cleameur

[cleameur]

HER LATENT BITTERNESS FROTHS, a pernicious thing spilling ennui over the basin. waylaid by the sudden spotlight cast upon her person, she chafes at lara’s words, visibly incensed, a wealth of deflections on the tip of her tongue. in the end, she settles for a half-truth. ❝ we all have our roles to play. ❞ some more than others. it’s hard not to begrudge her parents for it. for this inherited burden, a prized family heirloom heavier than a ball and chain. ARTIST’S HANDS MOULDING HER LIKE CLAY. wings clipped inside a birdcage of their making, with sky-high expectations for prison bars. a perfect daughter built from scratch. she thinks of racehorses taught to run, taught to love it. blinders on, no room for distractions. they don’t know anything else and neither does she. her harp and sculpting seem of little consequence in the grand scheme of things. just set dressing and ornamentation living in the backdrop of her more noteworthy achievements. tchotchkes on a dusty shelf, lesser interests long forsworn. CLEA IS A PAINTER FIRST, after all, beholden to the craft. and choice? nothing but a faraway concept, when one’s steps have been preordained from the very start. paintbrushes as portents, oil pigments spelling providence. luck of the draw, perhaps.

then, as though to adjourn the subject matter, she surges to her feet with a flair, decisive strides already carrying her out of the library and into the foyer, her pumps clicking against the polished marble. a brief glance over her shoulder confirms lara is following closely in tow, so she tacks on another world-weary remark, for good measure. ❝ besides, i’m not so foolish as to dare sully the dessendre name with idle fancies. that’s always been more verso’s speed. ❞ it feels treasonous to even speak it. like her parents might materialize out of the aether any second now, convoked to lambast their eldest for her insolence. SHE ISN'’T JEALOUS OF THE LENIENCY HER SIBLINGS ARE AFFORDED. not stewing in resentment, green with envy over verso’s increasingly libertine habits or alicia’s ever-indulged pastimes. she doesn’t mind it, not really. if any of them have to bear the brunt of this, clea is glad it’s her. so what point is there in mourning the loss of impossibilities?

three more heartbeats and her houndstooth overcoat is pulled on, manor doors opening to reveal the layered hedges lying in wait, frigid autumn wind mercilessly biting at their skin. ❝ but enough lamenting over things neither of us can change. ❞ laissez-faire words breathe puffs of steam into the air, HALTING THESE FUTILE RUMINATIONS WITH COLD LOGIC, stamping them down before they take root. but her eyeline remains locked onto the distance nonetheless, on the yawning horizon stretched out ahead. she digs into her left pocket after a moment of silence, retrieving a nondescript case that houses a number of hand-rolled cigarettes. ❝ want one? don’t tell aline though. she thinks i quit. ❞ her smile is coupled with a conspiratorial stage-whisper, as if lara is an accomplice in her nicotine vice. small rebellions, better suited to a schoolgirl than a woman her age. still, she’ll take them wherever she can find them.

Her apprehension shifted momentarily,     softening in the light of Clea’s goodwill.    There was precious little Lara felt entirely certain of;     her heart remained a leaden weight in her chest even now,    tainting whatever sense of comfort she might have been afforded like a slow-acting poison.     Holding her there,    forever trapped between what she needed to do and the inevitable consequences of those choices.    Borrowing grief from the future     —      if only so it wouldn’t overwhelm her when she finally had to face it head-on.      ❝It’s not a question of what I need.❞      It never had been.     Atlas’s actions were calculated,     designed to cause as much damage as he possibly could while he still had the necessary access to cause it.      A steady torture,     irritating small wounds into a festering lesion.    ❝I can’t let him win.      If he needs proof that my mother is dead,    I will find it.    But …     I need to prepare myself beforehand.❞

Lara caught the sullen conviction in her voice     —     letting it linger in the space between them as she placed her notebook on the coffee table,      fingers hovering over the leather binding.       ❝So is yours. Yet you seem to forget that more than anyone here.❞      The ghost of a frown tugged her brows together,     there then gone again.    She noted the dismissal as easily as Clea had her discomfort,     carefully weighing it against the pleasant cadence of her voice.     ❝You shouldn’t pour your entire soul into something you didn’t choose for yourself.❞ 

An overreach,   perhaps.    She knew of Clea’s situation;     knew there were consequences to every choice she made,    every bit of selfishness she allowed.     Just the same,    she cared too much to let her self-destruct without appropriate commentary.        ❝That’s a splendid idea,     I think.❞

[cleameur]

i'm genuinely so sorry for the massive drop in activity. i work at a university and enrolment for the new academic year started last week so we've been absolutely swamped. i'll likely continue being sporadic for the month of september, but should hopefully return to some semblance of normal come october. i hope you're all doing well and taking care of yourselves <3

[cleameur]

LIKE WINTER’S INERTIA OVER FALLOW LAND, its chill doused deep into the soil at the turn of the season, so too does her expression shift, an impassive mask blanketing the slopes of her face. it’s quick. infinitesimal. the blink and you’ll miss it kind of change, any tenderness clea may have been inclined to bestow dissipating under her half-mast glare. A TENTATIVE SUN ECLIPSED AS SOON AS IT EMERGED. and so she withdraws, extricating herself from raven’s field of proximity, but not without the briefest grazes of skin, fingers dragging through silken hair for no more than a millisecond. the intentionality of false starts, of wandering handprints that linger like impressions in loam.

