She ran out. The minute she ran out, Octavia’s mental state went from bad to worse.

Her temporary ban on witnessing tolls and guiding Muses, once she had burned through her residual pool of the unwilling and unfit, left her with--quite literally--nothing. Free time was an agony, a luxury to many that came as a curse to her instead. It wasn’t that she enjoyed dying gruesome deaths time and time again, although she’d unfortunately grown accustomed to that much in the worst way. Still, it was something to do, a manner to contribute and make progress towards a greater goal. Her mental math was stagnant--seventy-three to go, a byproduct of two additional unwilling stragglers found in the far reaches of a town she’d forgotten the name of.

Up until now, her pace had been steady, having settled into a comfortable routine that spoke to just-as-comfortable progress in a timely fashion. She’d spent well over a month in Tacell, with at least a reasonable handful of liberated Muses to show for it. Part of Octavia regretted that her pace wasn’t quicker, in truth. She wondered if there were Muses who felt the same, those who waited even now in the hands of more capable Maestros for her to get her act together. There were days where she wondered if Seraphim’s Call would hate her, had its Muse known how much she hated the idea of liberating it. Its twin fared no better--perhaps even worse.

With Josiah’s scathingly-elaborate preparations for the storming of the flame underway, there was little for her to actually do to contribute. Most of the Maestros that were willing to step into the fray alongside her were accounted for. Samuel had offered what assistance he could, the Soulful Maestros chasing his guidance accordingly--including one she continued to mourn the absence of each and every waking moment.

Octavia didn’t bother asking Josiah how reaching out to Allison Ivory was going. She didn’t bother asking Josiah anything. She didn’t want to see Josiah, really. The thought of his cold gaze upon her was enough to instill fear and distress into her heart. For whatever reason, she kept her distance. He seemed to have everything under control. If it kept the weight of the Blessed and Cursed Cities alike off of her back, she was more than happy to let him handle this. Most of her was grateful.

Whether or not she was doing a solid job concealing her rose-flavored agony remained to be seen. The Viola-shaped hole in her heart already had her on edge enough, and it was one more burden to carry at a time when she was more than struggling. She’d already slipped somewhat in spilling her puzzle pieces in front of others who hadn’t known, now reaping what she’d sown in the form of overly-abundant gentleness. From Harper, at least, it was of debatable origin--it was partially in his nature by default. From Madrigal, it was noticeable.

Usually, they arose around the same time, two girls born of the blessings of nature long since conditioned by the warmth of the waking sun. Their steps were often light in tandem, their movements throughout the cottage soft as they stifled their giggles and hushed their morning greetings. The risk was ever greater downstairs, two out of three boys far lighter sleepers than was reasonable.

The Spirited Maestra’s boyfriend, if no one else, would’ve hypothetically slept through the cottage collapsing on top of him. Octavia enjoyed the company of another who bathed in the comforts of sunrise, although her waking-up partner’s ultimate goal of breakfast preparation was of higher priority. It was somewhat startling for her to beat Octavia out of bed this morning, if not with that motive alone.

There was a sobering sadness that came with the realization of permitted volume. If she so chose, Octavia could descend the stairs at a normal speed. The Soulful companion she’d come to tread so lightly around in the early hours was nowhere to be found. Madrigal, at least, was a constant that she could rely on--even if her advance presence in the kitchen was a shock. It still smelled good. Octavia was grateful for that.

“You’re up early,” she whispered with a yawn.

With her hands already well-occupied with skillets and whisks, Madrigal beamed brighter than the sunrise itself. “Good morning!” she whispered back with enthusiasm.

Octavia smiled weakly. “Good morning. Couldn’t sleep?”

Madrigal shook her head, her freshly-tied buns bouncing along. “I just wanted to get up early today.”

Honestly, even for Madrigal and all of her cooking prowess, her culinary blessings smelled better than usual. “What are you making?”

“Pancakes,” she said. “They’re your favorite, right? I think.”

“You remembered,” Octavia confirmed, beaming herself. “I’m surprised.”

