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Chapter Text

Verso stumbled into Esquie's cave, bones aching. The last expedition had been another disaster, massacred by a band of Nevrons. Verso had been in the middle of it, and it had taken time for the Nevrons to finally get bored of cleaving through his body. Though his healing had kicked in, he hadn't fully recovered yet. His back burned like hell and he yearned to have a moment of peace. His friend's belly contained everything necessary for a sweet night of oblivion, and the absence of Nevrons lowered his chances of waking up torn into pieces.

“Verso, mon ami!”

Verso smiled at the cheerful greeting.

“It's nice to see you, mon ami. Has life treated you well?”

“Oh yes, wonderfully! François got a new funny-shaped stone, and I am receiving a visit from my best friend!” Esquie spun on himself, letting out a wheee sound. He stopped mid-spin to look at Verso. “What about you, mon ami?”

“Oh you know, the usual.”

Verso dragged himself all the way to Esquie soft belly, letting out a sigh as he finally rested part of his weight on it. He leaned sideways, careful not to apply pressure on his bare back. 

Esquie's head leaned towards him, something akin to concern on his face. “You look smaller.” His huge finger came up and down, as if to seize whether Verso's height had changed since the last time he'd seen him. His face crunched up in consideration before he finally said, “Have you lost your Soarries?”

Verso tiredly chuckled. “You could say that.”

Raising his head, Verso was almost disappointed to find rock instead of an endless blue. He hadn't been in the sky for so long—

He wondered whether Esquie felt the same yearning as the one currently squeezing his chest, when his friend lost his flying rock. He suddenly felt guilty for all the times he had lost patience and complained about having to go fetch it. To lose the ability to fly…

Verso had tried jumping from a cliff, but it wasn't quite the same. The fall was disappointingly short, and the landing was rarely worth it.

As if guessing his thoughts had wandered to a darker place, Esquie’s palm came to rest on his head and began to ruffle his hair. “You know, I lose my rocks all the time too.” The petting stopped. Verso almost lost his balance as his support suddenly disappeared. Esquie had stood up, his whole being brightening. “Mon ami, you always help me find my rocks back. This time I can help you find yours!”

Verso shook his head. “It's fine, Esquie. I'm the one who discarded them.”

Esquie sat back, disappointed. Verso felt mournful to have made his cheerful friend sad, but he didn’t want Esquie to go on an epic quest to recover his wings, when all Verso had to do was wait for the limbs to grow back. He settled back against his friend, letting them fall into companionable silence.

Esquie was the one to break it, his voice a gentle whisper in the quietness of the cave. “You miss them.”

He did.

There was no denying it. Verso missed the twin weight at his back.

He had been used for years to travel throughout the continent like a bird, free to go from island to island without any obstacle in his path. The wingcare had been annoying at first, but it had fast become a habit, and even a way to bond with Gestrals over feathers and fur. Living with both feet on the ground, going back to exploring the continent at ground level like he had first done with expedition zero… it had taught him a lot, but it wasn’t the same.

“It's fine,” he lied.

Of course Esquie caught it. Yet there was only patience and understanding in his gentle eyes. “You know, when I lose my rocks, I miss them too.”

Verso felt a smirk pull up his lips. An answer was rolling on his tongue when a cramping pain flashed throughout his back. The burning had worsened, leaving place to a familiar ache.

Putain.

He must have lost focus on the leash he kept on his regeneration at some point. After being cut apart by Nevrons, his body must have decided to regain its full integrity. No matter what he did, Verso couldn’t quite manage to put his wing stumps into stasis like he had his scars.

“I must go, mon ami,” he gritted out.

He tripped more than he ran to the cave entrance. He had to get rid of them before they were fully grown. It was easier when the limbs had just broken through the skin, the bones still thin and brittle, the nerves not yet fully connected to the rest of his system. Still the affair was messy, and he didn’t want Esquie to see that.

Verso found a small enclosure near the cave, hidden from the entrance by a series of bushes and crossed by a thread of running water which would facilitate the cleaning. He materialised his knife and waited for the ascending pain which would signal the newborn wings had escaped the confinement of his back. The cramps came and went for a few minutes before finally, when it felt like his skin was stretched beyond what was possible between the twin bumps, the limbs broke through.

He clenched his hands on his weapon’s handle and prepared for a very painful set of minutes.

A pair of tiny bloody limbs on the ground later, Verso was kneeling next to the stream, trying to breathe through the shakes wracking his frame. He needed to wash off the blood covering him. He needed to go back to the cave before Esquie worried too much. He needed to dispose of the torn wings.

A large shadow fell over him. 

“Here you are, mon ami.”

