Work Text:
Here we stand
In monochrome bodies
And colorless minds
Digging for a semblance
Of—
---
At first, Citrine asked herself this:
“How many days…has it been?”
No matter how long she sat on this shore, hands pressed into beach and feet against the waves, her skin did not prune from the lap of the water, and her hands did not sting from the heat of the sand. She felt numb—no—overwhelmed. No. None of those things. She simply was unsure where her body ended and the world began.
It soon became apparent that such a concept like ‘time’ was foolish here.
Her father had told stories of heaven, hell, and purgatory. Her mind screamed at them, proclaiming them irrational—but her father insisted—and so, she obeyed. Perhaps he had been right. Perhaps this was her fate. But which one was it? If this was paradise—she was disappointed. If this was an abyss, she was underwhelmed.
Perhaps ‘purgatory’ was the closest word she had.
Citrine always hated sitting still. She hated lethargy and uselessness—she never napped or sat idle in all her life—she always ran and fought, or at least stood on her own two feet.
So why did she sit now? Why could she not force herself to stand? This pathetic pose, perched at the edge of a grey ocean, looking out into its unidentifiable reaches… she had no desire to move. Only to sit, and wait, and revel in all that stood around her.
“You can move.” A voice whispered in her ear.
“Not yet.” She would say every time that it came “Not yet.”
Forwards or backwards, left or right—neither option appealed to her. Perhaps that was the root of her lonesome vigil.
Stretching out in front of her was the ocean—a vast place where she could submerge her fears forevermore. A place where hands would grab onto hers, intertwining and holding fast until their time to run came once more. In there, she would find acceptance and security— right? The praise she always had been searching for—but at a cost called “vulnerability.”
Behind her was a barren forest—a place of instinct and danger, where few souls should ever go. It seemed fearsome—yet inviting. For at least there, her carefully constructed shield would remain in-tact. In there, there was no one to please, no one to accept—only yourself, and the utter rejection of anything you despised.
Pros and cons existed—but she couldn’t find the heart to weigh them. No, no. Not yet. Not in this surreal landscape. Not when her soul was so buried and shapeless among the sand and sea.
Not yet.
Citrine was alone. And then—she wasn’t.
There was no fanfare or pretense—just empty air, abruptly replaced by the shape of a broken human being, in the midst of one slow blink.
She knew her.
She had features—but they seemed unreal and faded. Black dress, dark skin, white gloves—but what did any of that mean? The presence was simply recognizable by her “existence”—not by “appearance.”
They had touched one another, long ago—no, not long ago. Hours ago. They had shared their bodies and their lives, before they winked out like dying stars to fall to this quiet ocean below.
“You,” Citrine said softly, breathing the words like a half-shocked sigh.
“I could say the same.”
There was a heavy silence that followed the terse greeting. Two women, alone in every way but one, suddenly reunited in a place that had no sense or meaning.
“I… suppose we both failed then.” Pellegri took a step toward her. Her clothes were charred and torn, hair frizzed and tangled, and skin mottled up along the side of her face and up the length of her arms. Burn marks—Citrine could tell that much. This woman had died in flames.
“Indeed.” Citrine replied, turning her head away. She had failed for nothing too—she had felt it happen. Yuriev’s soul slipped into this world alongside another, smaller, gentler one. Nigredo went to the ocean. Her father went to the trees. Neither surprised her.
Pellegri’s feet made no sound against the sand—a small, ever-present detail that had somehow slipped from Citrine’s view until now. Pulled by a nagging wire of curiosity, Citrine turned to look once more. The burn marks were fading away as she walked towards her, stitching up her body and dress until she looked properly alive once again. Even amongst the muted air that this world pressed to her chest, Citrine felt a selfishly small sense of relief to see her full beauty once again.
“…Damn it.”
Citrine gave the most elegant snort she could manage. What an understatement.