If Madrigal’s smile were any brighter, she’d risk burning the food she was offering so much love to. It was almost dangerous. “I try to remember everybody’s favorites. I wanted today to be a pancake day.”

Octavia giggled. “We used to have a designated pancake day at my house.”

“Then we’ll make another pancake day!” the Spirited girl cheered just a bit too loudly. The hot skillet was aloft just enough that Octavia feared for the little newborn fluff still blooming within. She winced.

“Oh God, please be careful with that,” Octavia murmured with haste.

Madrigal laughed quietly. “How do you want your eggs cooked?”

Octavia's smile settled into something softer. “Is scrambled okay?”

“Is that your favorite?”

“You don’t have to make things a certain way just because they’re my favorites, you know,” Octavia reassured with a chuckle. “I like whatever you make. You know that.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to make some special stuff today,” Madrigal insisted.

Octavia raised an eyebrow affectionately. “That’s…nice of you. Can I at least help?”

“You don’t have to!”

“But I want to.”

“If you really want to, then we can cook together,” Madrigal offered happily. “That sounds fun.”

Frankly, Octavia was somewhat fearful of compromising Madrigal’s wonderful cooking with what were relatively amateur-to-average food preparation skills of her own. Still, if the Maestra was going to go this far on her behalf, it felt only fair. She rolled up the sleeves of her nightgown, blending in with the atmosphere of Madrigal’s culinary theater as seamlessly as she could. “Give me something to do, anything that helps. I don’t wanna mess up whatever you’re doing.”

Even with her eyes firmly upon the skillet, nursing each batch of batter to fluffy perfection, Madrigal's beautiful smile filled the room. “There’s some fruit that I put on a cutting board over there. Can you cut it up into little pieces for me? I need them to be kind of tiny.”

Octavia did what she could to oblige, curling her fingers as she slid a newly-adopted blade swiftly into the skin of a strawberry. “Like this?”

“Perfect!”

Octavia smiled as she worked, the gentle sounds of their collaboration a wonderful backdrop that warmed her heart. “It’s not fair that you know my favorite foods and I don’t know yours. What’s your favorite food, then?”

Madrigal barely hesitated. “Strawberries! I looove strawberries. They go great on everything. If strawberries were the last food in the world, I’d still be happy. Do you ever put strawberries in your pancakes?”

Octavia laughed softly. The Maestra's enthusiasm for the little fruit atop her cutting board was somewhat contagious. “I’m willing to try.”

“I’m gonna make some of them with strawberries in them, then!”

Knowing Madrigal, she could put dirt in a pancake and still make it taste delicious. “What, uh, what’s your opinion on mushrooms?” Octavia tried half-heartedly.

“Which ones?”

“All of them.”

Madrigal bounced on the tips of her toes happily. “I like them. They’re fun to put in soup.”

Octavia didn’t disagree one bit. She had a worse, oddly-specific idea, concocted largely with a smirk. “What’s your opinion on cherries?”

Seeing Madrigal hesitate was somewhat surprising. “They’re really sweet, so I almost like them. I just don’t like the way the stems feel. It’s uncomfortable. The skin feels weird sometimes, too. You know, I haven’t eaten cherries in awhile. Maybe they’re too sweet. I don’t know how I feel about them, actually. Why are you laughing?”

“No reason.”

Madrigal was content to let her have her moment of unreasonable amusement, at least, getting a bit too much out of a ridiculous joke made to herself alone. Even ignorant to the source of her laughter, she, too, laughed as well. Between this and the loving environment of hospitality only Madrigal could create, it was a bliss Octavia regretted not wading her way into sooner.

“I’m done with these. What else can I help with?”

“Can you take over with the pancakes? I was gonna start peeling the potatoes. Plus, I think they’d be happy if you gave them some love!” she said with the same smile Octavia adored.

Octavia didn’t dare object, switching places with Madrigal carefully. Again, their coordinated efforts settled into something peaceful--a silence filled only by gentle sizzling, dicing, and scents that made her heart as joyous as her stomach.