❝ how perceptive. ❞ FROSTBITTEN MONOTONE, markedly devoid of inflection. were it not for the downturned slant of her mouth or the way in which each consonant catches onto the ornery edge of her cadence, one might imagine she is perfectly tranquil. inside, she is anything but. the late hour and interminable trials of the day have left her feeling agitated, combative, drawn as taut as the strings of her beloved harp. how long until she finally snaps? ❝ but you presume too much. in fact, i’m beginning to tire of these asinine remarks. especially when you speak on matters that don’t concern you. ❞ she cauterises the topic with brutal efficiency, words in the shape of third-degree burns, as though avoidance alone could palliate her overexertion, LINIMENT FOR THE ANGER THAT NEVER SLEEPS.

it’s a defence mechanism she knows well, the kind that bookends every attempt at breaching the surface, at ripping through doors that otherwise refuse to open. because isn’t it obvious she doesn’t want to think about any of it? not verso, not the writers, not the haemorrhaging state of the council. definitely not her witless family and their equally witless canvas antics. the same canvas that has now become the theatre of her maman’s delusions, A CESSPOOL SWARMING WITH FIGMENTS OF HER GRIEVING MIND. pests, pollutants, proxies of the past. clea will be glad to see it all fade into oblivion, sooner rather than later. almost by rote, her head dips, eyes cresting, pools of blue boring into liquid midnight as if to convey something unspoken. a plea for reprieve. drop it, just this once, it begs.

@azarathian ; continued from here

[cleameur]

HACKLES RAISED, GRIEVANCES APLENTY, she stands in the darkened vestibule of the castle in something like a daze, murky disbelief sprawled across her face. there’s a gash pulsing painfully on the side of her forehead and more mottled bruises than she cares to catalogue. all of her plans and manoeuvrings, thwarted in one fell swoop. ground to dust. without any failsafe or gambit to turn to in the aftermath. THE REALIZATION IS SOBERING. what choice does she have left, but return to france and hope against hope that it isn’t too late to consolidate the shattered pieces? a fool’s errand, she’s under no illusions to the opposite. ❝ nothing enticed me, as you so crudely put it. i’m not some mindless sycophant. ❞ she spits out, full of vinegar. for a moment, her vision blurs at the edges like a vignette, temples thrumming. an ache so severe, it feels as though it might splinter her skull in half. with a shaky intake of breath, she rests a hand atop the balustrade for support, but otherwise presses on, unwilling to reveal the scope of her injuries.

❝ we had an agreement. my services in exchange for his aid. not like he can deliver on it now, thanks to your little group. ❞ the dead can seldom be expected to pay their debts, after all.

" let me guess - you need something. " @cleameur, prompt.

" everyone needs something. " arms loosely hang over the railing, overlooking a winding staircase, no doubt leading to the rest of the injured. they'd done a number on dracula's court, that goes without saying. but the trio would not be without mercy. never would they be, much to trevor's rather verbal displeasure. vampires and their allies who'd been looped or coerced into dracula's scheme would be feeling that mercy right about now. no one was fully innocent, trevor believed— but the bleeding heart of the group had demanded.

and who was he to say no?

" for example, i need a mug of beer, and likely a bath. i wonder what it is you need ... what is it that enticed you to join dracula's court? "

[cleameur]

Emily Dickinson, from her poem titled "1188," featured in The Emergency Poet

[cleameur]

DISCOMFITURE BRIMS TENFOLD, arching across her spine, gnarling between her teeth. she’d said too much, more than she’d meant to. crossed a silent demarcation line into foreign territory. this is hardly the time to trade memories or open the repository of a childhood long barricaded shut. CAMARADERIE HAS NO PLACE HERE, nor does nostalgia. she knows as much. but curiosity is a mortal folly, and clea would be lying if she said she didn’t want to ask follow-up questions of her own. what was it like? not just his supposed gauntlet, but everything else too?

from the little she has observed, geralt has a manner of carrying himself that strikes her as worldly. he’s seasoned, maybe wiser than most. in another life, she sits him down and demands that he regale her with stories of his homeland so she may document them to the finest detail, creating a perfect impression through her brushstrokes. the ephemeral rendered immortal. BECAUSE ART ENDURES EVEN WHEN PEOPLE DO NOT. verso’s canvas should have been allowed to do the same. to exist in perpetuity. untouched. but no longer, her parents made certain of that.

so instead of ceaselessly hounding him for information, trusty apathy is her fallback. ❝ yes, well, ours was better, i’m sure. ❞ she declares loftily, hands fiddling with her shirtsleeves. it comes off scathing, clipped. she is being rather uncharitable at present, a part of her can admit that. it doesn’t matter though. with war on her doorstep, THE ALLURE OF FRIENDSHIP IS ONLY A DISTRACTION. he’ll be gone soon enough anyway. best to keep her distance until then. clea tries not to think of the loneliness that has just recently started to abate, swallowing it down like a bitter draught. but then, she surprises even her herself when she nearly laughs at his next query, genuine amusement draped upon her face.

