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Her room changed after La Manchaland. Don Quixote supposed it was to be expected. She had done the same, after all, playing the role or not.
Though, she had to admit that the new look proved to be… rather jarring. The things INSIDE the room were mostly the same. The Fixer merchandise, the posters, the only thing really missing were the playing mats. The room itself however…
Don Quixote hummed, looking over the ornate bloodstone walls. Those lamps she could never get to glow exactly how she wanted. The bed, covers made specifically to feel exactly like her Armadura. A small bookshelf, once filled with books she had hoped to look into if Father ever gave her a day of calm. She never got to reading any of them, leaving the ones here completely empty. And, finally…
The painting. A gift from one of the other Elders, back before Father burned those bridges forever. He had made several copies of it, making sure each of them got one. It wasn’t anything that extravagant, merely him sitting at his throne, the four of them surrounding him.
Don Quixote’s sight lingered on the canvas, watching each and every face. So lifelike it made her throat tight. So different from the masked corpses they would become... Father, wearing his usual smile. Curiambro, his gaze measured and focused. Herself, scowling at the painter. Nicolina, directly in front of her and very clearly aware of said scowl, if her nervous expression was any sign. And…
Dulcinea. Cold, beautiful, terrible Dulcinea, looking straight ahead with her perfect posture and unmoving expression. “Hm…” Don Quixote stilled. “Reminiscing, are you?”
She sighed, already not looking forward to where it was going. “I suppose I should’ve known it would draw you out.” She kept looking at the portrait. Dulcinea’s painted expression did not change. It couldn’t.
So why then did it feel like her eyes were looking straight at her? “How very... astute of you, Sancho.” She didn’t raise her voice. She never raised her voice. Still, it felt as if the words rang out across the entire room, even if they were only in her head. “It would seem madness still has some grip on you, if you’re seeing paintings move.”
“Why did you come, Dulcinea?” She never arrived for no reason. Out of… all who bothered to rise out of the ever-present sea of whispers in the back of Quixote’s head, she never-
“Why should I? I should think it’s clear how much both of us care for those meetings.” In the shadows, in places she couldn’t see, Quixote could almost hear the creaking of a parasol gripped MUCH too tightly. “Clear how much YOU care about us.”
“Don’t you dare.” Dead or not, she won’t allow her to imply- “Don’t- you’ve got free rein to my thoughts, you know-”
“I don’t care about what you thought about us, Sancho. I care about what you did. For us. To us.” The portrait almost seemed to be scowling. “Or, perhaps, what you didn’t do. Again, and again, and again.” She hummed. “It’s… enlightening, getting to watch through your eyes. Feel through your skin. Reminisce through your memories. So many matters I was wrong about.” The room… darkened. Sancho saw a mist of some kind gathering outside the window as the bloodlight lamps dimmed. “So many ways you thought to help, but didn’t.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” She turned to the portrait again, the shadows lengthening around her. “Do you think I haven’t spent nights in bed, wondering if I could have stopped Him? You were my Family, Dulcinea, I-”
“NOW we’re Family, are we?” She huffed again. “A little late for that, don’t you think? Or did your new one prove insufficient today?”
“There isn’t- this isn’t-” Quixote could see where she was going, and she would NOT allow that. “I could never dream of replacing you. You were the most important thing-”
“HE was the most important thing in your life.” The parasol creaked. The shadows deepened to the point where even the painting was hard to see. All of it but her. “He and His damned dream.” She spat that word out like it was poison. Perhaps for her, it was. “THIS is what you replaced us with. This is why you abandoned us.”
“I wanted to stay!” She defended herself. “Back then, at the park! If Rocinante didn’t drag me away-”
“Then why didn’t you come back? Why didn’t you get that woman to open the way? Surely it wouldn’t be impossible for her if she could match Him in strength. But no.” The fog swirled outside the window. “You left. You abandoned us. And you dreamed.” She paused for a moment. The parasol stopped creaking. “The Mirror Worlds, too. They’re oh so interesting to look at. All different, yet all the same. In every one, you wear those shoes. In every one, you leave us to hell.”
“You know this isn’t even right!” She shot forward, walking towards the painting. “You want to bring the Mirror into this? Then you MUST know there IS a World where I stayed! Where I gave up the dream! A World where-”
“We don’t exist.” Dulcinea of the painting loomed above her, her gaze boring into Quixote. “Outis. Gregor. ...Rodion…” For the first time, her voice turned to a growl. “Of course you’d give up your dream for THEM.” She exhaled, the darkness and mist seemingly retreating, if only for a moment. “...What did they have that we didn’t? Why could you disobey him for them and not for us?”
