9: Good Grief

Alexandrie said nothing, but looked at the boy expressionlessly as they continued to move through the dark. It was in the moment that curiosity overtook her that she realised, sharply and suddenly, that she owed nothing at all to any of the people around her. Of course, there was a shared need for survival in the present moment, a somewhat shared set of objectives and an expectation that they would all keep watch when necessary. That had not changed. But with Vee gone, she didn’t owe any of them any more than a person might owe a stranger. So she said nothing, and decided instead to wait and see how La Chanson handled the situation. A masterclass in oaths. 

The last time Alexandrie Donadieu actively lied, she was very young and it had resulted in one of the cook’s sons in a great deal of trouble. Fingerprints on an expertly decorated cake for Grandmère’s birthday may have been funny - or at least excused - if the darling granddaughter of the matriarch were the cause, but for an 8 year old, she had lied so well the boy’s parents had been cautioned and she had seen his misery firsthand. She’d told Grandmère later, afraid of what Maman would say.

She had been punished, but it was preferable to the hurt she could have caused.

Passive lying was different. Alexandrie kept a lot of what she observed and thought to herself, because there were only so many questions people would allow her to ask - or that they would answer. And many of her questions were not deemed necessary or appropriate.  La Chanson was included in this. It seemed willing to answer questions, but only when worded in a particular way - which frustrated Alexa. Her preference for “why” could never be sated if it only responded with yes or no, and questions of this nature were inherently limited - what if the answer was “maybe”, or there were things she forgot to include? As they grew closer to where La Chanson called her, she wondered whether she would ever be able to ask better questions. 

The words she had whispered to La Chanson days before rang through her mind:

“What good are you, really?” 

And it was a question she still hadn’t fully answered. Or answered at all. Why did something (or someone) powerful enough to give her the ability to do so much need help? What did it need her to do? What was the difference between creating and… bringing back a Praetorian? Especially since Heofonræsele did not think Chevalier was dead. More than anything, she wanted the answer to that question: the difference between creation and restoration… she had been preoccupied with it for some time even before Chevalier had - even before they’d left home. They had spoken about it often when she was younger - the question of whether Grandmère had restored Chevalier or made him who he was…created? Was that creation? Who had he been before? What? She’d spent a lot of time in the bough over the pond thinking about the fact that she’d never seen any other Praetorian…that there was only one. She’d earnestly told Chevalier on many occasions that she would help him find his people if there were a way.

The important thing for now was that La Chanson wanted to help her get him back. Heofonræsele used strange language, but what had been La Chanson’s instructions? Did they matter? 

Yes, they did. As far as she’d come, and as much as she’d changed in the Oondeverld, and as much as she’d tried to distance herself from La Chanson in more recent days - she still cared about it - still cared about what it thought of her and her friends. And…what it felt. It didn’t even necessarily make sense, considering the way music felt, but if it had feelings, it could be sad or happy or angry or…

Or wary.

Wary the way it had been with Mysel’s magic. Was it Mysel’s magic that it was wary of, though? Or was it warning her that a dragon was also there - or not there, but there, somehow? Was it wary because they were not to be trusted, or because they should not have existed in this time? What was the cycle? Did it….was it…?

It was difficult finding words for things that only existed on a loose scale - more, things that were not designed to exist in her head. Were the gods disdainful of Mysel and Heofonræsele’s existence? Was La Chanson a divinity? If so, could it take physical form? If it were a god, why did it not have more…other…adherents? Was it wary of them the way it stayed away from the temples in Glitter Delta Cove? If it didn’t agree with the pantheon, why call Grandmère?

Alexandrie knew of the Prime Divinities and Ascended Saints - everyone did. It was part of everyone’s basic education. But her family had never worshipped on a more personal level.

Was La Chanson a deity? 

What was it about Grandmère (and by extension, Alexandrie) that drew its attention? And why the one refrain? Did others hear other music? She thought back, trying to draw the music close enough to analyse. It had been louder, more powerful, softer - and different people encouraged different instruments almost - except around Spider and that river. Spider prompted a metronome…A ticking clock. Maybe not a clock, but regular, constant. She’d heard it when she’d asked if Lucas was alive. And the previous time, it was like the Song had been…broken? Almost like Genofeva was nearby…

As Mala threw the stone she carried and disappeared to the top of a cliff, Alexandrie looked at Spider, who prepared to walk up the wall. She wasn’t sure whether she should bring it up. Spider didn’t understand magic. It would likely frighten him. 

There was enough of that already. 

Admittedly, there would be less with Heofonræsele and Mysel. Well - less of her being the frightening one. Maybe.

Mysel and Heofonræsele. A child and a somewhat…young dragon. How had he earned the name? Sky Born…Solution? Conclusion? Solution. What had he done as an adult to earn such a name - or been given it?