❝ why? afraid you won’t be able to keep all of your… livery? i didn’t take you for someone so vain. ❞ her teasing is easy, ritualistic, HONED FROM YEARS OF SIBLING SPATS. so much so that she has to resist the urge to whack him across the arm good-naturedly. she doesn’t, of course, manners keeping her in line. ❝ don’t worry, i’m very meticulous. we can’t send you there lacking in gear, now can we? but if you have any specific requests, by all means, let me know. i’ll see what i can do. ❞ a pensive pause, a contemplative hum, chin rested within the plinth of her palm as though she’s considering something. ❝ what about a new weapon? one that doesn’t look like you might contract a deadly disease from touching it. ❞

the witcher is far more cognizant than any human realises.    incessant statements,    prompt though they might be,    give this woman away far more than she might ever realise.    he certainly will not divulge it.    she is quick,    snappish,    and tends towards antagonistic assumptions that deem others as arrogant,    conceited,    casualties of her crosshairs suited more towards tactlessness and inconsideration.    were she to take even a moment's pause to allow him a word in,    perhaps she might find him more agreeable then she thinks.    then again,    perhaps not.

she reminds him,    quiet abruptly and without much warning at all,    of his childhood.    herthinks of kaer morhen,    and the wilds about kaedwen's harsh northern climates.        ❝    funny.    back where i'm from,    we had a 'gauntlet' too.    ❞        he thinks of running with his fellow witchers in training,    all ranging from the ages of thirteen to eighteen.    just like he was.    children,    only children,    running across the harsh lands,    their bodies still acclimating,    both inside and out,    to the changes the grass wrought.    kaer morhen's gauntlet was unforgiving,    rife with wolves and drowners and trolls.        ❝    think your gauntlet and my gauntlet were two very different things.    ❞        it was not rare for a boy or two out of the group to never return. in fact, it was expected.

her unforeseen insistence upon such recollection exasperates him.    he wants to cry foul,    that she has done exactly what a woman of her calibre would do to a prospect she deems incongruous to her vision.    he does nothing of the sort.    if he does not stand with a rodded spine as steel and solid as the sword at his back,    then he may as well find a coffin to lie in.        ❝    wasn't about to charge head first without proper knowledge.    got a lot of questions for you.    just doesn't seem to me like you'd like to make the time to answer them.    ❞        difficulty greets difficulty.    he did not bear the trial once,    twice,    thrice,    to be bested by feminine astringency.        ❝   first question :    when you paint me in there,    any chance i'll get to keep everything ?    ❞        he gestures to himself.    quite vague,    yet abundantly specific.        ❝    need myself whole and intact if you expect me to spar with your and your mother's creations.    ❞

[cleameur]

ugh she's SOOOOOO pretty!! just designing some diabolical looking creatures before bedtime, as one does teehee

[cleameur]

INCREDULITY SWIMS IN THE GLACIAL CUT OF HER GAZE, brows marginally pitched at a downward angle. she tenses at the sudden presence that invades her vision, forearm hovering in mid air, knuckles taut around a fountain pen, before she soundlessly places it back on the table, close to her leather-bound journal. the sidewalk is fairly desolate, as is the terraced café she’d found refuge in during the late afternoon. muted orange pours through the awning, the final vestiges of a sun about to be swallowed by the horizon. this pocket of quiet just for her. until now. ❝ most people would take that as a hint. regrettably, you did not. ❞ she grouses, words measured, forcefully cordial, yet a note of abrasiveness weaves its way into each syllable nonetheless. these are the same people responsible for the fire. THE ONES WHO STOLE HER BROTHER AND LEFT A TOMBSTONE IN HIS PLACE, tearing her family apart in the process. clea doesn’t much care whether or not the woman before her was directly involved. she’s still complicit by association, her hands just as bloodied. that’s a statement of fact.

❝ are my movements of such importance to warrant a personal tracker? i’m flattered, really. but stalking? that’s low, even by your standards. you writers are nothing if not pestilent. ❞ a scoff, voice biting, accusatory, vehemently sidestepping all incoming questions. she shouldn’t be surprised. is this not par for the course? the writers’ moral code is hardly upstanding, as they’ve proven time and again. who’s to say clea isn’t next? taking her out of the picture would certainly be most advantageous to their agenda. seconds tick by, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the woodgrain. in hindsight, she’d been a fool to act so carelessly. to let the exhaustion that bleeds from her pores cloud her better judgement. alarm bells ring loudly in her ears. here she is, out in the open. alone, save for the occasional passerby. if this is a trap, there’s little she can do about it. THE IMPULSE TO FLEE FLARES LIKE WICKER ON A BURNING PYRE, tendrils of apprehension coiling around the tight bunch of her shoulders. she thinks of verso, of alicia. of the funeral odor trapped inside her own lungs, the soot caked at the back of her throat. she can’t run. can’t cower in the face of his killers. ❝ you should leave. there’s nothing to discuss. i have no reason to fraternise with the enemy. surely you know that, no? ❞

the air smells quiet. hushed. not in the way lullabies are. this one seeps into her skin, a sick sort of silence— making the orchestra beneath her skin dim down to a long, ringing static that makes her still. just for a moment, though. just for a moment. this is simply shams, however. always seeking swiftness in things that don’t even exist in the first place. except, they do. (in shadows.) shadows that dance around her every time she sees a discarded letter on the ground, thrown away— like it was only meant to be cherished temporarily, when things just floated above the surface and never dived down to drown. shadows that linger close by every time she feels a breeze run past. they never lean in to touch, yet she can feel the sheer cold they radiate. the wind smells like afterbaths and cinnamon and she can’t help but stare at it as it runs away. unlike the stars, the shadows stay. all the time. she just has to look closely to catch a glimpse of them. and a glimpse she always catches.