“Do you like Tacell?”

Octavia tilted her head. “Huh?”

“Are you…happy being here?” Madrigal asked softly.

Octavia’s smile was just as soft. “Yeah. I like it a lot.”

“What do you like about it?”

Octavia poked at one bubbling, immature pancake with the spatula cautiously. “It reminds me of Silver Ridge. Even this place kinda reminds me of Silver Ridge. This wasn't exactly what my house looked like, but still. It’s…peaceful, and it’s really pretty. For what I have to do, I think this is the nicest place I could do it.”

Madrigal’s own smile settled into something indiscernible. “It’s…okay if there’s days where you aren’t happy, too.”

Octavia’s face fell. “What?”

“It’s okay if you…have days where you don’t feel well,” she offered gently. “And days where you’re scared or upset. Everyone has days like that, even if some…people have them more than others. Some people have more reasons to have bad days than other people, and that’s okay, too.”

She knew what Madrigal was getting at. It was supposed to be reassuring. Why did it hurt?

“It’s…okay if you want us to leave you alone when you--if you have one of those days. Just know that all of us are here, and we always will be, if you want somebody to be there with you. And no matter what happens next, no matter where we go or what we have to do, we’ll be there all the way through that, too. We won’t leave you.”

It was supposed to feel nice. It was supposed to feel safe. Instead, it made Octavia’s heart beat faster. It didn't feel good.

Madrigal's smile never faltered, regardless of what rested behind it. “A heroine is never supposed to give up, right? So, I’m never gonna leave the Ambassador, no matter what. We can get through everything, as long as we’re together. Even if it’s…just a little bit at a time. We’re a team.”

Maybe she needed a heroine. It would’ve been nice. It would’ve been preferable to shouldering weights she didn’t want to shoulder. Would it make her a bad Ambassador? Octavia's stomach hurt. Finding a smile herself was harder than it looked.

“Y-Yeah,” she said. “I…appreciate it. Thank you.”

Again did the comfortable atmosphere of cooking settle upon them, the heavy beating of Octavia’s heart now stirred into the mix somewhat. It was unpleasant, a sour splash to an otherwise sweet feeling. She couldn’t keep her false smile for long.

“You’re…making really wonderful progress,” Madrigal praised quietly. “I think all of the Muses are really happy to go home.”

Octavia nodded, doing what she could to give her love to a ripe pancake atop her spatula. “I hope so.”

“I…hope ours aren’t jealous,” she joked.

Octavia shook her head with a smile--genuine, this time. “They’re patient, I think. Most of them. They offered to help, and they know it’ll be their turn soon. I don’t think they’re jealous at all.”

“Are you gonna miss Stratos?”

She hadn’t given it much thought. It burned, somewhat. “Yeah. Probably. I know he has to go, though. I want him to be happy. He’s…been down here a long time. They all have.”

“Yeah.”

Octavia eyed her subtly. Madrigal's smile, once bright enough to challenge the dawn sunbeams that flooded the room, had evaporated. That, too, burned.

“We should cherish the time we still have with them,” Octavia added quickly. “We should spend time with them, and make memories. We should treasure what we do have. Let’s just…take it one day at a time, and make the most of what we have left.”

Madrigal’s smile was still absent, her eyes glassy as her cutting slowed. “We should…be happy for what we do still have left, then, right?”

Octavia nodded. “Yeah. Don’t you think so?”

Madrigal, too, nodded, albeit with hesitation. “I think we should make the most of the time we have left as Maestras. I think we should…”

She trailed off. Octavia did what she could to fill in, somewhat uncomfortable with Madrigal’s flat affect. “Let’s just…live in the present. We can worry about the future later.”

“Okay,” Madrigal murmured, her voice monotone.

It was a sentiment that was exceedingly ironic. Octavia was well aware of that much. If she could take her own advice, perhaps the sentiments she’d been offered in return wouldn’t have felt so unsettling. It was hard to imagine Stratos leaving, in truth. It was hard to imagine anything that lie beyond the two Harmonial Instruments that next awaited her touch.

