.
The chair at the head of the table stood empty. Gustave swallowed. Surely that was his seat.
A tug on his hand pulled him back. Maelle looked up at him with quiet worry, and Gustave forced a faint smile. He let her lead him toward an empty chair near the masked woman.
He sat stiffly, nodding awkwardly to her in greeting. She returned the gesture with a polite incline of her head before Maelle skipped to her own seat beside Éloi.
The spread before him was simple but warm—fruits, cheeses, bread. His stomach turned.
“I hope the room was comfortable,” a voice said.
Gustave glanced up to find the children’s father looking at him.
“Yes,” Gustave said after a moment, forcing a smile.
“Though I believe sleep still eludes him,” Lune teased gently, gesturing to the dark circles under his eyes.
Gustave blinked. She knew him too well—still. It was eerie.
Part of him felt curiosity gnawing at him, but most of it was just the constant ache of wondering about the Expedition. Were they alive? Was any of this real?
He chose to be courteous, hoping politeness might earn him answers.
“I’m sorry,” Gustave said, glancing at the man, “but we’ve never been properly introduced.”
Lune looked at her husband, and they exchanged a brief, knowing look before she said, “This is my husband, Verso Dessendre.”
Verso inclined his head slightly. “Enchanté.”
Gustave nodded stiffly.
“And this,” Lune said, gesturing across the table, “is his sister, Alicia Dessendre.”
Gustave turned and offered a short nod. “Enchantée.”
The masked woman inclined her head but said nothing.
“She lost her voice a long time ago,” Lune explained softly.
Gustave’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry…”
Alicia’s single visible eye widened in mild surprise before she shook her head as if to say she was fine.
Gustave stared at the two across from him before finally asking, voice low but steady,
“You told me before that it had only been mere weeks for me… but for the two of you, it’s been years? How does that work exactly?”
Lune straightened, clearly weighing how much to tell him.
“As I said before,” she replied carefully, “my family and I are not from here. We lived in a different version of Lumière—one where you still lived, never knowing of the Gommage.”
Gustave’s chest tightened. He held his composure, though anger prickled just beneath the surface.
“How can such a thing be possible?”
Verso simply shrugged, his tone frustratingly casual.
“We dealt with the problem early on.”
“So…” Gustave hesitated, “…are you here to help us?”
“In a way,” Lune said softly, nodding once.
Even as she spoke, Gustave felt the weight of what remained unsaid. They were still keeping something from him—how they arrived here, what they truly wanted. He would have to stay guarded, and pry more carefully later—
Lune leaned toward her son. “Do you want to give Uncle Gustave his present?”
Éloi’s eyes lit up. “Can I, Maman?”
Lune chuckled. “Why not?”
The boy hopped down from his chair and ran over to Gustave’s side. Before Gustave could even ask, the boy summoned a sketchbook with a soft glimmer of chroma. He flipped through the pages, fumbling with excitement, until he found the one he wanted.
He turned the book toward Gustave with a proud smile.
Gustave’s breath caught.
It was a portrait—an almost perfect likeness of himself, standing tall and proud. But what shook him was not the boy’s skill… it was who stood beside him.
A woman—Sophie—smiling warmly, her hand linked with his. And just below them, a young boy grinning, his hair unmistakably like Gustave’s, his features a mirror of Sophie’s.
“S-Sorry it’s not perfect,” Éloi said shyly. “I only drew them from memory. Do you like it, Uncle Gustave?”
Gustave’s throat constricted. He traced the page with a trembling finger before whispering hoarsely,
“W…Who is this?”
Éloi blinked, confused, clutching his sketchbook closer. “Did I not get their faces right? That’s Aunt Sophie and my cousin Henri.”
Gustave’s breath hitched.
“Éloi,” Lune said gently, smiling at her son, “it’s perfect. Go ahead—give it to him.”
The boy nodded eagerly, carefully tearing the page out and placing it in Gustave’s shaking hands.
He stared at it, unable to speak. His heart pounded painfully in his chest.
This—this was the life he had always wanted. The life he believed was stolen from him when Sophie had been Gommage… when she refused to bear children into the bleak, dying world.
But here… here, in this other reality, the other him had everything Gustave had dreamed of.
“Aunt Sophie performs in Père’s theatre sometimes,” Éloi said cheerfully, breaking Gustave’s reverie. “We watch together—with Geneviève and Henri.”
“G…Geneviève?” Gustave rasped, almost afraid to breathe.
“She’s my cousin,” Éloi explained simply, but turned to his mother, confused by Gustave’s reaction.
Lune’s expression softened. “Uncle Gustave has lost some of his memories, petit. You can remind him.”
Éloi straightened with a look of determination. “Geneviève is Uncle Sol and Aunt Emma’s daughter.”
The words struck Gustave like a physical blow.
Even his sister… had found the life she wanted. A family. A child.
He hadn’t realised tears had escaped down his cheeks until his voice cracked.
“Can you tell me… more about them?”