Archive of Our Own

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PART I. LIGHT

Forgive me, is what goes unsaid between the divulgence and admission. His eyes are earnest—is the first thing that Lumine thinks, when she looks at Lyney's face. She doesn’t know what she’s searching for, only that despite the rare unmasking, she can’t quite locate it. The twist to her chest doesn’t disappear.

“I’m sorry…” Spoken evenly, but the words are cruel, dredged up from a dark place within her. She meant for the truth to hurt. “But I still can’t completely trust you.” 

Lyney wilts. Lynette places a hand on his shoulder, as though to steady him, and even that is quick to anger Lumine. 

Because what did it matter, Lumine’s forgiveness, when Lyney and Lynette would have each other? 

How unfair it is, that the ones who wronged her would be offered more consolation than Lumine. Where is Aether, to offer a comforting hand when she’s the one who’s been betrayed? Where is her own twin?

Melted into the darkness of the Abyss, stolen away from her by shadows. Not by her side, like he should. Instead, all Lumine has is the pair of performing twins in front of her, taunting her with the silent comfort of a hand on a shoulder, no words needing to be said. 

(It had felt like another facet of her brother’s betrayal, the deceit. Another punishment, for not being there for him when she should have. Like Aether had reached back from the Abyss, open palm toward her outstretched fingers—only to gently push her away, meeting her with the back of his hand instead. You don’t know anything, Lumine.)

Lyney performs some cursory, perfunctory words, then. It’s alright, I understand, he says. His hushed voice passes her by like a phantom boat occluded by fog, barely perceived.

Do you really understand? she wants to ask. Do you really know who I am, having only met me for a handful of days, countable on one hand as it is? Do you really know what it feels like, to bear the consequences of your lie in a court of spectacle?

Lumine doesn’t think he does. And she keeps looking at Lyney’s face, trying to find it in her to be the bigger person, to offer her usual steady presence in the face of his genuine vulnerability. It had been easy before, other people baring their souls to her, comfort springing to her lips so easily. Villains. They got what they deserved. I’m sorry this happened to you, Lyney, Lynette. I’m glad you’re safe now. I’m here for you. 

The pain on Lyney’s face should make it easy—but Lumine can’t. It’s been drained out of her, nothing left to water. 

But it’s not as if it matters. Lumine could very well just be another stranger in his world, briefly brushing borders. In the end, they will have the other to lick their wounds—so where does that leave Lumine? 

Furina suddenly comes to mind, that arrogant tilt of her chin as she stared down, her pride bearing down on Lumine like a sledgehammer taken to an anvil: What will you do, Traveller? What can you do? Will you continue performing your role, defending the indefensible?

And Lumine did exactly that. Drew herself up, fought back, refused to bend. She cleared Lyney of his charges, just like she’d been asked. Now, he can return back to his usual wily tricks, nary a blemish to his reputation. He’s acquitted now, a free man. Free of her and whatever hopes she’d foolishly pinned on him. 

I’ve done what you asked for, is what Lumine leaves unsaid. Don’t expect more. 

Lyney’s eyes shutter against Lumine’s stare, already deciphering her stance. Lynette’s tail swishes behind her; she too, is withdrawn, a perfect match to her brother’s somber mood. “If you should need anything at all in the future, feel free to find me,” Lyney says finally. “I will do my best to help you, as plain ‘Lyney.’”

Who is plain ‘Lyney”? As opposed to ”Fatui Lyney”? Between the two, who’ll take my side when the time comes?

So many questions, yet she doesn’t bother asking. The answers won’t appease her.

“I understand,” Lumine murmurs, and she means it. But that doesn’t mean she has to like it, doesn’t mean she can’t be hurt. She turns around, creaky limbs and all, aching at the joints as though she’s been frozen stiff. “Goodbye, Lyney.” 

Lumine hears Paimon behind her, hesitant. “Um,” Paimon says nervously, “bye, Lyney.” 

Despite Paimon’s own inner turmoil, she rejoins Lumine quick enough. "…Will you really not forgive them, Lumine?" Paimon whispers. It echoes in the grand hall of the Opera Epiclese, scattered to the walls, loud enough to be heard by the twins, surely. 

“It’s not so simple,” Lumine says heavily. 

Childe’s Vision lies in her Mora purse, heavy and accusatory—but at least he’d been honest of his allegiance from the get go. Any sense of betrayal she’d felt with their confrontation in the Golden House had been, admittedly, deserved.

However, in truth, Lyney and Lynette’s deception were not in-excusable. Nothing so unforgivable. She’d been hurt before. Had taken worse. Lumine has weathered everything under the sun of Teyvat, from injury to death to betrayal. Lies and deceit are a language she’s familiar with. 

But Sumeru is a long way from Fontaine, and already in her first week in this foreign nation, she’s had to contend with the fact that she will never be unconditionally accepted. Lumine is tired of this act. 

Five down, two to go. Mondstadt, Liyue, Inazuma, Sumeru, Fontaine. Before, she took joy in the discovery of each; now, she checks the names off like clutter on a grocery list. 

When Lumine reaches the entrance of the opera house, she pauses. Behind her, she hears the tap of shoes from Lyney and Lynette’s own movements as they gather up their props, clothes rustling like curtains dropping. 