It was only distraction after distraction up until she was thrust into Hell, and it was getting agonizing to an unfathomable degree. This, too, was a distraction. Warmth itself was temporary, another distraction. Octavia appreciated it. She hated it. She didn’t know how to feel about it. If she could cling to happiness, if she could stuff it into a bottle and hold it close to her heart, she would in an instant. Even now, it was slipping.

“Ouch!”

She was lucky she hadn’t outright dropped the skillet. The impact of the scorching iron with her feet would've surely left much more severe of a wound than whatever she could do to her hand. It was her fault for not paying attention, her left wrist stinging instantly as she recoiled from the hot metal. She clutched her hand and squeezed tightly, searing pain throbbing across her skin.

“Octavia!” Madrigal cried, her knife falling to the cutting board with a thud.

Octavia whined in quiet pain, watching with anticipatory dread and annoyance as her skin began to rapidly redden. For how heated the skillet had been, she wouldn’t have been surprised if it blistered later. She was vaguely aware of the way Madrigal was salvaging the metal from the flame, sparing a budding pancake from a crispy fate. If Octavia’s reactions were anything to go by, she could at least understand why Madrigal wouldn’t ask if she was alright. That was clear enough to see.

Ultimately, she did deserve it. It didn’t particularly occur to her to move or ask for assistance, somewhat preoccupied with inspecting her burn and contemplating her own mistake. She was good at making those. The way Madrigal stared down her injury just as hard was incredibly uncomfortable, regardless.

It took effort to will herself to free her hand. Octavia's fingers curled into a fist out of reflex as she battled the waves of stinging pain that rolled across her skin. In that way, perhaps, Madrigal could see her burn better, concern surely stinging her own heart in turn. It was how Octavia knew her to be. She wasn’t used to the staring, nor the degree to which it lasted. The Maestra was silent, the residual sizzle of the liberated skillet the only offset to her soft breathing.

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“Madrigal?” Octavia murmured quietly.

She didn’t respond. Her eyes were solely on Octavia’s wrist, the first tell-tale signs of blistering teasing her skin in the form of scarlet patches. While the pain was by no means dulled, Octavia’s attention had shifted substantially. Madrigal only continued to stare, wordless and expressionless as she fixated solely upon the injury. When Octavia drew back her wrist slightly, so, too, did Madrigal's eyes follow along.

“Hey, Madrigal?” Octavia tried once more.

Nothing still. She lowered her head somewhat, doing what she could to steal that blank gaze for herself. Octavia's best attempts were futile. Madrigal’s focus was anywhere but on her words. She didn’t move, nor did she emote. It took several more seconds of staring before Octavia watched as Madrigal’s fingers began to tremble. Her breathing was sharper, louder. Still were her eyes empty and fixated.

“Madrigal--”

“Good morning.”

Harper’s voice absolutely terrified her, and it was a second miracle that Octavia didn’t burn herself once more on the open flame. Still, she jumped, yanking her burn out of Madrigal’s field of vision. “G-Good morning,” Octavia stammered.

He offered a tired smile, brushing his unkempt bangs out of his eyes. “Whatever you guys are making smells good. Did you sleep well?”

She never did. At the very least, Harper's gaze was obscured enough to spare her for now. “Y-Yeah,” she lied.

It wasn’t enough to save her in full, and those eyes widened the moment they found her hand now clutching at her forearm. “Did you burn yourself?” he asked with soft worry.

Octavia averted her own gaze. “I-I…”

Harper was at her side quickly, tenderly peeling her hand away as he replaced it with his own. His inspection was gentle in a way that never brushed against her gradually-blistering skin. “Are you okay?”

The worry in his eyes was genuine, and she doubted he was looking for a contradiction in her words. The ones she offered were mostly truthful, anyway--physically, if nothing else. “I’ll be fine, really. It wasn’t that bad.”

He winced. “Do you want me to get Josiah? He--”

“No!”