Pellegri was near her now—quite near. She sat, easing herself down to a spot directly at Citrine’s side. However, she did not meet her gaze—she only stared out towards an undefined spot on the horizon.
“What is this place?” Pellegri bluntly posed the question, ignoring Citrine’s scoff. “I…I don’t understand.”
“Give it a moment,” Citrine replied. “It’ll come.”
For all Pellegri’s fire, and stubborn aggression, the answer seemed to soothe her. “Okay,” She replied, closing her eyes. ”….Okay.”
There. Good. Citrine was in no mood to explain—she always hated having to do that, and her life had, unfortunately, been full of instances that required it. Maybe it was time for the opposite to be true—maybe she could ask the questions and glean the answers.
“….Do you see what I see?” Citrine asked, cautiously giving the words to her companion. “A beach made of nothing…”
“A beach?” Pellegri asked, incredulity heavy in her voice. “Not…quite.” Citrine tilted her head closer—she had suspected as much, but to hear it in words—real words—confirmed it. Or perhaps just the sound of another voice period was what made it stick so firmly.
“What do you see then?”
“…A reflecting pool, of sorts. There’s land and water but—“ She paused, searching for the words. It seemed the atmosphere was beginning to creep into her mind as well. She was slowing down, growing in unified peace and drowsiness. “…It’s nothing so natural as a beach.”
“Hmm.” Citrine hummed. “I suppose it’s safe to say… that this world varies from person to person.”
“I suppose so.”
“Is this a failure to your religion?”
“I have no religion.” Pellegri replied, voice unflinching, even in the bitterness of her words. “It was made of lies.”
“…You and I are ever the same.” Citrine smiled, a drop of poison motivating her lips. “I died with no purpose. Then you went along to do the same.”
“Dmitri Yuriev truly failed then?”
“Being here makes me think that… he could never have succeeded in his follies anyway.”
“Well then. That’s a bit of a…” She was about to say ‘shock’ but the word clearly lost its meaning. She stopped, and picked up a slightly different train of thought. “How bitter we’ve become…” Pellegri muttered, resting her arms against her knees. “Look at us. Pathetic. Little more than grossly shattered remains.”
“No. I’d say we’ve always been this way.”
The thought apparently hit home for her—judging by the way she threw her head back and grinned an angry little smile. “I can concede to that.”
“A weapon has no use for such emotions. But in death, I find myself feeling…” Citrine hated to say it—in reality, she felt more human than ever before. It was a release of sorts—and she couldn’t deny the pleasure in talking and existing so selfishly. “…Different, about it.”
The admission was doubtlessly pleasing to Pellegri, but she gave little more than a small smile of acknowledgement, before continuing down another path: “Is that what this is then? Death?” Pellegri clearly knew the answer to that—the question was far more rhetorical than it seemed. “We sit here until we give into whichever… side pulls us more.”
“I haven’t found a better answer than that.” It wasn’t a particularly satisfying one. At least, not as far as she could see.
“And what if… neither option seems fair?”
“I’ll have to let you know.”
Pellegri turned to her, something akin to solidarity written across her face. Their hands brushed together—no more and no less.
“We can’t stay forever.” Pellegri acknowledged. It stung, but she was speaking the harsh fact that had been writhing about in Citrine’s subconscious since she arrived.
“I know that.”
“I can’t even… seem to tell what either option entails...”
“Nor can I.”
“So…is there really a choice to be made?” An air of resignation hovered around Pellegri—reflecting some long withheld anger towards something—or everything—that transpired across her life. “Or are we just doomed to be dragged to whichever side our hearts leap at, unaware of the consequences, and unable to change?”
“…How should I know?” Citrine shook her head. What difference did it really make? It wasn’t like she had ever been granted an opportunity to make this large of a decision by herself. However, this strange, timeless, bubble had certainly granted her the opportunity to realize—and loathe it.