Verso stopped breathing.

So much for not letting Esquie witness his pitiful state. He forced his muscles to relax, taking deep inhales until his jaw unclenched and his fists settled into open palms. There was no use worrying his friend more than he probably already was.

Verso forced a smile on his lips before turning around. “You didn’t need to come.”

His intended effect was quite lost as the movement pulled on the open wound on his back, twisting his smile into a scowl. Esquie thankfully didn’t comment on it.

Having nothing left to lose, Verso turned back towards the stream and began to wash himself. The act was made awkward by the continuous shake of his arms, and he ended up splashing more water on his pants than his back, but the cool liquid felt like a balm on his burning skin.

Once finished, he found himself too exhausted to move. Gathering clouds had hidden the sun, plunging the valley into darkness. The feverish burning of his body turned into a stinging cold, but still Verso couldn’t find it in himself to reach the warmer cover of the cave. His gaze lost itself in the light plays of the water, a slight buzz filling his mind.

He barely reacted when a hand came to envelop him and lift him against a soft belly. It slightly bounced as Esquie brought them both back to the cave. He lowered Verso on a nest of moss as if he was a precious package, his eyes mournfully gazing at his shoulder blades. Verso twisted so his opened back was hidden from the gentle giant’s view. 

Still, the strange light in Esquie’s eyes didn’t change. “One day, you will find friends you don't have to lose rocks for.”

“Perhaps,” Verso whispered in acknowledgement, more to Esquie’s benefit than for any belief it could be true.

Another white lie amidst a thousand.

The moss was comfortable, and the cave warm. Verso settled deeper into its softness. His mind still felt dizzy in the aftermath of the incident with the Nevrons and his wings’ subsequent growth and amputation.

A finger carefully brushed some hairs away from his eyes. “Rest, mon ami.”

Verso let the words wash over him. He was safe. He was tired. 

Sleep came and took him away.

Chapter Text

Verso was deeply regretting his decision to trek up the mountain where Monoco had made his home. The path that had once taken only a few wingbeats felt never-ending now. But he hadn’t seen his friend in a while and he wanted to make sure the Gestral hadn’t stuck himself under another train, as well as perhaps invite him to join him for the next expedition. Verso was hoping to take down an Axon this year. They would need all the strength they could gather for that.

He was panting by the time he arrived in front of Monoco’s station. His breath came out in small wispy clouds, the cold burning his throat with each inhale. He stopped, alert. Knowing Monoco, he was nearby, preparing his usual greeting.

It wasn’t long before a whoosh of snow warned Verso to move. A snowball missed his face by a few centimeters, soon followed by a long staff as Monoco jumped from beneath the train. It would have been an ideal place for an ambush had Verso come in flying. It would have forced him to navigate the narrow path between the wagons to retaliate, turning the large wings into a hindrance.

Verso had come on foot.

He parried the staff. “Is the cold making you sluggish or are you just slow?” 

Monoco jumped back. “What about you? Feathers froze over and fell?”

Verso repressed a wince. He materialised his sword, letting none of his unease show. “I don't need any to beat you.”

“We’ll see.”

The staff struck again before Verso had time to think about an answer. Not that he needed to. The following exchange of blows was as much words as they ever needed between them.

Monoco was holding back, his blows softer than they should have been. Concerned. Annoyance pinched at Verso's heart. His strikes turned nastier in return. I'm fine.

They separated, letting the fight fall into a lull as they caught their breath. The snow under their feet slowly took the shape of a circle as they gauged the other, expectantly waiting for them to do the next move. Monoco breathed in and Verso tensed, but the blow that came wasn’t physical. It was verbal.

“What happened to your wings?”

Verso nonchalantly rolled his wrists, as if Monoco’s question hadn’t pierced his chest with a wave of mixed feelings. He played the fool. “What do you mean mon vieux? I've never had wings. Humans don't tend to.”

That’s what he was pretending to be, wasn’t it? Just another citizen of Lumière joining the yearly expedition, rather than a creature the Paintress made in her grief.

Silence fell as Monoco failed to retort.

Verso repressed the need to fidget under his friend's increased scrutiny. Sometimes, it felt as if the Gestral had the power of seeing right through his heart. For all he knew, Verso had painted him with soul-reading skills. And from the loaded stare aimed at him, whatever Monoco was reading did not impress him.

It was a while before Monoco raised his voice. “You removed them?”

He swallowed. As always, his friend had struck right in the bullseye. An evading joke bloomed on his tongue, but he repressed it. Monoco deserved the truth.

Verso nodded. “I removed them.”

He really should have expected the incoming blow against his head.

“Idiot!”