it carves out a story that she once wrote. no, not her. a story that her forefathers wrote. it wasn’t meant to be, she know that, but it hung against the sky like a paradox, so loud and warm and bright that it burnt her hands every time she reached out to touch. what a silly thing she is, pretending not to notice these little dark matterings touching her feet. and yet, yet, shivering when it’s not their cold that cracks a part of her. it is at this thought that she turns around, her expression changing even if it is only slightly. gazing upon her, she smiles, an inferno in her eyes which doesn’t flicker at the sight of clea. no, it rages on more instead. ❛ you're a hard woman to track, you know. ❜ there's a slow tilt of her head as she takes a proper look at her, a hum leaving her shortly after. she feels something within her again. it’s a tiny thing, worthy of being unnoticed. worthy of being whisked away by other thoughts that keep her occupied all day long. it’s not something significant, yet she notices it anyway. she blinks. ❛ not that i expected otherwise. ❜ she hums again. ❛ go on, then. penny for your thoughts? ❜

starter call, @cleameur.

[cleameur]

it’s sad clea hours yet again, which reminded me i don’t talk about her loneliness nearly enough. after the fire, once it becomes evident neither of her parents intend to do anything of substance about the ongoing conflict against the writers, she isolates herself. she is out of the manor as much as possible, often travelling in and out of paris, working herself to the bone in an effort to find those responsible for this injustice and make them pay. her vengeance is loud and single-minded. it’s the impetus that drives her onward, the thing that sits at the forefront of her every decision. we’re told that she takes verso’s death very personally and that’s true. but i think what spurs her in that direction even further is the inaction of those around her, the perceived lack of outrage on aline and renoir’s part.

context clues seem to suggest clea had a vibrant social life before tragedy struck, but she ends up pushing everyone away. in her grief, it’s the painters’ council that keeps her afloat and gives her purpose, considering how closely aligned their goals are. i imagine that what happened to the dessendres isn’t an isolated incident by any means, but rather just one of many in a series of attacks on various prominent families of painters throughout the country and beyond. her quest for revenge becomes something bigger, with higher stakes than she could have ever anticipated. but she feels like an imposter even amongst her peers. because how is she supposed to take on the role of interim council leader and fill her mother’s shoes to an acceptable standard, especially in a time of such intense strife? how is she meant to measure up to the legacy aline left behind? as much as she may have been reared for this from a young age, i don’t actually believe clea ever truly wanted it for herself.

i often think about how terribly lonely it would have been to live in that big, empty house, particularly after alicia enters the canvas. she’s on her own, completely and utterly alone. and she hates it. hates the reminders of verso peppered throughout and the inert bodies of her family as they run amok in the canvas. this is the site of her brother’s murder and she’ll never again feel at home within its walls. i wouldn’t be surprised if she goes out of her way to avoid sleeping in her own bed most nights, in favour of one of the guest rooms. the more impersonal, the better. that is, if she even returns to the manor to begin with. maelle mentions she barely saw her. yes, she was obviously busy, handling so many responsibilities at once, but i think she also couldn’t stand being there because of how deeply it unnerved her. so she made a habit of keeping her distance. she’d tend to her sister, of course, ensuring she’s fed and her medical needs are met, but otherwise she’d shut her out emotionally. post-canon, she realistically moves out altogether, buying a small studio apartment in the city, as she continues her solitary war.

[cleameur]

A PASTICHE OF FAUX INNOCENCE, clea sheepishly turns her head to the side as though admiring the intricate architecture in the middle distance, and not at all hiding the brilliant flush of crimson fanning across her face at an alarming rate. ❝ whatever do you mean? ❞ although aiming for cluelessness, the slight raise in pitch gives her away entirely, as does the almost smile pulling at her lips. ❝ your appetite for gossip is most surprising, my friend. i’ve half a mind to tell you nothing. ❞ THE REPRIMAND IS PAPER-THIN, coupled with a jovial look that only conveys her amusement at julie’s unyielding resolve. perhaps she’s kept her in suspense long enough. ❝ shall we catch up over tea and some madeleines? ❞ without preamble and clearly brooking no argument, she begins leading them in the direction of their favourite pâtisserie in lumière, russet hair billowing in the light breeze and elbows locked together loosely. ❝ that way, i can answer all of your nosy questions and you can finally come clean about verso. deal? ❞ her singsong teasing echoes through the cobblestone boulevard, as she stifles a peal of laughter, gleeful to have shifted the focus onto someone else’s love life for once.