Lumine exhales, pushing open the grand doors, letting sunlight flood over her, hoping the warmth would melt her into a creature less cruel. 

The play is over, and Lumine is done.

: : :

The prologue to Fontaine begins on a waverider and ends on an aquabus. Lumine winces as she picks off another grain of sand that’s snuck into her sleeve, a souvenir from the desert that’s an ocean away. It rolls over her skin, scraping slightly.

“What’s wrong?” 

It’s Lyney who speaks, to Lumine’s surprise. Then again, Paimon looked to be quite engrossed in her discussion with Charlotte, something about a novel. Lynette too, looks disinterestedly out the aquabus, used to the sight yet content in her silence. So of course it would be Lyney.

Lumine holds up the sand grain. “A stowaway from Sumeru.” 

“A fine appearing act,” Lyney agrees. “The hallmark of a great magician.”

Lumine flicks it away from her palm. “Then am I a greater magician, having made it vanish?” 

“Perhaps. However, where there is one grain of sand,” Lyney says, “there is sure to be another. I fear you shall be vanishing quite a few in the near future.”

“Nothing a quick bath won’t fix,” Lumine says lightly. 

They exchange a look, and the curve of Lyney’s eyes remind Lumine of her brother’s. 

Lumine tries not to dwell on it. The hills and mountains of Fontaine roll on and on around them, a lazy drag of blue and green against her periphery. The view is grand, and yet, her eyes keep catching on Lyney. “Thank you,” she says.

“Why, not that I’m unappreciative, but what brought this on?”

“For when you saved me from the Hydro Archon’s charges,” Lumine says. “It was a difficult situation.”

It was more than just that. For now, though, this is all she leaves it at. 

“I already said to not mention it,” Lyney says, even as he looks quite pleased with himself. “I’m just glad we escaped the scene unscathed. The Hydro Archon is one enigma I’d rather not peer too closely at.”

“It’d be annoying to become a wanted criminal again,” Lumine agrees. “Three nations was enough. The fourth time would be too much. I don’t want to make a habit of it. It’s counterproductive.”

“Right. A habit,” he says faintly. “Terrible one to have, I agree.” 

“You understand, obviously.”

“Of course.”

It’s sweet, that he’s trying so hard. Lumine gestures to her foot. “So, is your ankle okay?” 

“Never been better,” Lyney promises. “Though having a rest on this ride certainly helps.”

“My company isn’t too boring for you?” Lumine teases. 

“Just your attention itself is enough!” There’s the slotting of that usual charming facade, easygoing smile; Lumine would be insulted, if she didn’t find it so… charming. Which was the point, she supposes. 

Lyney leans back in his seat, casually shuffling a deck of cards. An actor diligent in honing his craft, his fingers always seem to be busy with something. “As a magician, how can I be bored when there’s an audience to impress?”

“It sounds like there’s a streak of narcissism in you,” Lumine says. “Might want to get that checked out before it balloons into something serious. It’d be hard to get it excised later. Quite painful.”

“Ah, but it’s only to compensate for Lynette’s lack of. We can’t have everyone be so humble around here, can we? That’d make for a terribly dull show,” Lyney quips. “And I wouldn’t want to leave the viewers bored—particularly one with such beautiful, topaz eyes like yours.”

Lumine can’t help the smile tugging at her lips again. He certainly makes for a smooth talker. 

“Magicians,” Lumine says. 

“That’s me,” Lyney says, flippant against her mild accusation. He offers her the cards he’d been playing with, spread out into a neat fan. “Pick one?”

Lumine does as he asks. Peeks at what she’d chosen briefly in her hand. Nine of spades. “Are you going to guess what my card is?”

Lyney taps the top of his deck. “Better.”

“How so?” 

He offers a cheeky grin. “No need to guess. Ace of hearts, I’ll bet my hat on it.”

“Just a little off,” Lumine says. “Maybe turn that ace into a nine, and flip that heart upside down. Speaking of, do you think that top hat of yours would look good on me?”

Lyney appraises her, as if actually taking her seriously. “It definitely would,” he decides, “but are you sure your vision isn’t playing its own trick on you? Look again, dear audience.” 

Lumine takes another peek at the card in her hand. She blinks. A blazing red heart, the soft curve of a painted ‘A’. 

“Oh!” When she looks up, mouth slightly agape, Lyney’s holding her nine of spades between his fingers, card pressed against the teardrop of his cheek. A sly smile stretches his lips, like a cat who’d caught both the canary and the cream. And now that same cat, rolling in the catnip of her attention.

Though he’s earned it, she supposes. Lumine turns the card in her hand, marvelling at the red. “How did you…”

“Trade secret,” Lyney says smugly, once again beginning to shuffle the cards with dexterous, practiced motion. Lumine looks down at her hand, intent on handing him back his card to complete the deck—only to realize there’s nothing in her hand.

“Tricky,” Lumine accuses.

“Magicians,” Lyney says, giving an unapologetic shrug. “It’s what we do.” 

“Fair enough,” she concedes, laughter bubbling in her throat. 