He dodged, too late to parry. Monoco's previously soft blows turned harsher. He was angry.

Verso's lips pulled up, unable to stop the flutter of adrenaline rising in his chest at the increasing challenge. He definitely felt in the mood for a proper fight. 

His smile didn't stay on very long. This was the first time he fought Monoco without the ability to fly, and he was feeling the toll of losing his wings. Now that he stopped going easy on him, Monoco was taking full advantage of Verso's limited range of movement. He led Verso on obstacles to stumble on, trapped him into corners he would have once taken off from to escape. In the midst of the fight, it was sometimes hard to remember the sky was inaccessible, and Verso jumped more than once only to flounder as pain wracked his back and gravity recalled him to earth.

The Gestral transforming into a Luster was what really took the cake. This Nevron shape was light and speedy but possessed a fatal flaw: it struggled to see up. When Monoco took this shape, Verso would generally just grab him from the air and throw him around until the Gestral shifted back.

He couldn't do any of that now. Instead, he was forced to face the Nevron at head on, a perfect prey for its increasingly fast attacks. Verso parried as many blows as he could, but Monoco’s tactic to corner him into trip hazards was paying off. He could feel the tiredness pulling at his muscles, slowing him down in crucial moments and weakening his strikes. Verso's attacks missed more often than not, while Luster-Monoco managed to get in more and more hits. 

Deciding to end the combat before he fully tired himself out, Verso sprang into a somersault to catch Monoco in his blind spot. He miscalculated. He kicked too strongly, his weight off by two limbs. His sword only caught Luster-Monoco’s mane and he barely caught himself on the slippery snow, rolling on his shoulder to soften the fall. 

Verso didn't have time to get his bearings. As soon as he stumbled back to his feet, an energetic swipe sent him back to the frozen ground. The collision hit the gap left by his wings, sending a wave of pain through his spine.

This time, Verso didn't stand up. He couldn't.

He glared at the staff pointed at his neck.

“I win,” Monoco said from above, back into his Gestral self.

Verso sighted. “You win.”

Now that the fight was over, he tried to straighten up, but was stopped by the staff. It still stood above his neck, blocking any attempt to raise up. Verso sent Monoco an inquisitive look. The weapon didn't move.

Instead, the Gestral settled comfortably on Verso’s belly, effectively securing him to the ground. “What happened?”

Verso let himself fall back, surrendering to the coming interrogation. “I needed to look human.”

Monoco scoffed. “You're human.”

Verso let out a tired chuckle. “Expeditioners disagree.”

Gestrals didn't care about humanity and whatnot. The canvas was filled with sentient beings of all sorts. But Monoco knew what Verso meant when he said human. He knew Verso had truly said I needed to look like a real person.

Sometimes, Verso wondered about the difference between him and a Nevron, apart from the hand that had painted them into existence.

A knock on his head pulled him out of his darkening thoughts. “What about Gestrals and Grandis? What about Esquie? What are we?”

Are we not people as well?

Verso looked away, unable to deny his friend his “humanity.” But as sentient as Gestrals were… they weren't copies.

“It's not the same.”

They had been painted by Verso. They belonged here, in this canvas, more than anything that had been added after. They didn't need to be humans to be people. Their difference was a mark of pride as the original inhabitants of the canvas, not a mark of belonging to the Paintress raging a war of grief above them.

He flinched as Monoco's wooden fingers caught his, bringing their joined hands to Verso’s chest. His heart pulsed fast beneath his palm. Monoco stared at him, his mask daring Verso to look away again. “Human.”

The fingers pinned Verso’s hand in place. He felt each breath, each rush of pressure as blood was sent to every corner of his body. He felt as his heart beat on, and on, and on—

A heart that would never stop beating.

Verso closed his eyes. He was too tired to argue more.

Chapter Text

Verso was out of breath, muscles aching from all the running he had done as soon as the first signal flare filled the sky. Still, he had been too late.

The last expeditioner's body was still cooling when Renoir turned towards Verso, his massive wings spread over the battlefield like a shadow of death.

His gaze wandered to Verso’s empty back and froze. His hands clenched on the cane handle as his wings folded. “My son… what have you done?”

Verso tensed. “What was necessary.”

In a blink, Renoir was in front of him, reaching into his personal space. Verso stepped back, but too late. He flinched as Renoir's arms stretched, readying himself for a punishing lethal blow—only to blink as Papa’s arms harmlessly wrapped around him, pulling him into his warm chest.

Hugging him.

The scar around his eye ached, a wordless reminder of what once had been and could never be again. Still, despite himself, Verso relaxed. As black feathers fell like a curtain between their family and the harsh reality of a cruel world, his body recognised what his mind couldn’t. There was no place on the continent that felt safer than his father’s embrace.