𓇢𓆸 — A starter for @cleameur

There it is. The telltale blush dusted across Clea's cheeks, like a whispered secret that doesn't want to be kept. Julie beams, slipping her arm around the eldest Dessendre's to link them together.

"Oh, you needn't tell me everything," she says coyly, "And I promise not to pester Simon about it either..." It's a sincere statement, if a little stretched in her interpretation of pestering. "But when I see you this happy, how can I not ask?"

[cleameur]

Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 | 9 of ?

[cleameur]

MATCHSTICK REACTIVENESS ON THE BRINK OF IMPLOSION, welling up with every passing second as though it means to puncture its way past her protective shields, tearing them to tatters. her first instinct is to lash out. to lambast him for his decisions and rain insults down on him until he’s smothered under the rubble of her ire. BECAUSE WHAT'S MORE PUNISHING THAN AN ANGRY, WRATHFUL DAUGHTER? ❝ such rousing words, papa. very inspirational. perhaps you ought to consider a career change, given the fate of the painters is somewhat uncertain presently. ❞ mordant humour tinged with venom. she peers at him askance now, steely blues chock full of condemnation, white-hot and corrosive. ❝ you know what i think? ❞ brazen, goading, an exposed nerve prodded over and over, like she’s trying to get a rise out of him and dredge up something other than his placid ambivalence. ❝ i think you’re a coward. all talk and no action. you’ve deluded yourself into believing your crusade is going to save this family, but it won’t. ❞ salt in the wound. her cruel streak rears at once, BLAME IN THE SHAPE OF A BLUDGEONING GUILLOTINE. it’s better like this. easier. for there’s no comfort or kinship to be found in their shared grief. only a chasm, ever-yawning between them. clea has long stopped hoping she could cross it.

❝ you want me to grieve, is that it? do i need to telegraph my feelings to the world for them to matter? to sit here and cry over the injustice of what happened as if that’s going to bring him back? ❞ her voice falters, cadence verging on lachrymose, and she hates the raw, unnamable emotion that thickens in her throat. so naturally, she does the only thing she can think of, lest she give away more than she already has. A TACTICAL RETREAT, she stands abruptly, the armchair scraping against the floorboards with a violent screech. ❝ no, thank you. complacency isn’t the answer, nor is dwelling on the past. we have far bigger problems to concern ourselves with. although, it would appear i’m the only one willing to do what it takes. you could too, if only you opened your eyes. ❞ threadbare control, she grasps at it with all of her strength, even as her steps remain visibly off-kilter when she walks over to a pile of unopened council missives, sifting through them in an attempt to distract herself from the proverbial anvil bearing down on her.

THE AIR FEELS DREADFULLY HEAVY. claustrophobic. like the ceiling might cave in and collapse on them at any moment. maybe it should. sometimes, she wonders, quite grimly, why they didn’t just let the whole manor go up in smoke until it was scorched to ruin and eaten black by flames. at least then they wouldn’t have to pretend it’s still a home. slinking down the ramshackle halls of her childhood seems a touch voyeuristic these days. LIKE SHE'S INTRUDING ON SACRED LAND. an outsider who doesn’t belong. so acutely aware of the empty space verso left behind, now brimming with loneliness. but the residual signs of life are even worse. hastily written sheet music and the odd rumpled suit piece she doesn’t have the heart to launder. that idiot. clea could kill him if he weren’t already dead. brows furrowing, her gaze cuts toward renoir again, and she has to quell the childish urge to ask for his help. TO BEG FOR A LIFELINE HE’LL NEVER OFFER. ❝ instead, you’ve chosen this. ❞ this, as in a futile path of self-righteousness. being a husband but not a father. half-gone, one foot perpetually out the door. ❝ how’s everything been working out so far, hm? from the looks of it, you’re doing rather abysmally. ❞

          WHEN THE AIR BETWEEN THEM HAS TURNED TO VINEGAR,         renoir can no longer pinpoint.   it would be easiest to believe this a recent development,   the aftershocks of the fires,   of verso's death,   of alicia————     but it takes no mastermind to know it isn't so.   the indisputable truth:     the cracks leading to them shattering apart have laid dormant for far longer.   perhaps this is how it has to be,   perhaps every eldest child has to grow up despising their parents.     (IS THIS NOT HOW IT IS FOR YOU?)     though there is a reality much more likely   .  .  .   much harder to swallow,   too.   there is no generational curse,   there is only you  &  the mess you made.   by saying too much  &  listening too little the child you taught the right way to hold a paint brush has long since eluded you,   a light shining to far ahead,   so far above.   unreachable for anyone who considers following.     (ONCE YOU CALLED CLEA THE CHILD MOST LIKE YOURSELF   .  .  .   THIS YOU STILL BELIEVE.)     "there would be no harm in some modicum of grieving,   even for you,   clea.   if not for your own sake,   for verso's then."     it is not what she wants to hear,   less so what she needs to.   what it is clea wants,   she has made abundantly clear, over & over,   without needing to spell it out:     stay.   help me.   help alicia.   please   he knows this,   he wants to do this   .  .  .   but he can not.   it would be so easy,   too,   for clea is right,   as she so often is:     aline does not want to be saved.   renoir has known this since the smoke first cleared,   alicia's small body unconscious in his arms  &  verso——   if not physically yet,   his wife had been lost in a world of her own creation ever since.   

