Chapter Text
She had never known where the other Alicia’s memories ended and hers began.
In her clearest ones, Maman was present. Watching her play with her siblings by the fireplace. Opening gifts under the Christmas tree while snow gathered outside the manor windows. Taking painting lessons under Maman’s careful but strict gaze—the fumes of oil paint burning her nose, spots of color sticking to her fingers.
Maman would always be there. Watching.
Sometimes it would be Papa. When they fenced in the garden and she finally managed to score more than once. Or when he taught her to waltz—small feet on top of leather shoes—laughter filling the living room. When he stayed with her after a nightmare, his warm voice soothing her with stories until she fell asleep.
Apart from those, most of them were a blur. Details would be missing. Books whose pages had no smells. A strawberry cake and tea at a terrace with no taste. An outing to the opera with Verso with no sound.
Once, she dared to ask Verso and Clea about their own memories—one night in the quiet of candlelight, as their parents had gone to sleep. Both had looked at her curiously, telling her she was reading too many books.
And yet, she couldn’t remember that many stories, despite them overflowing in her room.
The past felt like a dream. The light would hit the furniture too perfectly. Her hands felt like they weren’t her own. The dreams of a life lived through other eyes.
Except one memory.
That one was too clear. Too fresh. The years passed around it without ever dulling its edges.
Pain.
Not the pain she felt when she scratched her knee in the gravel or got her fingers hit by a ruler. Nor the one that she had read about. Or the kind she imagined pain would feel like.
It was vivid. Too vivid.
The roar of burning wood was deafening. Smoke filled her lungs and seeped into her skin. There were screams. Hers. And yet, it didn’t sound like her voice as flames kissed and melted her skin.
But most importantly, in the chaos that surrounded her, he was there.
Verso.
He stood before her. No fear in his eyes. Nor any sign of pain despite the scalding flames around them. Only calmness as he extended his hand toward her with a soft smile.
He had been composed as the flames swallowed them. Fearless. Strong. The perfect hero. The perfect brother.
Too perfect.
The next day, she woke up in her bed. Sensation filled her body as if she just realized that she had one. She wiggled her toes in small circles. Clenched her right fist. Then her left one.
For the first time, her body felt like hers.
When she opened her eyes, the sunlight flashing over the chandelier’s crystals was the first thing she saw—just like she did every morning. But something felt wrong. Different from the memories. She blinked once. Twice. Closed one eye, then the other—
— And couldn’t see.
With that first realization came another. Pain. Dull and everywhere. Heat crawled through her skin, making every strand of hair rise. She wanted to scream, to wail. Air tore into her lungs as she opened her mouth wide.
No sound.
She scrambled out of bed and fell to the ground. The carpet scratched uncomfortably on her skin. Her body felt too cold and burning hot at once. Her fingers dug into the fabric as she struggled to get up, her gaze—no, the single eye she still had—fell on her hands.
Scars. All over her skin.
The colour of ash.
“... Alicia?”
Her body tensed at that voice. Clear. Ringing in her ears like no sound had before.
Verso.
“Thank God, you are alright.”
Verso rushed to her, carefully lifting her by her armpits—just like he would before she became too big. Her legs felt too heavy to help him carry her.
But he wouldn’t struggle. He never did. Her strong big brother.
He put her back in her bed and sat next to her—on a chair she hadn’t noticed. He recounted what had happened, his brows furrowing and his voice shaking in all the right places. The Writers had attacked them, starting a fire. The flames had trapped her, and he had reached her before it was too late.
Just like Alicia remembered it.
Her memories of the Writers were a blur. But deep down, somehow she knew, as if it had been branded in her entire being.
All of this was her fault.
Her gaze went back to her gray hands gripping the drapes. She lifted them. Her palms. Her knuckles. Her fingers. Something felt wrong. She started heaving as her hands felt too clear. Everything felt too clear.
“Does it hurt?” Verso’s voice cut in, alarmed.
Yes. Yes it hurt. But it was alright, because—
Because she deserved it.