It was a while before either of them moved. Renoir’s heart beat regularly against Verso’s ear, ringing like an anchor in darkness. His father’s heavy cloak and feathers surrounded him like a leathery curtain, obstructing his sight. The scent of blood filled his nose, mixed with a rich perfume Verso hadn’t smelled in years. It felt strange, to feel so calm in the arms of a cold-blooded murderer, while meters away, his agonising victims were vanishing under the sun.

But then Verso had killed his share as well, and would kill a lot more if his plan worked. Including the man currently hugging him.

The thought was chilling. He wiggled, growing uncomfortable with the familiarity of the embrace after everything that happened. His father released him, wide wings folding back to reveal the world once again. A battlefield haunted by the dead.

Verso stepped back. Cold settled like a familiar weight on his shoulders as his father’s touch faded into a memory. He welcomed the chill. This was the way things were, the way they should be.

This year’s expeditioners were gone. His father had won the round. Verso turned heels, intent on wasting the next few months in some corner deep enough to forget the absolute fiasco this had been, until it was time to try again. Maybe go back to Monoco, or find another of Esquie’s rocks.

A hand grabbed his arm. “I beg you to reconsider this foolishness. Come home.”

Renoir had a pleading look in his eyes. The same one he held, years ago, when they carved a scar into each other’s face. Verso tensed.

“I can't.”

The fingers gripping his arm clenched. “You must. Look what you've done to yourself.”

Verso freed himself. Had he still his wings, they would have doubled in volume, fluffed up with defiance. “Will you stop killing expeditioners?”

His father stilled. “I’m doing what I need to protect our family. They're a threat.”

Fire raged inside Verso’s chest. “To whom?!”

This was an overspent argument, one they already knew neither would win. His mother needed to leave, even if that meant the destruction of the canvas. His father might be content living a half life for years and more, but Verso had had enough. He needed to die.

But Renoir had been painted by Aline, after all. He would never betray her, never give up on their children, even if staying meant her death. A loyal knight to the end.

Verso wondered what his father saw in this painted copy of his not-son. Whatever it was, it lit his face with an unpleasant glint of pity.

“Will you really not reconsider?” Renoir asked.

Verso shook his head. “Will you?”

“Alicia misses you. I miss you.”

Verso clenched his fists, repressing a flinch. His father must be truly desperate to call on such a low blow.

Truth was, he missed her as well. Both of them, despite everything that opposed him to his father. He missed Alicia’s quiet chuckles as he played piano. He missed his father’s air of pride as he climbed the stairs of life. He missed Clea’s whispers as she confided in her last scheme. He missed Aline’s gentle hand, as she guided his unexperienced brush on blank canvas.

See things as they are, not how you want them to be. 

The past they had been painted with barely existed. It was long gone, and would never be again. Aline was trapped above the Monolith, her life and sanity slowly slipping away. Clea had disappeared decades ago. The manor hallways were empty, haunted by Alicia’s tortured steps and Renoir’s illusionary hope. This family was too broken to ever be mended.

There was another Alicia running around in Lumière now. A toddler, if he was to believe the real Clea's message. One that would bring this broken cycle to an end.

Verso turned away. “I'm sorry. I can’t go back.”

He ran, not waiting to hear his father’s next plea. There was a knot in his chest, a yearning for love that scared him. Verso focused on the dying expeditioners spread like broken dolls on the ground. He recalled the air of betrayal Julie wore as she confronted him, her maniacal smile as she tore him apart. 

He couldn’t give in to Aline’s delusion. He was a copy, and the real Verso was dead. Dopplegangers didn’t get happy endings.

The knot in his chest only loosened once he was out of sight, the air void of any telltale whoosh announcing a wingbeat.

Coward.

Vero walked on. Perhaps if he was lucky, some Nevron would have built a trap, and the ground would open beneath his feet to swallow him whole. If he was extremely lucky, perhaps he would even stay dead.

Unlike his counterpart, Verso had never been lucky.

He did however stumble on a group of Nevrons, though it was more due to the mixed feelings overwhelming him than any attempt on his part. Several Pèlerins held up their sword as they noticed him. The distraction was welcome, and Verso was delighted to find something to fight. That is, until the Pèlerins grunts called other Nevrons, including several Braseleurs. Now reinforced, the group was stronger than what Verso could currently fight alone. He moved to retreat, only to realise the exit path was blocked. The Nevrons had him surrounded.

Verso swallowed. It was far from his first time falling prey to Nevrons. None of them had been pleasant, the creatures often taking their time before officially declaring him dead and moving on.