“Hey, no fair!” Unfortunately, the sound of her amusement has drawn the attention of the loudest member in their group. Paimon glues herself to Lumine’s side in an instant, her own little appearing act. Lumine’s never seen her move so fast. Paimon looks at Lyney, eager and demanding, “Paimon wants to join in on watching the magic show too!” 

Before long, Paimon is pestering Lyney to see more magic. Lyney gives in with an aggrieved look, glancing at Lumine helplessly while Paimon and Charlotte are ooh-ing and ah-ing and clapping their hands.

Lumine opens her mouth—

“Don’t bother,” Lynette says, startling Lumine. Lynette stretches her legs, tail flicking. “It’s what he deserves, showing off like that.” 

“I wasn’t about to,” Lumine admits. 

Lyney must have heard, because he shoots the both of them a betrayed look. “Et tu, Lumine?”

Lynette waves a lazy hand at him. “Go back to your tricks, brother. Next time, don’t try so hard to charm the pretty girl,” she says, voice monotone. “You’re a terrible flirt.” 

“Lynette,” Lyney bemoans, but in the same breath, produces a Mora coin from Paimon’s ear.

“Just calling it as I see fit,” Lynette says, settling back in her seat. She closes her eyes, as though the slight flush to Lyney’s cheeks made her content enough to nap right then and there. 

All in a day’s work of being a younger sister, it seems. With the thought, there’s an acute clench in Lumine’s chest, a spring wound with no way to release. So Lumine doesn’t bother trying; only smiles and claps along with Paimon. 

It’s not anyone’s fault that she’s been created to be lonely, in this world. Not anyone’s fault but her own—she should have caught the end of Aether’s braid, that day.

Except: she didn’t. Now, she’s reaping the consequences.

: : :

That’s a draw to Lyney, a gravitational attraction. 

The simple explanation would be that he reminds her of her brother. The even simpler explanation would be that he’s dazzling—is made to dazzle, to lure, to distract, by the very nature of his profession. Like a shining conch lying at the floor of the ocean, leading Lumine astray from her initial quest in favour of running her hand over its spiny, glittering surface. Perhaps the distraction is why it aches a little less, letting herself get carried by the roar of the gasps and cheers and applause of the crowd.

However, Lyney is more than just a magician donning a top hat; he embodies the concept well, but he’s only human. Capable of performing, just as capable of being hurt.

And sometimes, he looks at her strangely. After his performance ends, when the afterglow has worn off, when the adrenaline has dissipated, he always glances at her, a little sad of eye.

Lumine wishes she knew what to say, during those moments. Wonders whether she should ask. It would be hypocritical though, offering comfort she herself can’t feel in the moment, always reminded of what she’s lost when she looks at him. 

A deck of playing cards can’t kill so dramatically; it’s the little wounds, self-inflicted blades of paper cutting into skin. 

Later, when they’re waiting out the rain—the Hydro Dragon having not responded to their pleading call, much to Paimon’s dismay—Lumine asks him whether he’s been bitten by his own cards before. Lyney smiles. “Rare, though it’s happened,” he says mildly, wiggling his gloved fingers. Cards flutter past, caught with his other hand without looking. “But I’m not such an amateur anymore, dear audience. With experience, you learn better.”

He has a habit of saying that. Dear audience, even out of his show, as though he’s forever performing. It must be an ingrained habit, his own wall of defense. Lumine can sympathize.

As a gesture of friendship, Lumine shows him her own hand, the white and gray slivers of healed scars crossed over palm lines and fingerprints. She’d been born anew in this world, forged a fresh body in her landing—as how it, in every world she’s visited—and what was once soft and tender is now calloused and worn. They scrawl over her skin like stamps collected in a passport, proof of her journey through the nations. 

“So you see,” Lyney says. He gingerly touches one of the scars running along the meat of her thumb, as though it should still feel raw despite having healed months ago.

“I do,” Lumine says warmly.

“Will you tell me how you got them?”

“If you’d like." When Lumine speaks, Lyney listens attentively. For once, he looks less the performer, more audience member. There is still a distance between them, from stage to parquet, but in this moment, in this reversal of roles, the theatre is theirs and only theirs. 

When Lyney leans closer into her to examine her palm, near enough for the subtle scent of flowers to tickle her nose, Lumine sees the shadow of her brother as he leans over her arm, bandage in hand. And when Lyney caresses the lines of her palm with a careful thumb, Lumine lets him.

: : :

Under proper lighting, seen by a proper audience, Lyney is even more dazzling. I am the star of today’s show, he’d said, and he’s right. In the opera house, he’s the true star of the show; Lumine can’t take her eyes off him.

It’s only too bad, that it ended the way it did.

: : :

The accusations come, fast and furious. Furina is nothing if not an equal to Lyney in the art of performance, wresting control from Lyney in the blink of an eye. And soon enough, the opera house has been converted from a magic show into her own little theatre.

Under the murmur of the crowd, Furina snaps herself out of her hesitance. Stirs herself into hysteria under the audience’s attention, aiming her excitement at Lumine like the lash of a whip, “You’ll support Lyney, won’t you, Traveller? After all, he was the one who helped you the first time we met.”

Without skipping a beat, Lumine puts a hand to her chest. “I trust Lyney,” she says, raising her chin against the Hydro Archon’s stare, unwilling to back down. Her voice pings around the auditorium, defiant like it always is when faced against the gods’ judgment. 