She declined far, far too loudly. She didn’t even realize her volume until it was too late, immediately regretting her harsh outburst. Given the way Harper recoiled, she felt even worse. Damage control was immediate and mostly futile.

“N-No, it’s okay. Don’t wake him up. He’s…he needs his rest. Please.”

Even with his head tilted and his face pained, Harper spared her inquiries she knew she probably deserved. She appreciated it. “He…gave me some stuff for burns awhile back. Aloe, or something. Will you let me give you that, at least?”

It took a moment for her to agree, nodding in silence. If it was Harper, that was alright. She chanced a glance at Madrigal, largely unpetrified. Even so, the girl still eyed Octavia with worry and heavy breaths, eyes glassy as they hurriedly chased her wound. That, too, didn’t escape the sharp gaze she’d come to be wary of.

“Madrigal?” Harper asked. “You okay?”

Her smile was finally back, bright and beaming--if not forced and strained. “I’m…glad you’re here! You probably know a lot more about dealing with burns than I do, what with your legacy and all that. I’m…no good with medicine stuff. Take good care of Octavia, okay? I’ll make sure to have a nice breakfast ready when everyone feels better. That’s my medicine!”

It was a poor excuse. It was enough for Harper. It wasn’t quite enough for Octavia, although she kept her objections to herself. The way Madrigal’s eyes still lingered on her burn even as she left the comfort of the kitchen wasn't lost on her.

Pancakes with strawberries weren’t half bad, evidently. It was the lasting strain in Madrigal’s smile that was more bitter on Octavia’s tongue than anything.

----------------------------------------

She got over it, thankfully. By sunset, Madrigal had stopped eyeing her bandages with such unsettling focus--for the most part. Her eyes still flickered to the concealed wound from time to time, although not so much that it raised substantial concern for Octavia. It wasn’t her greatest concern, the burden of nightfall again bringing with it the very raw risk of unconscious torment. It had been getting worse on a nightly basis, lately, and she knew the exact reason. She knew both of them, really.

Viola had chided her about sitting around alone with her thoughts. In reality, there was little alternative. Those thoughts were complex, the feelings that accompanied them even more so. Octavia had entertained talking them out with any of her three readily-available options, provided their platitudes had been genuine. She still resolved to steer clear of a fourth, at least for now.

Staring at the ceiling of her bedroom had done nothing. Staring at the ceiling of the salon wasn’t much better, although she could at least enjoy the dying fire on the hearth once more. She entertained the idea of dragging Stradivaria downstairs with her, doing what she could to find solace in his voice instead. Of him, too, she feared sentiments that would do little to truly ease her anxieties. This was miserable. Viola had read her like a book, somehow, right down to the part about driving herself insane.

Octavia pulled her knees up to her chest uncomfortably, tossing her eyes into what was left of the fire. It was a shame she couldn’t borrow someone else’s eyes, the stagnation of the one task she’d come to find a rhythm for growing and festering painfully. If she cheated, if she broke through the terms of their preparatory plan and performed the Witnessing anyway, would anyone notice? There were still a substantial amount of Maestros left in Tacell. What was one or two less? Would they out her to River? To Josiah, even?

She feared one of those outcomes more than the other. It wasn’t the one she was expecting. Octavia didn’t like that she was wary of him in the first place. That was new.

In truth, she had one option. It wasn’t a good option, nor was it a safe option. Her memory was jogged in part by stagnation on the couch in the dead of night again. It was an option by which she doubted anyone would give her a hard time, an outlier that served as a loophole to the unofficial ban. Whether or not she could truly cross that bridge in full remained to be seen, given that she’d be lucky if she wasn’t burned to a crisp.

Octavia took her chances. Tangible fear was better than those she couldn’t touch just yet. The steps she took towards the stairs were instinctive, a natural reflex to grab Stradivaria’s case and bring him along. Even so, her hesitation was twofold--she couldn’t communicate her lack of hostile intent, for one. She’d be lucky if she could communicate at all.

Do not go back to that place again.