BUT THIS STORY HAS NEVER BEEN ABOUT A LACK OF AWARENESS.   the true tragedy they keep dragging around with them is much simpler:     they are aware,   they repeat the mistakes anyway.   even clea.   perhaps especially clea.     (&   HERE IS A SPECIAL TRAGEDY FOR YOUR EYES ONLY———     WATCHING YOUR CHILD REPEAT YOUR OWN MISTAKES  &  BEING UNABLE TO STOP THEM.)     that is what leaves them here now,   in the dimly lit corridor,   a cold breeze flitting around them from the wing still closed down from the fire.   one of the provisionally attached planks must have come loose,   letting in the wind through windows that have all but shattered in the inferno.   the wing he  &  clea had begun work on,   clearing out debris   .  .  .   until,   of course,   something else had gotten in the way.     (&  PERHAPS CHILDREN ARE JUST DOOMED TO BECOME THEIR PARENTS  &  THERE IS NOTHING THEY CAN DO TO PREVENT THIS.)

          "i have lost too much of my family already———"     a son gone forever,   the youngest still clinging to live,   the eldest   .  .  .   it sounds like an excuse,   perhaps it is one.   but with chroma on his shirt,   ash in his hair  &  soot staining his hands,   the options seems woefully limited.   no matter which part:     one has to be left behind.   &  though clea will never forgive him,   his choice has been made.     "i will not allow more of it to break apart.   &  i can only hope that one day you will understand."

[cleameur]

i know i don't need to explain my absence, but i really don't want anyone to think i'm ignoring them, because that's definitely not the case. i've just been dealing with a lot irl and it's really taken a toll on my mental health. today also marks exactly 3 months since my grandad passed away. i genuinely don't think i've even begun processing his death yet, or my feelings associated with it. because it's not just grief. it's regret and resentment and so much anger. we weren't close in recent years, but he played a huge part in my childhood.

not long after i moved to the uk i decided to go no-contact with my dad and that caused a significant strain in my relationship with my grandparents, who'd always supported and defended him, despite being fully aware of all the shit he put my mum and i through. the last time i ever spoke to my grandad we had an argument about how he'd previously called me to chat, only to put my dad on the phone and trap me into talking to him. i realise this doesn't seem like a big deal, but i felt so betrayed. he knew i wanted nothing to do with him and still chose to disregard that under the guise of "he's your father, you need to forgive him". the fact that my last memory of him was tainted by my dad really sucks, as well as him being the reason i couldn't travel back to my home country to attend the funeral. apparently, he spent a significant amount of time going around to various relatives and disparaging me and my character. very normal things to be doing at your father's funeral of all places. he very much seems to be under the impression that he is entitled to being in my life just because he paid child support years ago, while i was a minor (which he was legally obligated to do after the divorce, mind you).

all of this to say, c.lea truly means so much to me. i started playing e33 shortly after my grandad passed away because i was in desperate need of a distraction, anything to keep myself from spiralling. i went into the game blind, so i had no idea that grief was such a core theme in the story. i can't emphasise enough how much of an impact it's had on me. but while writing on here has most definitely been cathartic in so many different ways, a release of emotions through a creative outlet, it has also sometimes felt very real and personal, like i'm pulling too much from my own still raw experiences. this is why i've been trying to balance out those heavier threads with silly, less serious ones. i don't really know what the purpose of this post is, there probably isn't one. i think i'm just venting at this point which is quite unlike me, since i tend to keep this sort of stuff private. but if you're somehow still reading this nonsense, thank you. i appreciate you <3

[cleameur]

❛ i was suspicious, and even more dangerously, i was curious. ❜ from evren :>

AN AUTOPSIED FAILURE MADE FLESH AND SINEW, expunged like a gangrene, then thrown to the wayside. left to rot in the cesspool of all her past mistakes. gone, out of sight. a clean break. or so clea had hoped. yet the figure standing before her now tells a different story. rampant permanence in the form of a half-forgotten nightmare. HER MOST DEFECTIVE FEAT TO DATE. this figment of her ruinous design, spun by her own hands, coming back to haunt her. torment her. ❝ what’s there to be curious about, i wonder? ❞ head tilted marginally, auburn tresses following suit. she stonewalls any attempt at cordiality, not once trying to hide the liquid scorn tucked neatly behind her teeth as it leaks vitriol into her words. the crux of the issue is that she doesn’t know what to expect. resentment, perhaps. choleric ire at her careless abandonment, no doubt. but the sentiment runs both ways.