Lyney meets her eyes, questioning. She nods. 

The words she professed—she meant them. Beyond a shadow of a doubt.

: : :

They’re Fatui. Agents from the House of the Hearth.

Rather than anger, it’s more disappointment. 

To appreciate magic, Neuvillette had said, you should focus on the show happening on stage rather than getting caught up in trying to see that which has been intentionally hidden.

That is, enjoy the show for what it is: an illusion. Focus on the impossible becoming possible, instead of trying to peer behind the curtains. 

So what do you do, when the curtains come tumbling down—and it’s not of your own accord? 

Lumine had never suspected a thing, but it’s clear to her now: the way they approached her, the way they gained her trust. Everything had been done with a purpose. The blonde Traveller is famous enough as a moniker on its own; there’s no way they hadn’t realized when they’d met her. Showing her around Fontaine, helping her with the Hydro Archon, inviting her into their inner lives as though they truly wanted to be friends. 

Dazzling her with magic had merely been an attempt at blindfolding her, and she fell for it. Was conned so easily, even though she should have known better. Shine, distract, redirect—the Fatui has always operated in the same way a magician might. She never realized the shadows might be operating from right under her nose.

“Are these claims true?” Neuvilette says. 

Now, under the lights of the opera house, what was once used to illuminate the star of the show is now used to mount the defendant on a display, a farce of a trial. Their eyes meet again, and the distance has never been further away, fallen star to fallen star. 

“I’m sorry…” Lyney says weakly.

She was never from this world to begin with. And yet. Why does it hurt so much, to know that everything between them just might have been another drape of the curtain over her eyes, another gauzy veil of intrigue?

Lumine doesn’t bother with any response to his useless apology, cutting off the visual contact with a twist of her head, vision landing on Paimon instead. Paimon winces at the sight of Lumine’s face. 

“Yes.” Lyney’s voice is strong, resonating in its damnation. “They’re true, Your Honour.” 

The scales of the Oratrice tip, and the audience works themselves up into another cannibalistic frenzy, I knew it! Let’s move onto the sentencing already!

“What do we do now, Lumine?” Paimon asks worriedly. 

There’s a decision to be made here. Abandon the case—or continue her defense. The answer is simple, nothing worth pondering over. The words tumble out of her mouth, rough and crackling, static-like: “Permission to speak, Your Honour.” 

“Granted.” 

“My client has withheld some key information,” Lumine says flatly. Lyney is stiff beside her, like a windup doll with no tension in its spring, no more tricks to play. “My defense cannot proceed.” 

“In that case, what is your request?” Neuvillette asks. His eyes are unreadable, his voice measured. Lumine wishes she could share his detachment. (An ironic statement, she’ll soon come to learn.)

“I request a brief adjournment,” Lumine says. “There are things that must be discussed.” 

Furina will gut and taxidermize Lyney, making an example out of him to present her own theatrics, and Lumine won’t have it. She’d promised after all, I won’t let you down—and unlike Lyney, she’s not a liar. It’s not in her nature.

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PART II. LIES

Let me be the evil amidst good, the poison amidst the herbs, the wolf in sheep’s clothing, the mercury in a golden chalice. 

It is part of a motto every child raised in the House can recite by heart. Lyney himself can speak the whole thing backwards, chalice golden in mercury, clothing sheep’s in wolf. 

It has served as a calming balm on more than one occasion as a child, cauterizing frayed nerves and shaky hands before they attempt to slip through the most guarded of mansions. 

But all the recitations were for naught, broken by Focalor’s reveal; his allegiances have been laid out to bare, globs of mercury dripping from a flung chalice, left in silver pools on the stage of the Opera Epiclese. While Focalors will tolerate the Fatui’s presence in Fontaine—the Fatui have broken no laws in Fontaine as of yet (visibly, at any rate)—it will become a little harder to maintain his reputation. There is no love for the Fatui in the Nation of Justice.

It will be alright. Lyney is a fixer. It’s what a good magician does, fix people’s attention. His Fatui allegiances will just be yet another shadow, meant to be hidden behind the pizazz; Fontainians forget at the drop of a coin, constantly seeking out the next new drama in a hopeless effort to distract from their own lives. Their reckoning with the rising tides is of no import, not when there’s comedy and romance and plot twist and tragedy. Soon enough, Lyney and Lynette being Fatui will just be another headliner left unremembered in the dustbin when the next magic show begins. 

But Lumine… Lyney doesn’t think, for every trick he possesses, that he can make her forget who he is, what he’s done—Lumine will remember, in all the wrong ways.

: : :

Their first meeting after his trial is… awkward. To put it mildly. Lumine doesn’t look entirely interested in even acknowledging his existence, her eyes flitting right past him. Ouch. 

When he asks about the situation, and Paimon tells him to guess, Mr. Telepathic, that’s the moment Lumine finally looks at him. Daring him. 

Never has he wanted to have the power of telepathy so badly. Alas. 

Lyney pushes aside Paimon’s demand with a laugh—nothing more than a little trickery, you see—even as he keeps Lumine in his periphery. Attempting to read her thoughts is like trying to pry open a glacier in Snezhnaya; she is closed off, emotionless and silent against his smiles, charming as they are. 

