Chapter Text
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ISABELLE
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The scent of flowers was everywhere. It mingled with the succulent aroma of the copious food stalls set up along the parade, the crisp, fresh bread and sweet, crumbling pastries. Towards the harbour the scent developed further, taking on the salty hints of sea air, the pungent notes of fresh fish being hauled in.
The sun was out, barely a cloud in the sky, and the heat was pleasantly warm and manageable. The streets were filled with townspeople enjoying the festivities. Young families gathered around the fountain, the children splashing each other playfully as their parents laughed. Friends sipped wine together, stretched out on picnic blankets under the tree in the square, red and white leaves dancing around them. Couples strolled hand in hand, sampling treats from the stalls, their necks adorned with flowers.
To an outsider, one might think this was a beautiful day. A summer festival in which all the townspeople could attend and enjoy. To the residents of Lumiere however, the festival did not signify a happy event. On closer look, one could see the parents by the fountain laughed with forlorn tears in their eyes. The friends sipping wine, silently toasted their lost brethren. The seemingly happy couples gripped each other's hands slightly too tightly.
Across the sea, jutting out of the horizon, stood the monolith. A vast stone tower guarded by a towering behemoth known as The Paintress. Etched in the rockface, a giant ominous number: 37. Each year The Paintress would awaken to alter the number, slowly counting down with an unknown purpose. The annual festival in Lumiere marked the event, known as The Gommage. It was a time for friends and families to say goodbye to their loved ones, a time for mourning and farewells. For as The Paintress struck off another number from the monolith, the lives of those who were the same age would also be ended, vanishing into nothingness.
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Isabelle was 35, finding herself one year away from her own predetermined ending. She didn’t feel exceptionally sad at the thought - having to grieve friends and loved ones every year took its toll on the mind and heart. She had always felt something was missing, some deep piece of her soul that longed for answers not just for herself, but for all the citizens of Lumiere.
She had distracted herself with decades spent involved in research of The Continent and its mysteries, preparing expeditioners for their selfless quest to the mainland. With no means of communication, Isabelle had no idea how successful the expeditions had been, but she prayed that her efforts had at least been of some help.
The time had come for her to embark on her own journey. As was tradition, after the Gommage ceremony, the next expedition would depart, taking with it another host of brave men and women, hopeful that they would be the final expedition. Their purpose: to destroy The Paintress and end the Gommage, solidifying a future for Lumiere.
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RENOIR
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Renoir stood dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, the tips of his black dress shoes teetering over the rock. His sweeping coat enveloped his shoulders, shielding him from the biting coastal wind. He tapped his cane impatiently against the stone, tilting his head slightly as he stared out at the horizon.
The yearly expedition would set sail soon, bound for The Continent, more determined souls desperate for answers. More individuals that would need to be stopped before they ventured too far inland. Renoir detested it. Despite what his son might think, he truly hated ending the lives of others. As each year passed and another group of bright and hopeful, young faces landed ashore, Renoir took no pleasure in cutting them down. For Her. For The Paintress.
Renoir both loved and hated her. Aline, his beautiful wife… and yet she was also the wife of another. His very existence was at her command, forged out of the same grief she had forged his son, albeit one out of love and the other out of rage. He was now doomed to carry out this annual extinction of the expeditioners, forever cursed to be her eternal guardian.
Renoir sighed as Expedition 36’s sails came into view on the horizon. 36… 36 more years and it would be over. He steeled himself as he set off down the cliffside. For Alicia. For Verso. For Aline.
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“You… you’re old. How did you… how did you survive the Gommage?” The man at the front of the group stepped forward. He was noticeably shocked at Renoir’s appearance. As they all had been before him. As they all would be after him.
“Which expedition are you from?” The man pushed further. Renoir sighed quietly to himself. He wished he could answer their questions, wished he could provide them the solution to the curse that bound them all. He had tried many times over the years to find another way but he knew he couldn’t save them all. This was a kindness, one they would never appreciate.