That, too, she feared, the sharp reprimand in his voice burning more than any light that could scorch her skin. Her choice was a double-edged sword. It was the first time Octavia had left him behind in weeks, the weightless sensation on her back and shoulders outright disorienting as she left.

Creeping out from the safety of her cottage in the still of the night was suddenly far more intimidating, her every step tinged with vulnerability that she didn’t enjoy. The rustle of the grass beneath her feet as she walked was substantially less comfortable in the dark, the soft atmosphere of an autumn evening somewhat lost on her without his company. She sincerely considered going back on multiple occasions. It wasn’t that Tacell was dangerous, at least not to her knowledge. He was her light--literally. A defenseless Ambassador was an oxymoron, somewhat. She fidgeted, her empty hands useless without his straps to cling to for comfort.

Octavia remembered where the cottage was, vaguely. It wasn’t a particularly short walk, given its relative isolation versus the other abodes. The thought of being attacked once more did serve to make her heart race, although something in her stomach gave her a shred of hope she opted to cling to instead. Her second issue came in the form of getting in, knocking having proven to be fundamentally useless.

She wondered if the boy had left the door unlocked intentionally, any true risk of harm in Tacell sincerely close to zero. Octavia was well aware of that much. Why she opted to knock anyway was inexplicable, and she wrote it off as a reflex. Actually twisting the handle led to her stomach twisting along with it. She had half a mind to dive behind whatever protection her eyes landed on first the moment her boots crossed the threshold.

“Theo?” she called into the dark.

That was just as much of a reflex. She kicked herself for it, at least.

Octavia’s movements were slow, her heart was pounding, and her eyes were darting into every conceivable corner soaked in shadow. It was only the soft glow of the moon that offered her reprieve, spared from competition this time as it bled through translucent curtains onto the hardwood. It wasn’t quite enough to guide her path in full, but it was a start.

She sealed herself in the dark with a click of the door behind her, her unseen assailant surely lurking out of sight. It didn’t matter that he was ten. She still couldn’t shake from her mind exactly how powerful his light had been, nor how the razor-sharp eyes of a child had fought to slice her in two.

Every step was tentative, shaky and unsure as the floorboards creaked slightly beneath her feet. She questioned whether his other senses compensated for what he lacked, although she couldn’t prove by how much. There was little comfort in knowing her minute movements would go unheard, given how many other ways her presence could be detected. Then again, that was the point. She had an idea as she walked, raising her hands aloft in a preemptive gesture of surrender. It was a somewhat tiring gesture to maintain, but it was perhaps the difference between offering the goodwill of the Ambassador and being blasted full of scorching radiance.

Octavia remembered the voice. It, too, was silent, a new development that served as the inverse to her distress last time. If he had a Harmonial Instrument, it surely harbored a Muse. She took her chances, her own voice given at least somewhat of a use.

“Are you…still in here?” Octavia tried. “I’m the Ambassador. You were…calling for me last time. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. Let’s talk, okay?”

When she heard nothing, she sighed. Her arms were starting to hurt. “Listen, you’re the one that called me, not the other way around. Can you at least tell me why? If you want to be left alone, you have to tell me that, too. I’m not psychic. Please?”

The footsteps that rapidly tapped against the flooring behind her made her jump, and Octavia nearly screamed. It was a panicked reflex to reinforce her motion of surrender, her arms raised ever higher and her face surely straining with much the same terror. That much was a natural reaction to the daggers that pinned her soul, a deadly gaze coupled with the mouth of a piccolo where words didn't greet her.

The boy was tense, his distance more than close enough to seriously wound her if desired. Never did his relentless glare spare her, even for a second. He locked eyes with her forever, his Harmonial Instrument raised and ready at a moment’s notice. All it would take was a single note. Octavia gulped, petrified. Even blinking was a risk.

As still as she was, waving one paralyzed hand peacefully was possibly the stupidest decision she could’ve made. It was free of consequence, at least, Theo’s eyes darting towards her most minimal movement instantly. It was with less urgency that his bitter gaze traveled to her other hand, aloft and equally barren. He eyed her up and down, and she felt small under the ruthless inspection of a child almost half her size. Octavia’s breaths were shallow, the movements of her shoulders a risk she didn’t want to take.