And he would know. He’d practiced his smiles to perfection; a smile was just as much of an enthrallment as a sleight of hand. However, Lumine doesn’t crack.

Paimon chats with him blithely, either unaware of Lumine’s aloofness or disregarding it. It’s not until he snaps his finger and disappears a flower that Lumine’s expression shifts. Again, that open gasp like he’d seen in his magic show before everything went wrong. A subconscious dip of her head as she leans closer to examine Lyney’s empty hand. 

Lumine peers up at him, wide-eyed astonishment. “Where’d it go?” 

Success. Lyney grins again, pleased with the way she looks at him so eagerly. More relieved than he’d thought he’d be, at how the innocent awe sits on her pink cheeks. 

“That’s the question, isn’t it,” Lyney says with a flourish of his hat. “Where did it go?”

As for the rest of the trick—easy enough, once everyone begins checking through their clothes. Lumine brushes her hand past her sleeve, and he remembers that grain of sand, how easily she flicked it away. 

But Lyney’s not known as the Great Magician of Fontaine—nay, Teyvat—for nothing. If I’ve disappeared your trust in me, then I can bring it back, he thinks determinedly. 

“Huh!” Lumine suddenly exclaims, her focus finally falling on the flower planted on her scarf. Still that unabashed awe on her face, as her hand raises gently to brush over violet petals. “It went here."

Lyney contents himself with that, the break in her defense. How when she looks up at him, it’s not with scorn nor indifference, but a childlike marvel. You’re magic, her expression reads. Paimon smiles cheerfully at him, clearly pleased too—and what do you know, she’s more complex than Lyney had initially given her credit for. 

Charlotte is wowed too, the conversation quickly pivoting from apologies for her assumptions to discussions of the meaning behind a lumidouce bell.

It’s strange, because lumidouce bells don’t mean much to him. Floral language is not something he’s given much thought to. He’d only chosen them for his shows because they came in clusters, easy for the picking. Had a smell that didn’t disturb Lynette, one of the rare perfumed scents that she enjoyed.

And yet, when Charlotte tells him that lumidouce flowers allude to separation, his heart pangs, a brief flash of Cesar’s cheerful smile in his mind. At that very moment, Lyney silently vows to never give Lumine a lumidouce bell again.

: : :

The olive branch that was his magic had worked wonders beyond compare, because for the first time since the last they’d spoken—where Lumine left him and Lynette in the shadows of the opera house hall, her back lonely despite Paimon’s figure beside her—Lumine seemed genuinely interested in his plans. Where Paimon was merely curious over how he was able to perform his flower trick, Lumine had gone beyond what he’d expected.

You feel it too, right? Paimon had said to Lumine. So itchy, not knowing how it’s done!

That Phantom Weasel, Lumine had said instead, you sure you’ll be able to handle him? 

Lyney had blinked, knocked off kilter in a rare show of surprise. Quickly regains his bearings soon enough, wondering if she’d noticed—she must have, judging by the indulgent, amused smile that’s snuck its way onto her face.

Not so itchy then, huh, he’d teased. Looks like you’re more interested in this Phantom Weasel than me. Should I be jealous that he has so much of your attention, dear audience? 

Lumine had merely smiled wider, inclined her head in a nod that wasn’t really a nod—leaving Lyney, quite frankly, a little lost on how to interpret her answer. Whether he really should be jealous.

To that end, Lyney had offered to bring them into the investigation, and Lumine had said nothing except a soft, We’ll help. 

Lyney had paused. Reading between the lines, the message underlying her offer is one of hopeful trust. 

Thank you for putting your trust in me, he’d said lightly, pretending as though it weren’t quite as heavy as it truly is.

And the weight of her tentative trust is clear now, as they thread through the Court, walking leisurely from Hotel Debord toward the aquabus station. No matter where Lyney goes, Lumine follows without a word. There’s a static tension between them, the atmosphere kept silent by the eyes following them. 

Only once they’re on the aquabus bound for the Erinnyes does Lyney open his mouth. “Worried?” he says. Their pursuers must be on the aquabus immediately behind them, but that’s a worry for later. 

“A little,” Lumine says as she pets Paimon’s hair. The little pixie began to doze off after the ten minute mark. Lumine hadn’t seen fit to wake her up, and Lyney wasn’t about to start. 

“Don’t worry!” Lyney says with a wink. “I’ll protect you and Paimon.” 

“Not who I was worried about,” Lumine says. “I can hold my own in a battle.”

He knows. Between the outlandish rumours and the Fatui information lines, how could he not? If he were to bring it up, however, it would probably open the wound that’s currently closing between them. “You’re worried about me?” Lyney says, pointing to himself with a grin. “I’m flattered.”

Lumine shakes her head, a helpless smile. “Paimon, I can count on to stay out of the fray,” she says. “You, on the other hand…” 

“How could I hide behind you?” Lyney protests. “A magician still has their pride, my dear assistant. And what kind of magician would I be if I couldn’t protect my beloved helpers from danger?”

“A smart one. It’d comfort me more if you just leave it to me,” Lumine says. She smiles again, not a particularly comforting one. Lyney finds himself glad he’s not her current enemy. “I’ve dealt with enough situations like this to know how to end it quickly.”