She was, after all, a child of Progress, and everyone in the Progress had to contribute. What did Heofonræsele contribute before the time of giants? What did they do? How did they live? What was it like to live in a time of giants and dragons? Where did such large people come from? Conversely, why were the people who existed today so small? 

Did Giantkin have Ascended Saints?

Leaping to grab a rock, she swung on it for a moment, hooked her toe under a crumbling foothold and used it to push herself to another handhold. Flicking her legs out as she grabbed one rock gave her the momentum to reach for a flat surface to roll her body onto. Almost slipping, the thought also slipped her mind as well as she reached up, caught a ledge and and monkey ran her way to the top. She didn’t think about it again until they were eating.

What did the giants think of the Prime Divinities? The founding beliefs, the ones central to who she was came from her family, mired in the culture of Progress, and shaped by the teachings of the Divinities and Saints:

Be kind. Be honest. Work hard. Be brave. Give back to those who gave. 

Those were the foundations of her family, but they were also, beneath all the conflicting, problematic aspects, the foundation of the Progress Confederacy. Silver and Steel made everything more efficient, but the premise was one of equality, which was based in giving to the community.

Did Giantkin think that way?

Perhaps. Once.

The closer Alexandrie came to the source of the music in her mind, the more curious she became of its origins. She couldn’t think so far ahead when they were in Glitter Delta Cove. Everything was bright and new and different. They had been underground for weeks now, and without Chevalier’s reassurance, she was beginning to lose track of…of her sense of self, the objectivity of thought…what was a thought and what was possible. Everything was dark. And new. And different. It wasn’t about that at all, but it also was and she missed having Chevalier to tap her on the elbow, or put a hand on her shoulder. He hadn’t often needed to say anything…it was his constant presence. Like losing a limb.

As they ate, she thought about getting him back. They had all looked at her expectantly, as though she should be happy, but she knew, even if they didn’t think it the case, that La Chanson did not unconditionally give her what she wanted. She desperately wanted to believe it would happen, but…but the fear of disappointment held her back. Fate had brought them together, perhaps, but fate had done a lot of other things too. 

Why did it need to work this way, and why had his body gone? Where had his body gone? If he wasn’t dead, where was he? With La Chanson? And would it give him back freely? She would pay, if she needed to - gladly pay - what he was worth to her.

The same could be said of Lucas. 

They would get them back.

A child of the Progress, after all.

Silver or Steel.

La Chanson had to know that.

If Silver was enough, there was no need for Steel.

As she thought, her hands moved of their own accord, pulling silvery threads of music from the air. She hardly paid attention to what she was doing as she wove, threads shifting into the vibrant infra-red tones she could not have seen without her glasses. Stranger perhaps to Mala and Shi then, when she took her glasses off and continued to weave, creating a delicate rose by feel alone. 

Gently placing it by the group, she whispered goodnight and crawled into her bedroll.

***

The letter… was exactly what she needed and exactly what she expected, and holding his Soul, she knew she would read it again.

She disagreed with him, of course - in so many ways: La Chanson could not wait, and she could not choose to do nothing - he was family, and she had failed to protect him. Besides - La Chanson had sent help to get him back. There was no need to grieve. She didn’t have time to grieve - more, she didn’t want to take time to grieve. She hadn’t grieved and she wouldn’t because there was too much to do and it would hurt too much and she could not be weak when she needed to be strong and brave and still and grown up and it took her a few moments to realised that the foggy glasses on her nose still worked - she couldn’t see because her eyes were pressed tightly closed, her mouth open in a silent wail as she shook. 

She forgot, after a time, why she was crying. The grief of Chevalier blurred into the grief of leaving home, which blurred into the grief of leaving childhood behind which blurred with the loss of normality and the sickly fear that she was forgetting the perfect blue of the sky.

***

Later, much later, when everyone else was quiet (or still), she rolled over. Before her, the red rose looked as thought it had just bloomed. As if Grandmère had cut it that morning and lay it on the table in Alexa’s place, as she was wont to do, where the morning light would make dew drops gleam gold as the girl arrived to join her family for breakfast. 

When - if - when she got home, would she grow flowers? Would she sit in the solarium telling her grandchildren about these adventures?

Would she be able to tell anyone about them, or would La Chanson hold her tongue, too?

Her fingertips dancing across the petals, she drew it close to her and sat up, closing her eyes. Tilting her head back in the gloom, she considered that somewhere, many kilometres above her, the sun offered life to the world. 

Starting at its most outflung edge, Alexandrie imagined the sun touching the rose. As she did, her other hand wove music, strands and strands of it hanging in the air to be woven as she worked, eyes closed, humming slightly.

When she was finished, she held two roses growing from the same stalk: 

One in her light spectrum - a deep, deep red - the other a vibrant infra hue she could not see.

Shi had given her sunlight.

She owed this.