Theo took one, two, three, four steps backwards from her. His eye contact was unwavering, endlessly piercing as he held her in place with hostility alone. Ever so slowly, he lowered the piccolo from his lips, still tensed and gripping the instrument tight enough to whiten his knuckles. He slipped it under the crook of his arm carefully, surrendering his offenses in favor of freed hands. He curled his fingers inwards and raised one arm aloft to his shoulder, emulating a motion Octavia knew exceedingly well. It still took a moment for his imitation of a violin to click.

She waved her hands frantically, shaking her head much the same. “No, no, I don’t have it! I’m unarmed! I’m not gonna hurt you, I swear!”

Again, Octavia winced at her own folly. It really was a reflex. She hoped her hurried gestures at least got the point across.

Theo tilted his head as he lowered his arms, returning his grasp to the piccolo alone. Octavia was sweating under his glare, embarrassed as she was to admit it.

You are alone, then?

She’d heard that voice. It was unmistakable, for how many times it had pleaded and beckoned to her. To hear anything besides “help me” and “Ambassador” in such a timid tone was off-putting, but welcome nonetheless. Octavia nodded, her eyes flickering to the piccolo instead.

“Yes, I’m alone,” she said softly. “I…came by myself. I didn’t bring anyone with me.”

He is not with you?

“Who?”

Him.

Octavia paused. “River?”

Theo averted his eyes, and Octavia breathed a deep sigh of relief over her newfound freedom. Still, the lack of response from the unseen Muse didn’t make her feel much better. “Is there…something wrong with River?”

No.

Octavia hesitated to press further, the soft, feminine tone as weighted as it was meek. The atmosphere definitely wasn’t helping, her rapid heartbeat still not fully under control in the dark. “What’s your name?” she settled upon instead.

It was Theo who answered, as inexplicable as his response was for her. He raised one hand, quickly motioning with his fingers again and again at a speed she couldn’t keep up with. It wasn’t for lack of trying, given that she’d already started to forget the signs for her own name somewhat.

Octavia shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

‘Miracle Agony.’

Octavia raised her eyes largely out of reflex for the voice in her head, even cognizant of its origins. “Is that what he said?”

Yes.

“That’s a…dark name,” Octavia confessed.

She was well aware that the comment was somewhat biting. Still, it was the truth, to her. The Muse took it well enough, the same calm voice soft as ever. I know. Even so, it is the one I chose.

Octavia paused. “What’s your real name?”

Her eyes went to Theo, initially, half-expecting another series of gestures she couldn’t process. When he was motionless, it was all she could do to wait patiently. She waited, and waited, and waited, until she was somewhat convinced she’d forgotten to ask the question at all.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. It’s--”

Mixoly.

Octavia tested the name on her tongue. “Mixoly?”

Yes.

This Muse was of few words, if nothing else. Octavia did what she could to fill in the gaps where possible. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She was silent, a reciprocated greeting shunned immediately. It was mildly disheartening. Octavia fidgeted somewhat.

“Can I…see you?”

Why?

That, as the Ambassador, wasn’t a question she could recall being asked. “I-I…you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she repeated.

There was silence once more, at least briefly. Are you certain you are alone?

Octavia nodded. “No one’s with me, I promise.”

You were not followed?

The thought was unsettling. “I…no, I don’t think so.”

Not now. Perhaps soon. I apologize, Ambassador.

Octavia shook her head. “Don’t feel pressured. You can stay in there if you want. We can just…talk like this.”

That is preferable.

Theo’s eyes flickered down to the piccolo in his grasp before piercing Octavia once more. Again, he cradled it under his arm, freeing his hands to motion quickly in her direction. She winced, especially given the same volatile hostility in his gaze yet again as he did so.

“I still don’t understand,” she admitted.

‘Don’t make her upset’, he says.