“How heroic of you,” Lyney says.

“Sweet talker,” Lumine says, which is how he knows that she’s not taking any that he says seriously. 

Lyney leans back in his seat. By his estimation, there should be at least ten more minutes on the ride. Could he bear to rip down the curtains and show her his heart in only ten minutes? Snip away the thorns, reveal the berries? 

He’s had to contend with less, he decides. If he only required a minute and fifteen seconds for an impossible body swap, then ten minutes is more than enough to disappear the thorns.

“I’d like to clarify,” Lyney says, taking off his hat. The urge to pull out a rabbit is strong, but now is not the time—nor does he have a rabbit. “I don’t talk to everybody this way.” 

“Are you sure?” Lumine murmurs. 

And here is the crux of the matter, the shards of Lumine’s trust that cut into him every time he tries to hold them together. Repairing the broken has never come easily to him—but he’s persistent.

“I am,” Lyney says firmly. “It’s because it’s you, Lumine.” 

Lumine curls her hand over the crown of Paimon’s head, and he can read the stilling of her fingers for what it is: hesitance. “You say that, but I fail to see what’s so special about me. What you know that makes you think so, at any rate.”

He could tell her so many things. The awe in her eyes whenever Lyney pulls his tricks. The stalwart line of her back when she’d been defending him, despite the hurt that he knew she felt. How she reads him so easily, past the act, past the phantom magician—this strange, golden-haired Outlander, who shared the stories behind the scars on her hand, eyes soft as she recounted her past battles. 

When Lyney had touched her palm, in that oddly vulnerable moment under raining skies, Lumine hadn’t resisted.

He’d had the oddest urge to hold her face in his hands, during that time. Press his lips to hers, if only to make her see Lyney, because he knew that her vulnerability hadn’t been for him. Not wholly. It had been for the ghost that followed her, the pieces of her brother that hadn’t seen fit to leave her mind.

And the hurt that she’d felt with his lie of omission, it wasn’t entirely because of him either. Whatever happened between her and her sibling—the reports had been vague, as though whatever transpired had occurred in the deepest darkness of the abyss—no one knew except a select few. Lyney would not be privy to those secrets.

“Magic isn’t just a performance art,” he says eventually. “It’s also a way of thinking.”

“I have to admit, Lyney,” Lumine says, “your honesty is very confusing. No wonder you like your lies; nothing would get done if you only spoke in truths.” 

Her bluntness makes him wince. Nothing he doesn’t deserve, but she is frank about it in a way she’s never been before. Lyney looks at her. Right now, they are a man and woman on the run (with one adorable pixie in tow), like the synopsis to a theatrical release. And yet, despite the plotline, there are no curtains between them, no such play nor performance.

“This is another truth: many things in this world seem simple at first glance,” Lyney says, “but play host to all sorts of secrets if you look deeper. And with you, I’d like to look deeper.”

“So I’m interesting to you… because of your magician’s way of thinking?” Lumine surmises. “Because to you, I’m a puzzle box that needs to be solved?”

She’s right, but not entirely. The aquabus comes to a slow crawl, and their time together comes to its end. Lyney rolls the truth over his tongue, and it tastes like rust. Every honest admission Lyney will ever make is a concession against his nature, thrust out and offered by bloody hands covered in rose thorns and stained in berry juice. But it’s not as if Lyney hasn’t been hurt before.

So Lyney settles for bloodying his hands, a wry smile. “It’s your eyes,” Lyney admits. “They’re mesmerizing.”

: : :

Once Lorenzo’s thugs reveal themselves in the outskirts of Erinnyes, Lyney finally understands why every report of the Traveller had been stamped with bright red ink, bolded and underlined: CAUTION WHEN APPROACHING. What made Lumine bold enough to point her sword straight at the God of Justice when Focalors suggested a duel. 

To put it simply, she’s a menace on the battlefield. Lyney doesn’t even need to do much, because Lumine dives straight into the centre of the crowd, a maelstrom of motion. Paimon merely floats back, content to yell all sorts of encouragement that didn’t really amount to much. It seems like they have a routine for this, Lyney thinks as he notches another arrow. 

Between his arrows and her sword, they make quick work of the thugs. Lorenzo’s men are thrown on their back in just under the span of a quarter-hour, tall, burly men reduced to a quivering mess of flesh from the dagger of Lumine’s hardened eyes. 

So they’d scrambled for their lives. Lyney couldn’t blame them; Lumine took care of the issue so quickly, he’d barely shot any of his arrows. Later, when they’re making their way back to Lynette and Jemma, Lyney mentions it. “You took out so many of them.”

Lumine shrugs. “I’ll take that to mean I passed your test.”

Lyney’s steps stutter. “...How did you know?” 

Lumine looks at him strangely, a raise of her eyebrow. “You held back,” she says simply.

: : :

The world is full of lies and falsehoods. That is why we must find our own truth. Cesar’s voice still remains in Lyney’s head even as he leaves behind Cesar’s workshop, his voice as gentle as ever. 

Exploring Cesar’s workshop is a whirlwind of memories, covered in heavy, dusty regret. Finding out the secret behind the tampered box had made him furious, that the man who’d taken in Lyney and Lynette so kindly, offered his whole heart so genuinely, could die in such a dishonest way. 