Didn’t she?
And Verso didn’t.
Her gaze quickly flickered between his face and torso—frantically looking for any signs of injuries. Her single eye struggled to focus. He caught it with a sad smile.
“Don’t worry. I’ve been lucky to get out unharmed,” he lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry I arrived too late…”
But Alicia couldn’t stop the joy spreading in her chest. Her brother could have been hurt because of her. But he hadn’t. And that knowledge overcame any pain or scars she could feel.
They hadn’t realized their mother stood by the doorway.
Watching them.
Verso leaned toward her and softly put a hand on her shoulder, making her shiver.
“Everything’s going to be alright,” he whispered. “I promise.”
Alicia nodded mindlessly, still focused on that hand. With a smile, he took her in his arms in an embrace. Warm. Comforting.
Overwhelming.
A tightness spread through her ribs from the sensation. To be held. The scent of his cologne flooded her senses—stronger than it had ever been. It almost choked her.
As he pulled away, he wiped away tears she hadn’t realized she spilled. She closed her eyes, leaning into the touch, and silently let him tuck her in. She was already so tired.
She hadn’t realized at the time.
That moment had been her birth.
Her body was already scarred. Nobody ever questioned why. And life quickly came back the way it was. The Writers responsible for the fire had been found and captured. The sentence had been irrevocable.
Death penalty. And with it, the end of the Writers.
Clea and Simon had swiftly handled the situation. Anything related to the Writers became illegal. Soon, nobody talked about them anymore. As if they had never existed. As if her sin had never happened.
Yet she would forever bear its trace etched into her face. That had been her punishment. For not having listened to Maman.
She almost never looked at herself in the mirror—flinching every time she saw her reflection. At first, she thought it was because of her scars. Because of the hollow void where her eye should have been.
No.
It was because of her skin.
Nobody seemed surprised by its ashy colour. Her family never mentioned it. Not even the few Lumierans she met. The only thing making them flinch was her disfigured face that she had learnt to hide with a mask.
She started to believe it had always been like this too. That she had always been incomplete.
Years passed, and existence continued. Gentle. Perfect. Her family had learnt to understand her despite her lack of voice. Papa still fenced with her in the garden, as though the fire had never touched her lungs.
Life saw its small changes. Verso left to live in his own studio in Lumière. Clea would soon take the lead of the Painters guild. Like new chapters in a beautiful fairytale.
Maman kept watching over them. A calm satisfaction Alicia had never seen on her face for years.
Wait.
Where was her fa—
They would all rejoice every week-end for a family meal. This time, Verso came with a new composition of his own. With his insistence, they all gathered around him and his piano. Clea brought her harp. Alicia prepared her violin.
“And how am I even supposed to do this transition?” Clea frowned, looking at the music sheet.
“I don’t know, I’m not the string expert,” Verso chuckled.
“... Verso. A piano has strings.”
Papa and Maman proudly watched over them from the couch. Alicia’s own smile reached her face, even if the sun would fall on them too brightly.
It was all so perfect.
…
Until it happened.
The Fracture. The first expedition.
And most of all—
Clea.
She appeared next to their camp, barefoot despite the cold. Auburn hair loose, strands flying in the wind. Spoke with her voice, her sarcasm, her strength. A perfect likeness.
But Alicia felt it. The wrongness.
This wasn't her sister.
What followed was swift and ugly. Nothing like the heroic deaths Papa had painted in stories. No grand sacrifice. No glory. Just bodies, falling in silence.
"You aren't real. Just memories created by Aline to live in her own fantasy."
Verso's hand tightened on his sword but he didn't raise it. Papa's composure slipped entirely.
Then Clea's gaze found her.
She stared. Too long. Long enough for Alicia to see it clearly.
The disgust. The kind this Clea didn't even try to hide.
“How dare she,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
Alicia froze under that stare, her feet rooted to the ground. Running away became impossible.
Then darkness swallowed her.