Octavia tensed. “Is he…talking about you?”

It is alright, my child. I…trust in the Ambassador.

Theo winced. It was the first expression she’d seen on his face that wasn’t filled with loathing and aggression since they’d met. He didn’t move, cupping the piccolo in both palms with great care. His hands were silent.

It may not be so.

Theo shook his head, his eyes soft as he gazed upon the instrument.

I will…be alright.

He shook his head harder, gritting his teeth.

I will at least attempt. What follows remains to be seen.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

I would like to imagine.

She was eavesdropping.

“E-Excuse me,” Octavia began nervously, “can he…hear you?”

If the Muse found the question ignorant, she said nothing of it. In his heart, just as you can.

Octavia nodded. It made enough sense, somehow. “If I say something to you, can you tell it to him for me?”

What would I relay for you, Ambassador?

“Just…hypothetically.”

Then yes, I could.

It was somewhat uncomfortable to converse with a Muse she couldn’t quite see, having largely been spoiled by face-to-face encounters. There was an almost comical dichotomy in how gentle Theo’s eyes were upon his partner and how violent his gaze was upon Octavia. It gave her chills, child or not.

“You…said you needed help,” Octavia tried. “What do you need? How can I help you?”

I begged for your aid before I knew he was by your side. It is not safe now.

Again came the same vague accusation. “Who are you talking about?”

Ambassador, you must not trust in his words. You are in danger.

“What are you talking about? Whose words?”

Now is…not the time. He is shrewd. He will suspect you. You are not supposed to know me, nor I you, Ambassador. It is for this reason that you must be on your guard.

Confused as she was, the weight of the Muse’s words was enough for lead to settle into Octavia’s blood. “I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”

Return alone. Return with care, and not for long. Return only when darkness falls and no eyes are upon you. Do not tell him. You must not tell him.

“Mixoly, I don’t get what you’re talking about. Who is ‘he’? Is it a Maestro?”

Leave now, lest your absence raises such suspicion. Return when…when you are able.

“Mixoly?”

Please do not…leave me for long.

“Mixoly, if I’m in danger, you need to tell me from what. I can help you, I promise. I’ll do whatever you want, and I’ll help with whatever you need. I’ll send you home, I swear, but I need to know what you--”

Do not trust Stratos.

It was a sentiment she’d heard only once before, and on far calmer lips--luminescent or otherwise. It was a suggestion that was still enough to send a chill down her spine, unsettling in concept alone. What she’d once dismissed as the byproduct of a potential feud between two very different Muses was now reiterated from one of Stratos’ own legacy. The reflex to defend his honor was instant, if not shaky.

“W-Why would you say that? He’s precious to me!”

Please, Mixoly implored quietly.

Her singular plea was weak enough that Octavia didn’t have the heart to argue. It took conscious effort to relax fists she wasn’t even aware she’d made. She couldn’t bear to look at the Muse’s vessel, with Theo’s sharp expression not much of a welcome improvement.

Go now and return soon. I will…tell all. Believe what you will, Ambassador.

Mixoly’s words stung enough that she didn’t need to be told twice, truthfully. She resisted the urge to storm out, to shatter what little rapport she’d begun to build with a voice that had begged for her aid. As to whether she was building rapport with Theo, she had her doubts, given the way he glared at her once more all the way out the door.

Do not trust Stratos.

It echoed in her head, and she very much did not like it. Would she be a poor Ambassador if she were hesitant to help such a Muse? She’d helped Ethel, after all, although his words of reproach had been offered at the point of no return.

She chanced one last look behind her into the cottage, Theo still glowering at her from beyond the threshold. Once more, very slowly, he motioned to her with heavy movements. His eyes were enough to make her blood run cold.

“What…is he saying?” she asked aloud to the Muse.

The voice hesitated. Octavia deserved that, somewhat, given her harsh dismissal of such a soft warning. Still, she appreciated the translation that was kindly offered regardless.

‘If you hurt her,’ Mixoly spoke, ‘I will kill you.’