It had been so vindictive, then, to see the shock on Jemma’s face when he rejoined Lynette. The way she slumped over when Lyney aimed the final punch at her, From now on, you'll be all alone in a world full of lies and falsehoods.

Lumine looks at him then, her eyes as heavy as gold.

: : :

"I hid a lot from him," Lyney says, touching a hand to Cesar’s tombstone. It provides a corpse-cold closure. Not much, but better than nothing. There’s at least the satisfaction that Cesar’s name has been restored to its original legacy, that Jemma would get what was coming to her one way or another, whether she chose to confess or not.

Throughout his reminiscence of the past, Lumine had listened to him silently. Paimon too, remaining uncharacteristically quiet.

I don’t blame you, had been the first thing Lumine said to him when he’d admitted the truth of his lies to Cesar, My passion for magic, it was all a lie. The consolation gentle, landing on him like petals drifting from the sky. That wasn’t your fault, Lyney.

“Maybe I’m just doomed to lie to everyone who knows me,” Lyney jokes. "Even Lynette."

Lumine frowns, and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her it’s already true.

Lies have always come easily to Lyney. It’s how he’s survived a world always trying to wear him down. If he wraps himself in thick enough falsehoods, he’d thought when he was younger, perhaps what the world will take is not his soul, but the lies instead? If no one knows where your truths lay, they can’t steal it from you.

But the lies, they’ve leached into him too, just as they’ve protected him. They escape from him even when he doesn’t mean to use them, melded into his skin too much for honesty to seep through. Whatever truths he’d like to tell must be clawed out of his body like a hand, thrust into his chest. The removal of a raw, beating heart.

And occasionally, after the curtains drop and the last bow is seen, Lyney will stand there at the front of the stage in the opera house, staring at the empty seats, his cheerful grin transformed into a hollow husk of a smile.

The thing is with making your life a performance, is that people will only love you for the spectacle. So when the performance is over and done, when the magic is given and gone, who will stay?

He confides this to Lumine, and she gazes at him, contemplative. This is his tell-all, his whimpering finale before his mask drops to the floor and his skin peels and he is left a shuddering mess of flesh, ugly and bruised and tainted.

"It’s the price Lynette and I have to pay," Lyney says heavily, and his skin crawls from the effort. "For all the walls, for all the secrets. For keeping everyone out, we have to shut ourselves in. And one day, it’ll catch up to us. We’ll stand on a stage in an empty auditorium after a show, full of seats once occupied—but everyone will have left, and there will be no more applause, no more magic."

"Don’t be sad," Lumine says softly. "We’re in your 'auditorium', and we’re not going anywhere."

She lays a hand on his slumped shoulder, a thumb pressed into the divot of his collarbone. The distance between them closes in on a singular focal point, the bare touch of her against him.

Lyney looks at her then, the clear topaz of her eyes, and knows then, she is seeing the real him. Knows then, that she is being honest, despite whatever misgivings she may still retain about him. As true as true can be.

.

.

.

PART III. TRUTH

After everything comes to its end, Jemma having confessed her sins and Charlotte having been avoided, Lynette asks him about it in the privacy of their home. "The rainbow rose," she says while blowing at her teacup, "symbolizes 'passion' and 'romantic encounters'. Did you know that, brother?"

The question itself is useless; Lynette already has her answer. Lyney coughs, and Lynette sighs. "You’re hopeless," she says. "This secret courtship of yours is going to take years."

"It’s not like that," Lyney says, voice strangled.

"Uh huh." Lynette gives him a cursory glance before returning to her tea. "You’re lucky she replied the way she did."

Please take good care of that rainbow rose, Lynette had told Lumine solemnly. I’d be really upset if you lost it.

I will. Lumine had looked equally solemn in her response, much to Lyney’s embarrassment. But it wasn’t the worst thing she could have said; one of the better options, actually.

Lynette suddenly asks, "Hey, Lyney?"

"Yeah?"

"How long are you going to touch your shoulder while smiling like that? It’s kind of creepy."

: : :

However, whatever hopes Lyney had for a new beginning between him and Lumine is quickly dashed by Lumine’s newest request for him.

At first, it didn’t sound all that outlandish. A simple demand.

I’m rusty with a bow, Lumine had said, and Paimon wants to go eat dessert with Navia. Help me with target practice.

He’d accepted, thinking it was going to be a tutoring session. Some sort of hands on practice with a bow—Lyney was handy with one, after all—where Lyney would be able to show off his skills. But no, what it really turned out to be was a torture session.

"How many hours do I have to do this for, again?" Lyney calls out. His head feels strangely empty without his top hat, and sweat is gathering on the back of his neck despite the fact that all he’s been doing is… standing.

"Until my aim gets better," Lumine calls back. Her voice is muffled by the space of the grassy field between them. She notches another arrow, aims it at the apple balanced precariously atop his head.

"Don’t move too much, okay?" Lumine says indulgently. "It’ll affect my accuracy. Wouldn’t want you to lose an eye or an ear. I’ve been told those are important."

"Is this revenge?" Lyney says, without skipping a beat.

"For what?"

