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Clea stood at the edge of the ruined copy of Paris and watched the giant lumber around amidst broken buildings. The longer she watched it, the hotter her irritation burned.
The fact that her mother had Painted a copy of her was insult enough, but now her father had done the same, albeit more abstract. A giant carrying a heavy weight on her back, like the Atlas of Greek myth? She found it a trite metaphor. And her father did not seem to realize that she wouldn't have to carry so much weight if he had just let Aline be and helped her with hunting down those responsible for the fire instead. Stubborn fools, the both of them.
There was the sound of footsteps behind her. Clea turned to see the final piece of her plan approaching.
Her mother's interpretation of an older version of her best friend was shaped like a bear of a man. Clea didn't know if it resembled the real Simon as he was now. The last time she had seen him in person, he had been a gap-toothed ten year old boy who had helped her sort her collected sea shells by color and size, in that order.
The fact that it had survived her ambush and being separated from the rest of that so-called Expedition boded well. It was injured but that was to be expected. Nothing vital, by the looks of it.
"Clea!" the thing that was not Simon called out to her. Its voice was low and sonorous, almost the complete opposite of how she remembered her friend's voice. It struggled up the hill towards her.
Before Clea even realized, it already had its arms around her, pulling her into an embrace that was tight but not crushing. Her nose was filled with the stench of blood and sweat and paint, and the natural scent of him — of it — underneath it all. It was a smell that was as familiar as it was alien.
Caught off-guard, she nearly started unraveling the threads of its very being right then and there. But it was still useful. She still needed it. That was why she had led it here, made sure it could pass where the others could not.
Turning Aline's creations against her seemed like a fitting punishment. It was what Clea had done with the Painted impostor wearing her own face. And this imagining of Simon would serve her just as well. But perhaps she wouldn't even need to Paint over this one for it to obey her. For as much as these Painted creations could love, the interpretation of Simon had loved the fake Clea.
Verso was not the only one who could pretend. If she had to, Clea could play any role.
She summoned all her feelings of warmth and affection for Simon, the one who had always understood her so completely, the one who still wrote to her all these years later, the one she felt like she shared a soul with, and pretended just for a little while that she was the impostor who loved this thing that was not him but did bear his name.
"My love, you're alive…" the fake Simon said, pulling back and cupping her face in its hands. "I was so worried." It glanced around for a moment. "Where are the others?"
"They were killed. All of them. We're the only ones left." Clea said flatly, her true grief fueling her fake grief.
It was only half a lie. Her creations had slaughtered the entirety of the Expedition, but the three corpses of the remaining impostor family had risen again by the power of Aline's gift to them, which was rather annoying. Those three were currently fleeing back to their island city with their tails between their legs, she had no doubt about that.
The interpretation's face twisted with grief. It pulled her against itself once again. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry I wasn't there to protect them."
She knew that it being there wouldn't have made a difference. All except three would have died just the same, and this one would have been just another statue among many. She hadn't separated it from the group on purpose. It had simply failed to die even when the others that had been left behind had long since fallen. In hindsight, this was a rather lucky coincidence.
"What's done is done." she said, her voice muffled by the fabric of his coat. "We should blame the one responsible, not ourselves."
When the thing that was not Simon pulled back and looked at her with a tear-stained face and a question in its gaze, she turned to point at the Monolith. "She caused all of this — the one who dwells at the top of the Monolith."
"Not the giantess?" it asked as it looked in the direction she had pointed.
"No." she replied. "It is a puppet.", to which it nodded wordlessly.
Clea let the silence stretch on for a few beats before she spoke again. "Will you do something for me, my love?"
"Anything for you." it answered without question.
"Help me kill the Paintress at the top of the Monolith and avenge my family." she said. "We found out how to reach her, but they were all killed before we could implement our plan." When the interpretation nodded resolutely, she added, "I have discovered a way to grant you the power to slay this giant here. Take its chroma and you can pierce the Barrier around the Monolith. Then, the path to the Paintress will be clear for you."
"And you? Will you be by my side?" it asked.
She shook her head solemnly. "It's too dangerous for me to go. I will have to wait for you here."
"You can leave it to me, my love. I will kill this Paintress for you and Renoir and Verso and Alicia and everyone else." it replied.
"Thank you." she said. "Time is not on our side. She grows more powerful with every passing hour."
The thing that was not Simon cupped her cheek and leaned in to bring its face close to hers. Clea nearly jerked her head away but she managed to restrain herself.
It kissed her, briefly and chastely but with much love, before it said, "I love you."
"I love you too." she replied, as if she meant it.
It seemed heartened by her words, judging by the fond smile that crossed its face. "I'm ready." it said.
She smiled back at it as fondly as she could manage.
Then she poured everything into this thing that would become her living weapon — all the chroma she had managed to siphon away before the Fracture. It came alive with the immense power, its painted form nearly bursting at the seams, but it held. She felt a spark of familial pride at that. No matter what could be said about her, the Dessendre matriarch's work was impeccable even now.
When Clea was done, her living weapon gave her one last long, lingering look before it summoned a sword and shield and started towards the metaphorical representation of her.
And then she only had to stand back and enjoy the spectacle.
The first breath upon exiting a Canvas was always intense, bordering on painful. Clea blinked slowly as she settled back into her body.
The atelier was quiet. The motionless forms of her parents were on either side of her. Perhaps the house would come alive with sound again soon, if her plan worked. She didn't stick around to wait for it though.
Time was in short supply for her. Now that she had wasted however long of it on the affairs in the Canvas, she only had a few hours to get some sleep before she was supposed to meet with her contacts.
After checking on Alicia, who was asleep, Clea went to her own room and collapsed on the bed without bothering to change out of her clothes. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, before turning her head to look at the neat stack of unopened envelopes sitting on her bedside table. These were addressed to her in handwriting that was as familiar to her as her own.
Time was in short supply for her. She hadn't had time to read them since Verso died. And so they had slowly started to accumulate over the months, even without her reply. Simon would understand. Perhaps he had even heard the news all the way in the south.
Clea suddenly felt crushed under the weight of her loneliness. Never before had she wished that he was here more than right now. It was a weakness that she only allowed herself here in the privacy of her bedroom.
Time was in short supply for her. Nevertheless, she grabbed the oldest envelope and went in search of a letter opener.