clea thinks she might loathe her. it. for forcing her to reckon with the ugly truth of her shortcomings, when she’d meant to avoid them indefinitely. pretend their very existence didn’t strike her numb as they projected her every insecurity tenfold. undeniable proof that the skills she’d harnessed her whole life were lacking, imperfect. ❝ i didn’t anticipate seeing you again so soon. or at all, if i’m honest. ❞ her fingers flex, chroma coursing through her like a live wire. A TORRENTIAL DOWNPOUR ITCHING FOR RELEASE. she should unleash it and be done with it. erasure with a flick of her wrist, until this crude spectre of her making is vacuumed into the black hole of nothingness, dissipated into the aether as though it was never there to begin with. yet any further action is aborted in favour of remaining transfixed, anchored in place by the dead weight of indecision that refuses to let up. ❝ why have you sought me out? certainly not just for a chat. ❞

a dowry of blood prompts ; accepting

[cleameur]

[cleameur]

THE GHOST OF A CHUCKLE RENTS THE AIR, muffled, verging on undignified, as her mouth twists in an almost smile. ❝ you call it mean, i call it honest. ❞ she volleys back without missing a beat. it’s easy, it always has been, this quippy banter of theirs, years of familiarity melting the ice of her otherwise cantankerous exterior. to anyone else, she’d no doubt sound heartless, speaking as she did about verso or making light of an unmistakably bad decision. but vasya knows better. knows that clea’s blunt castigation is only surface level where her family and friends are concerned, born out of genuine care and nothing else. THE CHIAROSCURO OF INTENT AND DELIVERY. ❝ oh, shut up. neither of you are fooling anyone. ❞ a hand waved dismissively, tongue clicking in reproach. she’s heard the same old song and dance from both parties one too many times for it to hold any legitimacy. really, their mutual defensiveness is a tell in and of itself, when they’re about as inconspicuous as a painting’s focal point. open books regaling their feelings to the masses whether they mean to or not. surely then, it’s her sisterly duty to steamroll this aggravating obliviousness and bully them together, FOR THE GREATER GOOD.

her heels click-clack over to one of the many mirrors, as she takes in the sight her unkempt appearance, a quick head to toe assessment. she’d spent the better half of the afternoon working on a new sculpture and it shows. her usually pristine shirt is now bedraggled, sporting wrinkles from where she’d sat hunched over in concentration for what felt like hours. had she really walked the streets of paris in such a state of disarray? how appalling. then, because she simply cannot refrain from poking and prodding, she throws yet another expert dressing-down over her shoulder. ❝ marrying that swine would be akin to doing charity work. who knew you were so philanthropic? ❞ SARCASTIC BEYOND BELIEF, her thumb and index finger rubbing the bridge of her nose in exasperation. she has ascertained little of vasya’s prospective husband outside of the alcohol-addled gossip whispered in the corners of various fetes or soirées. people talk, that’s all they do. this ever-churning rumour mill that loves making a spectacle of everyone’s lives. the sparse details she’d learnt were more than enough to solidify her utter distaste for the man.

❝ but guess who else is stupidly rich and, despite his many antics, somehow still has a decent reputation within high society? ❞ clea gives her an expectant look, like the answer couldn’t be any more obvious. ❝ why, my very own darling brother, of course. quelle surprise! ❞ a tad heavy-handed, she will admit as much, though she can hardly be blamed for invoking the dessendre-shaped nepotism of all things. DESPERATE TIMES, DESPERATE MEASURES. ❝ and i also shouldn’t have to remind you that ksenia will always have a place by our side. as will you, for that matter. you’re not alone, vasya. ❞ a truth that swells in the gravitas of her voice, candid and steady. she means every word.

SHE CAN'T HIDE HER SMILE AT CLEA'S OBVIOUS DISPLEASURE, lavender eyes crinkling at the corners as the other glares daggers at her. this, she thinks, was surely what ksenia felt when she goaded her on purpose. the delightful thrill of poking the bear that was an older sister. for she supposed that's what clea was to her, or as close to one as vasya could imagine with such scant amount of time spent in the presence of other women before fleeing to paris [ . . . ] her expression melts into shock mere moments later when the subject takes a turn so sharply the muscles in her legs nearly cramp from the stretch she had put them in.

the danseur étoile continues to stare, aghast before a humorless laugh cuts through the warbling of tchaikovsky " stop that, you're being mean. " gone is the teasing and the easy smile. the heat of a blush creeping up from her neck to stain her cheeks as eyes avert. it does little to help her avoid the dozens of mirrors that reflect her humiliation from all angles " I don't know what you think you've seen but i promise you he feels nothing for me but friendship. " another short laugh bubbles up unbidden at how utterly ludicrous the very suggestion was. it leaves a bitter, sorrowful taste across her tongue. like poison it drips down to corrode at her chest, leaving a chasm in its wake she longed to escape into, to crawl into herself so the whole of her might vanished all together.

vasya harbors no illusions of her place in society and how their lives are expected to be, even as the cogs shift across the nations, peoples hearts did not. beloved and talented as she might be, she was still the dregs of society. an orphan from a nameless village that had no business even breathing in the vicinity of the dessendre's, regardless her small talent in the arts. she is reminded of her standing in the world every time she allows herself to be bent across her vanity after the curtain falls. verso had made his disgust at her patrons know, furthering her conviction that he found her unworthy at best and unclean at worst. he would not sink so low when the veritable jewel box of high society was spread out before him and starving for his attention. the ache the thought leaves within her is unbearable and one she refuses to put a name to. their feelings were platonic, they had to be.