Somehow, learning the truth had almost been liberating. Less lonely. Things made more sense. Blanks became explainable. Contradictions she had once brushed aside suddenly became obvious.
Fake.
It had all been fake. Pieces meant to reenact a moment frozen in time forever.
For him.
Because of her.
And yet, not really.
That Clea had made it clear. The disgust she had felt when looking at her. When looking at the copy of the one responsible for all this.
Verso had been the one to tell her. After she fainted—or died, she didn’t know. It had felt the same—Clea had told him everything. His hand shook as he told her the truth, what had truly happened in that fire. But he never took his eyes off her. Not once did he look at her the same way that Clea had done.
Somehow, that made it worse.
She could have been mad at Maman. Claiming that it was unfair. It hadn’t been her. That all of this had been cruel. That was what Verso had said at least.
Instead, she only felt understanding.
They had been copies. All of them. Them playing together in the courtyard with a ball Papa bought for Verso. The hushed good nights as they silently went to bed too late. The hopes of finding their place in the world. Of leaving behind a trace.
It all sounded meaningless now. Even love.
And yet, a memory kept clinging to her mind.
The pain.
It had felt real. Too real—even if she wasn’t sure what real meant anymore. The details of her skin burning. The smell of charred flesh.
How would Maman know how burning felt?
Something came back to her mind. A lesson from years ago. One of the clear ones, where Maman stood in front of all three of them like a preacher to her congregation.
“To be a good Painter, you need to understand sensations and emotions at their core. Joy. Sadness. Pain. Chroma will react to your knowledge. To your perception. Joy will become what you consider joy to be. Pain will take the shape of the pain you know.”
“So if you want to be the best Painter, you have to be the most miserable person on Earth. Or a masochist,” Verso chuckled. “How delightful.”
Clea scoffed. “I guess you’ll perfectly paint getting your ass beaten. You’re welcome.”
Maman ignored the banter with a fond but disapproving frown.
“No, Verso. Painting is about empathy—”
Alicia began to stagger on her feet.
“—Feeling things as if they were your own—”
She ran to the bathroom, her breathing heaving.
“—And not turning away from them, no matter how far you could go.”
She didn't make it to the basin in time.
Even her pain hadn’t truly been hers.
She stood on trembling legs, hands gripping the basin so tightly it marked her skin.
A darker gray.
Not pink. Or red.
In that other world, another Alicia. Another burned girl. A foolish burned girl with no voice and only one eye.
But a girl who had been complete.
Alicia’s grip tightened even more on the marble.
At least, in this world, her brother was alive. She hadn’t killed him.
The pride she felt at that thought made her stomach clench. She heaved again, this time in the basin, pride giving way to shame.
Shame had been her constant companion. She knew now that Maman had painted it into her. Made it part of her like another limb.
Without it, she would have been even more incomplete.
After that, time moved differently. Or perhaps it didn't move at all. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Doors stopped closing and opening. The table would still be dressed, with no one left to come.
But the dust never settled. The manor remained clean. Perfectly clean and inhabited despite having no residents.
There was no more to say. No more to hear.
It had all been petals anyway.
*Fifty-one years after the Fracture*
Alicia’s boots crunched across the courtyard gravel toward the main entrance. It had been raining for three days now, with no signs of stopping. Water streaked along the tiles and splashed against the walls like brush strokes.
She came back from the Reacher. Again.
How long had it been this time? Weeks? Months? Her immortal body allowed her to wander mindlessly across the Continent. No need for food. Nor for sleep.
A wandering ghost inside an unchanging corpse. Returning to its haunted house. Both forever unchanged.
She opened the door. Unlocked. As always. Who would wander into this place anyway?
The entrance was silent, cold air filling her lungs before any scent could. A shiver ran through her.
She knew it wasn’t only from the cold.
She kept her drenched coat, and went to the stairs—rainwater dripping from her uniform and staining the floor behind her. It would be painted away the next day.
She passed Clea’s room. Then Verso’s. Both uninhabited for… how long had it been again?