“…Forgive me.” Pellegri whispered a rare apology. “I suppose it’s unlikely that you’ve had much more time to think about it.”
“No. No I haven’t.”
Pellegri paused, nearly (but truly, not quite) hesitant to ask. “How did it happen? For you?”
A choked laugh burst from Citrine’s throat. “My comrade. My last comrade. He shot me down, just like all the others before me.”
“Hm? So that’s it.” As furious as Citrine might have been, Pellegri almost seemed angrier. “I’ll never understand you U.R.T.V.”
“That’s fine. I don’t think any of us did.” Not even this beach could tell her that. Shoving the subject away, Citrine nodded towards her. “Your turn.”
Pellegri shifted, lifting her hand away for a split second, like she was scared that it had grown heavy with nerves. “I fought until I couldn’t bear it any longer…It was nothing…to be ashamed of.”
“How am I unsurprised…?”
“We both knew it. Our deaths were…”
“…Inevitable.”
“Inevitable sacrifices for worthless causes.” Pellegri finished, letting the discomfort slide away in time with her hand, sinking back down to meet Citrine’s. The touch was distant and faint, but just barely perceptible enough to matter. “And they’ve left us with this-- with the ever-disgusting question of what to do now.”
“Follow our stubborn trails, as we always have,” Citrine muttered. “Or embrace a change that we may despise.”
“I can’t comfortably call one a risk and one a safe path,” Pellegri sighed. “Neither is safe for… us.”
“Indeed.” Citrine nodded her agreement. Perhaps that was why they both sat at the edge of water—because they had both been abandoned by their distant masters, fake gods who led them down pointless paths to pointless ends. The sights beheld by their eyes were desolate and grey on all sides—leaving even the most familiar path a place weaved out of unknown risk and reward.
“…This may sound odd, but—“ No, nothing could sound odd here. Pellegri must’ve realized that. “—I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”
“…It’s strange, isn’t it?” Citrine agreed. “We’re both locked volumes, so why are we here, spreading our pages?”
“Perhaps it’s the place.”
“Perhaps. But…” Citrine hesitated, catching a strange look in Pellegri’s eyes.
“I thought of you. At the end.”
Citrine’s mind went blank, reeling as fast as it might have in life. “You—“
“Now that’s strange, isn’t it?” Pellegri chuckled lightly, shoulder pushing firmly into Citrine’s. “I was surprised myself.”
“I’ll… be flattered.” Citrine said, returning the touch of their shoulders by leaning her weight in a little bit farther. “I’d say it was a shame that we didn’t meet earlier, but we’d really need entirely different lives for it to make any difference.”
“I’ve thought the same thing.” Their heads were touching now, just barely. It was… nice. Admittedly, it was very nice. “At that rate, I suppose we truly were… doomed.”
“Best to embrace it, I suppose.”
“Yes. Embrace it.” Pellegri echoed.
“No matter which way we go… we’ll just end up back there again.” It was inevitable—rejection or acceptance—no matter what they did, their souls would eventually fly from this realm and back to the world they had known. The path was the only thing that differed. “We just have to wait, and hope we’re luckier this time around.”
“You believe in luck? I never took you for that sort.”
“I’m not.”
Citrine took a firm hold of the hand resting on top of hers. Once certain that their fingers were safely intertwined, she rose to her feet for the first time since her arrival, pushing off the numbingly warm sand. Pellegri rose in perfect synchronicity, their elbows evenly bent, and their shoulders squared.
They stood before the ocean—the pool—the water—hand-in hand, eyes fixed on the dark and gentle waves that rolled in the distance.
“Is this… how we want to spend that time?” Pellegri asked with a gentle squeeze of her hand.
“...We can try. Perhaps it’s pointless, but—“
“—But perhaps it will give us what we need.”
“For next time around.” Citrine agreed.
“For…next time around.”
Without letting go of each other’s hands, they stepped forward, foot-by-foot, and let the ocean claim them.