“I would have.” Quixote looked down, unable to bear her gaze. “I tried to tell him. If you didn’t stop me-”
“You would tell Him. He would assure you it’s temporary. That we’ll get used to it. And you’d go along with it, because it was true for YOU. Because you couldn’t have known how it felt.” Quixote couldn’t answer that. “How it felt to stand at that Parade. To circle the park over and over, watching as your Children rot. To be an insect, pierced and dried on the board so humans could watch your beauty. To see your Son tear himself apart over and over, a sacrificial lamb on the altar of His dream. To look at your Daughter as she cracks and shatters, reduced to scavenging marrow from the bones of the dead. To feel less and less and less after each day, until not even the Thirst matters. To spend two centuries trying to get free.”
“I’m sorry, Dulcinea.” There was nothing she could say to make it right. “I’m sorry for what we’ve made you go through. I’m sorry for leaving you there.” She could feel wet trails streaming down her face.
“Two hundred years, Sancho. Two hundred years I tried. I begged, I pleaded, I explained. And, when nothing else worked, I hurt Him. You know how it felt, right?” She did. It was- ”Each blow like a thousand right at your heart. No matter how numb everything else got, THAT was always fresh. That never ceased to tear me apart. Yet still, He held. No matter what we did, He never gave an inch for two centuries. And all this time, you were out there, gallivanting with the humans and feasting on... raw chicken.” That- she saw that?! “And when you finally arrived, when we finally dragged you kicking and screaming out of Oblivion… you made Him open it in two minutes.”
“Dulcinea…”
“I wouldn’t care. Not at that point. Not after everything. I could accept that He loved you more. More than me and all of them combined. If He just let us all be free.” The darkness… started encroaching again. “We almost had it. Only twelve meager humans stood in our way. But did you join us when we fought them? Did you help?” The window shattered, the mist POURING into the room. Sancho could feel it cut across her skin, tiny blades raking across her face. The painted Dulcinea snarled. “No. You stood. And you watched. Like. You. Always. Did.” All at once, it all disappeared.
Sancho fell on the floor, blood and tears completely taking over her vision. She didn’t know how long she lay there. In many ways, she didn’t care. “I-” She was right. She could’ve been there. Even if she didn’t- didn’t want to fight, she could’ve talked to them! Try to make them- try to do SOMETHING!
“...In those stories you love so much…” She looked again, and the painting was different. Sancho still looked the same, but others… “A Hero is supposed to get rewarded for all the hardships they faced along their journey, right?” Dulcinea’s tired eyes and more tired voice spoke to her from behind that damned mask. “Where was it, Sancho? What kind of reward did we get for all of this?”
“There was none…” She finally forced herself to speak. “There was no justice in what you experienced.” She shifted on the floor, sitting up and drawing her knees closer to her torso. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being a terrible Sister. I’m sorry for not doing more. For the rest of my days, I’ll regret what happened out there.” She looked up. Dulcinea was still there, still oh-so-tired. “I know there’s nothing that can be done now, but…” She looked down at Rocinante. “I can only hope that, in death, you might find peace. From pain, and from this damned Thirst.”
“...Peace, huh?” She huffed again. “Perhaps that can be arranged.” The room got darker for the third time. “...You’re fond of vows, right… Sister? They’re all over your stories…” She looked up, Dulcinea’s eyes drilling through her. “I don’t believe I answered your first question. Why did I come here?” There was a hum. The parasol creaked again, from the corners and shadows of the room. “You see, you recent… affairs with H Corp made me realize something about your… ‘family of twelve’. Do you know what that is?”
“Dulcinea.” She knew. She… realized it, too. “Don’t. Please.”
“They age.” The mist rose up from the ground itself. There was no need to get inside again. “So, here is my vow. I will watch you, Sancho. Through all your adventures and all your deaths, I will be by your side. And when that contract of yours finishes and your time is your own, I will be waiting. Waiting, as the years go by. Waiting, as you stay unchanging among your ‘comrades’. And one day, when you’ll stand over their graves, time and the City having taken their due… I will be there. And when I look into your eyes, when I see the moment you realize that no humans can give you what we did, when you finally comprehend that no new family of yours will ever last… THEN, I will have peace, o Valiant. Don. Quixote.” The mist blew away, her room seemingly unchanged. Except, there was one figure missing on the portrait.