She reached her room. Not even dust had settled there. Her bed was made, the silk drapes emanating no warmth. Her books and typewriters remained on the exact spot she had left them. Pristine. Perfect reminders.
She sat at her desk, gaze locked on the typewriter. Her gloved fingers drifted over the keys absentmindedly, leaving spots of water. The keys moved without making any sound. It was something Maman had forgotten to paint.
But the smell of ink… it had been choking her, filling her lungs like smoke.
She had tried to throw it away once. After the fire. The next day, it had reappeared.
She leaned on the desk and put her head in her arms, her wet sleeves even colder on her forehead. The scent of wood took over the ink’s. Barely. She closed her eyes, drifting off into a dreamless state that didn’t feel like sleep.
It never made the exhaustion wash away.
The clock ticked in the silence, announcing the passage of a time that didn’t exist. Alicia let the sound soothe her, counting each tick in her head as rain lashed softly against the windows.
Thirty-three…
Sixty-eight…
Thunder roared not far.
One hundred fifty-one…
Two hun—
Her eyes sprang open. She heard something.
Silence. Again. The sound of the rain resumed softly.
With a sigh, she closed her eyes, picking up the count again—
This time, she was sure. She had heard something. She focused on the silence, her body more awake than it had been in months.
Voices. From downstairs.
She pushed herself upright on aching legs—only then realizing how badly her body hurt—and silently went to the stairs. The voices reached her from the living room. Clearer.
“—didn’t think… see you again—”
Verso?
Her chest tightened painfully at the sound of his voice. The last time they had seen each other, she had helped him escape Serpenphare. The memory almost made her smile.
Almost.
What was Verso doing here?
Something felt wrong. The rain was now pouring, drowning the sound of his voice. She climbed down a few steps, back pressed against the wall. She regretted not taking off her boots as the wet leather squeaked on the marble.
“—trust me... choice … never come back.”
Her chest contracted sharply around nothing. Sharp and painful. She hadn’t heard that voice in years, and yet, she would never forget it.
Clea. Her sister was back.
Relief flooded in her chest. After so many years, her sister was home. She had thought—
She had thought it had been her fault. Again.
She rushed down, almost slipping on the wet marble as she descended the remaining stairs. The living room almost came to view when—
“Don’t come closer.”
Verso’s voice stopped her just before she crossed the threshold. She didn’t hear the light footsteps across the room that had stopped too.
“I know you’re behind this,” he said coldly. “Where is she?”
Alicia flinched at the accusatory tone, a hand flying to her chest. What had she done? Why was Verso mad at her?
“It doesn’t matter. This isn’t why I came,” Clea’s voice cut in, impassive.
Something sharp pierced Alicia to the core.
That wrongness. She had felt it before.
It wasn’t Clea.
It was her.
“Then why are you here?” Verso hissed through gritted teeth.
Verso. He couldn’t be left alone. She had to do something.
Her hand moved instinctively, summoning her rapier through Chroma—the gesture automatic after years of training.
“Because I need you to do something for me—”
The Chroma formed inside her palm. Quicker. She needed to be quicker.
“Alicia is here.”
Her heart jumped in her chest, thundering against her ribs. Shit. How did she know? Too late. She had lost the element of surprise.
“No. She’s not,” Verso snarled.
Alicia heard a sigh. Why was her rapier taking so long to form?
“I don’t mean that one. I mean the real Alicia.”
She froze.
The Chroma in her hand tore itself apart before dissipating completely.
“She was supposed to come help Renoir. But Aline’s Chroma has taken over,” she continued with another tired sigh. “She has been reborn in this world.”
Alicia’s whole body felt numb. She stayed pressed against the wall, not daring to move, or else she would fall apart.
A sharp ringing filled her ears, barely allowing the rest of Clea’s sentence to settle in.
“She won’t remember anything. I want you to keep an eye on her.”
Alicia couldn’t bear to hear more.
She vanished. Before they could notice she had been there.