As Renoir lifted his cane to strike, another voice cut through the dark. “Answer us, how did you come to be here?” The question threw him for a second, the confident tone as familiar to him as the setting of the sun. He lifted his eyes, searching the group until he located the owner of the voice, his breath immediately catching in his throat.
Renoir had always loved that about her, the fiery confidence, never afraid to challenge when necessary. She had developed quite a reputation among the Painters for being difficult to work with, but he had never found it so. She was the fire to his ice, him the rock in her storming sea. He had always been the softer one in the relationship, so easily won over by their children. On too many occasions he would face her wrath for allowing Alicia to run riot in the manor. She could never stay mad at him though, when he nuzzled into her neck and kissed her frustration away… Another’s memories bestowed upon him that felt as real to him as if he had lived it himself.
The woman from the Expedition was younger than he remembered, presumably 35, departing on one last voyage of desperation before being erased from existence. From the distance between them he couldn’t see all the details but he knew it, the way she stood firm and challenging, ready to take on the world. The beautiful creature he had fallen in love with all of those years ago, not yet tainted with the pain of losing her child.
Aline…
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ISABELLE
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“Answer us, how did you come to be here?” Isabelle stepped forward, ahead of the group. It made no sense. Although it had been a few decades since she had seen someone so much older than herself, there was no doubt the stranger was in his late fifties or even perhaps early sixties. By all rights, he should have Gommaged years ago.
The man had begun to raise his cane but at her challenge he faltered. She locked eyes with him, watching as the emotions flickered across his face. The sadness that seemed to overwhelm him took her breath away. There was an almost hopefulness in his eyes too, expecting something of her she didn’t yet understand.
Isabelle felt as if she had seen him before, like passing someone in the street but not paying enough attention to really notice them. She needed to get closer. Carefully, Isabelle stepped towards the stranger. As she approached, the man visibly stiffened, his grasp around his cane tightening. He regarded her silently and carefully as she surveyed him, absorbing every detail as if it would jog her memory.
He was dressed in a full three piece suit complete with a heavy, draping coat, something that one might wear attending a formal dance at the Opera House back in Lumiere. Isabelle thought it odd attire for The Continent - their records of the area described barren landscapes littered with Nevron activity, certainly not suitable for formal attire - but the man’s presence alone was odd enough.
Her eyes drifted to his face, weathered with age, too long had it been since she had seen such features. The wrinkles there seemed to hold stories within them, each line a tale that she yearned to know more about. His mouth was almost hidden in the beard that covered the lower half of his face, but it was somehow impeccably groomed, as if he had just returned from the barbers.
Isabelle looked up, meeting his eyes. There was a dark, vertical scar across his right eye, stretching up into his hairline. She was suddenly overcome with the need to touch it, her fingers twitching at her sides. She was so close to him now, it wouldn’t take much. The man gazed at her, expectant yet hesitant, a silent hope pleading in his eyes. Isabelle gently lifted her hand, raising it to the stranger’s face.
“Isabelle, wait…” Jacques called out to her, causing her to falter and break eye contact with the man. Instantly a blinding flash crashed around them, Isabelle’s hands flying to shield her eyes from the consuming light. After a moment, she felt the light dissipate from behind her fingers, her eyes slowly readjusting to the twilight as she opened them.
The man was gone. His presence and swift departure left Isabelle with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach and even more questions than before. Who was he? How did he survive the Gommage? Why was he here on the beach? Perhaps the question that troubled her the most was why she felt such a strong connection to the man. She didn’t recognise him but he certainly seemed to know her. He was older so perhaps he had known her as a child before setting off on an expedition. Still, that didn’t seem right.
Isabelle couldn’t shake the feeling that the stranger had been about to attack the expedition before she intervened. His demeanour had completely changed upon seeing her. For now, she concluded, he was not to be trusted. Whatever connection there was between them would have to wait, there were too many questions that had yet to be answered.
Who are you?
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