" as for myself — gerard isn't. . . terrible. he's wealthy and has good standing. besides, this is for ksenia's sake. if she ever needed a safety net, she will have me. " gerard morau had been keenly interested in her progression though the school since she had joined the opera house at sixteen. while her patrons fluctuated over the years, he remained and seemed a reasonable choice. the marriage would never erase her past, perhaps it would never rid her of scandal either, but she would be wealthy enough to ignore it.

[cleameur]

THE BRIEF STIRRINGS OF PANIC pass over her face in quick succession and her stomach all but drops. brows buoyed in surprise, lips parting as though to backtrack on the disastrous faux pas she seems to have committed. the kind that could leave a permanent stain on the dessendre name. royalty. it can’t be. surely, her mother, ever the socialite, would have been here, spearheading this conversation herself, if that were the case. her keen gaze finds aline across the room, all poise and elegance, parting the crowd like water. but then, something shifts, CLARITY CUTTING THROUGH THE FOG. a picture coming into focus.

❝ right, yes, of course. the princess. how foolish of me. i would so hate to disappoint her. ❞ cloying molasses dressed in a polished lilt. there’s a certain airiness to her tone now, something wry and clandestine, like she’s indulging a child’s white lie, content to keep up the charade long past the curtain fall. clea is accustomed to this particular brand of grandstanding. green-eyed braggarts perpetually hanging onto the coattails of those around them, while they try in vain to leech talent and prestige by osmosis alone. nothing but pipe dreams chased down an ever-extending corridor. GORGING ON SCRAPS, as if they’re gluttons for embarrassment. she can only marvel at the stupidity.

❝ it’s remarkable what people come up with to impress their betters. very enterprising, i’ll give you that. ❞ a titter of laughter, another sip of champagne, fingers absently circling the rim of her near empty glass. ❝ does the fanciful story usually work for you? have you curried any favours yet? ❞ self-satisfied with her assessment, SHE SPEAKS DOWN RATHER THAN AT, ethanol loosening her tongue. as pathetic as these poseurs can be, with their conceit clogging any semblance of common sense from their heads, at least this one is providing some much needed entertainment amidst an otherwise dull gathering. she might as well take the time to remind them of their place, since there’s precious little else to do. ❝ but you really needn’t go on. all this posturing must be quite the chore. ❞

╰┈➺ • ♡ ⊱◞   SOCIAL    GATHERINGS    WERE    HER    THING.       That    beautiful     woman    they    arrived     with     ,     who     sashayed     with      the    grace     of     a     ribbon       &&      spoke     with     the     voice     of    a    siren     as     she     mingled     with     guests.    She     was     such    an    attraction    ,      she     could have     drawn     a     sinner     to     church.     It's     what      she     did     to     them    ,     after     all.    They     had     been     so     fixed      on      the      absolutely     radiant    woman    they     married      that      they     hadn't     so     much     as     glanced     at      who     was    beside     them.    They    only     overheard     others     complimenting     her      work      &&     assumed     that    ,   at    some    point    ,     she    must    have     done     art.     They    didn't     even     know     what     the     gathering     was     for     or     who     the     hosts     were.    They     only     appeared     upon     the     request     of     their     wife.     

╰┈➺ • ♡ ⊱◞   That    was    the    funny    thing     about     royalty.      They    were     always    invited     to     the     strangest     extravagant      homes     for     the     downright     stupidest     of      things.     

╰┈➺ • ♡ ⊱◞   ❛   I'm   sorry   ,    I   must    have    mistepped.    ❜    The    apology    sounded    sincere    between    the     practice    of     a    pause    that    was    just     large    enough     to    emphasize    ,    but    not    large     enough    to     give     room     for     response    ,     because     all     initial     politeness    in    their     tone     shifted     to     something    a     bit     more     condescending    as     they     peered     down     at     her     with     all     the     likeliness     of     a     saint      to     feign     the     innocent     follow - up     question.     ❛   Are    you     some     kind     of     famous    artist    ??    ❜  

╰┈➺ • ♡ ⊱◞   When     carousing     a     human     disguise    ,     the     entity     cared     very     little     to    make     themself     appear      with     some     kind     of     status.    What    for     ??     They     were     no    sovereign    ,     they     were     a     source    of     power    ,     something     much     darker     than     crooked     nobility     could     ever     contend.     Perhaps     that      was     why     she     assumed     them     so     beneath     her     ;     because     they     presented     as      HER     knight.     A    mere     chaperone    to     escort      her      while     she      socialized     as     she     pleased     while     they     remained     sequestered     in     the     shadows    to     avoid      situations     as     such.

╰┈➺ • ♡ ⊱◞   ❛   That    is     quite     the     shame  .  .  .    I     assume     the     princess     would've     liked     a    souvenir     from      france   ,    but     I    suppose     after     this     ordeal     we     can     ,     as     you     suggested    ,      search    parisian     streets     for     one.     ❜      They    said    ,     their    hand     over     their     chest     in     a     gesture     of     awe.     ❛   She's    very     mild - mannered.     Such    a     kind     heart.    Perhaps    she'll     find    a    rising     star on the streets.    ❜