He looked around. The bare plateau he found himself on was bordered by a cliff plunging directly into the freezing sea. Drowning wasn’t pleasant either, but it was better than being tortured for hours until his bones ached so much he couldn't even twitch.

One of the smaller Pèlerins stood between him and his newly found escape road. If he raced, he was confident he could beat it out of his path and jump before any of the others could strike him. Fire orbs warningly materialised behind a Braseleur.

There had been days where he could have just flown away.

Verso materialised his weapon and charged. His plan rolled along surprisingly well, though one of the Braseleur fire managed to nick him in the shoulder before he could reach his destination. The small Pèlerin posed no threat once its legs were cut, and soon enough, Verso was somersaulting over the edge.

As always, the fall was short and the landing painful. 

As fate would have it, he struck some of the sharp rocks that bordered the coast instead of sinking relatively harmlessly into the dark depths. They knocked his head, rendering his vision black. Verso barely felt his consciousness slip away as he sunk into nothingness.

𓇢𓆸 ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ 𓍯𓂃🖌

He woke up on a bed far too clean and comfortable to be one of his usual haunts. Neither the Gestrals or Esquie possessed that kind of furniture, and Verso didn’t remember going back to Lumière. He opened bleary eyes to the sight of familiar golden walls, and felt a pit of dread open in his stomach. He was back in the manor. 

Verso slipped out of his room without a noise. From what he could tell, this looked to be Old Lumière’s manor rather than the version the Curator haunted. Which meant his father might be around… as well as the Paintress.

He listened, alert, but didn’t hear anything. The corridors were dark, their inhabitants sleeping or otherwise occupied. The Manor door had been closed to him ever since his fight with Renoir, preventing any attempt to swiftly attack the Paintress. This might be a unique opportunity to end this mess. Verso knew the way to Aline’s room and study as well as his own. If he wanted, he could slip in while her guard was down, maybe smile and chat a bit as her real son would as he crept closer and—

It felt wrong.

To attack his mother in their home, after being offered back the hospitality of the manor without any demand, felt wrong. Verso remembered jumping from the cliff to escape Nevrons and dying. He doubted Esquie had brought him here, which meant his father had probably followed him without his notice and gathered his pieces from the rocks bordering the sea.

Was he still hoping Verso would change his mind, once he was brought home?

A shudder ran down his spine. Suddenly the walls felt trapping, too narrow compared to the continent’s immensity. Aline had given them life, had condemned them to immortality and changed their body to bear wings. Could she also change their mind? Reduce them to ignorant puppets once more, so Verso forgot all of Clea’s teachings and got shaped into Maman’s perfect son?

He was alone. There was no Monoco or Esquie to guard his back. No expeditioner to use as distraction. There might be Alicia, but… After what their mother did to her, he would never ask his sister to stand between Aline and him. 

Verso wordlessly gave up on his plan to seek his mother out and eject her from the canvas. With his father around and no one on his side, he would just get overpowered and lose. 

He would have to come back later with an expedition, once properly prepared. Verso could afford a delay. After all, thanks to his mother, he had all the time in the world.

While he was here, though, he might as well visit the cellar. Verso remembered his father had quite the extensive stock, and he was arriving at the end of his own. Esquie’s belly had been almost empty the last time they had met. 

No one stopped him as he wandered the hallways to reach the basement. Verso expected Alicia to come and say hi, at least, but even she was gone. Once surrounded by bottled joy, he quickly fetched some grand cru, humming appreciatively at the dates written on their label. Like usual, his parents only kept the best years. 

His supply renewed, Verso walked back up. He didn’t want to stay here longer than necessary. All his instincts were screaming at him to leave, before risking never being able to. The place felt stifling, haunted by a world long gone and ghostly inhabitants. The walls stretched in never-ending lines, like a fox trap waiting to close its maw on its prey. 

It was a relief to reach the door. He hesitated before opening it, almost certain it would stay locked, but the hinge gave way without difficulty. Verso suddenly realised the test he had been through.

The manor hadn’t been a trap: it had been an offer. An olive branch extended by his father, to gather as a family once more. Stepping out of this door was the same as renewing his vow to fight against them. It was a one-way road. Once out, the doors would be locked to him again. Leaving meant burning the offered olive branch. 

Verso may not remember his counterpart's death, but he still knew quite a bit about burning. He stepped forward.

As he ran outside—not fly, not anymore—he felt a gaze on his neck. Verso didn’t turn to check on the winged figure watching him. He didn’t even slow down.

His choice had been made long ago, when his reality shattered and his heart crumbled into ashes.

There was no turning back.