"For hiding that I was Fatui? Or for that time, with Lorenzo’s men?"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Lumine says cheerfully. And then she lets go. The arrow whizzes past his cheek, just missing his cheek. Lyney doesn’t blink, but he does feel another sweat drop slide down the back of his neck. How many misses does this make now? Five? Ten?

"I’ve changed my evaluation of you," Lyney decides.

"How so?"

"You’re more sadistic than I could have ever imagined."

"And you’re more masochistic than I could have ever imagined, for agreeing to do this in the first place," Lumine counters before drawing back her bow again.

"I saw the excitement in your eyes and couldn’t refuse," Lyney says, placing a hand to his chest as though wounded. "Little did I know it was because you were excited to use me as your target."

"Not you," Lumine says. "The apple. I could never endanger you like that, my friend."

The arrows just barely clipping past his ears certainly tell a different story. It’s amazing that she hasn’t drawn blood yet, though maybe that was another aspect to this psychological torture.

"I’m hurt, really, that you would think I’d set out to harm you," Lumine says.

"No more hurt than I’m currently at risk for, I’m sure," he says.

"Do you want to stop?" Lumine asks.

Another arrow hissing as it speeds past his neck. "No," Lyney says. "We agreed to do this until your aim gets better, didn’t we?"

"What if my aim takes a while to get better? A week, a month, a year—would you still want to be here?"

"If it’s you, as long as it takes."

Lumine appraises him, as though trying to discern his true intentions.

"Do you trust me?" Lumine asks.

Lyney stares back, unflinching. "With all my heart."

This time, the arrow thuds as it hits flesh. The apple skids off his head, and Lyney turns around to watch it hit the ground. The arrowhead has pierced through the apple, dead centre.

Lumine picks up the pierced apple by the shaft. "Oh, would you look at that?" Lumine says with a lazy smile, waving the apple at him. "My aim suddenly became so much better. It must be a miracle from the gods."

"Magic," Lyney agrees, clammy fingers placing his top hat back on his head, thankful that whatever ire had possessed Lumine is finally dissipated.

"Your hat is crooked," Lumine says as she tosses away the arrowed apple, but instead of fixing his hat for him, steals the entire thing altogether. Lumine shoves her plunder on her head, and it must be even more crooked than when it was on him. "How do I look?"

In truth, with the black and red of his hat against Lumine’s gold-spun hair, she’s glorious. And her topaz eyes shine under the sunlight, precious, pure, lovely. It makes every part of his brain light up. You’re lovely. "Do you find me absurd, with my little games?"

"Huh?"

Lyney’s brain short-circuits. His mouth seems to have disconnected from his mind. He blames it on the psychological duress he’d just been under, minutes ago. "Uh," he says, very elegantly.

Lumine smiles, in that 'you’re quite stupid, but it’s okay, I enjoy it' kind of way. The smile that she reserves for her companion Paimon—and Lyney definitely does not want to be equated to Paimon, of all people. Things. Whatever.

Lyney draws himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. The show can always be salvaged, if one stays calm and adapts as needed. "The answer to your question lies in your own hand, dear audience."

"What do you—Oh." Lumine turns her hand around, and there’s a rainbow rose in her palm.

"A lovely flower for the lovely lady," Lyney says with a careful bow, a flourish of his hand as he places his hat back on his head, "in exchange for the top hat."

"Instead of a flower, I’d have preferred mora."

Oh. Well.

"That can be remedied," he declares, and just as he’s about to swap out the flower for a mora coin, shoving his disappointment down his throat like handkerchiefs being stuffed into a pocket, Lumine giggles.

"Don’t take it so seriously," Lumine says, tucking the rose into her hair. "You look ready to keel over."

Lyney has practiced his persona to perfection—and yet, with Lumine, he feels reduced to a ten-year-old boy again, fumbling for his cards with clumsy fingers. "I’d hope that I looked more… suave instead."

"You were," Lumine reassures. "Very."

"Like your brother?"

Lumine blinks at his sudden non-sequitur. "Oh no," Lumine demurs. "Aether was never so suave. Charming, yes, but in a boyish way."

"As opposed to…?"

"Charming, in a sly way."

Lyney pouts. "Should I take that as a compliment?" 

Lumine laughs, but doesn’t answer.

: : :

Later that afternoon, as the evening threatens to crowd the red-orange sky into a lilac purple, Lyney walks Lumine home. They’re both shaking off the absurd sweetness of the macarons they’d just tried from the new bakery that’s moved into the neighbourhood—there must have been at least five times the normal amount of sugar—and Lumine says suddenly, "I don’t think you’re absurd."

Lyney stops dead in his tracks. The place Lumine is temporarily staying at is but a few feet away, and his performance will soon be unneeded. "Oh," he says, fixing a smile on his face. "That’s good to know, dear audience. I’m glad I was able to amuse."

"Not audience," Lumine says, and her eyes are piercing him like an arrow, pouring light over his shadowed secrets. "There’s no audience here."

And then she takes him by the hand, palm rough and warm, and leads him up the steps with her usual graceful movements. The door opens without a creak, and Lyney wonders why he’s here. Why he’s followed without a question, content enough just from the touch of her palm to his.

It’s because you have issues, Lynette says in his mind. He bats her voice away.

"You don’t have a performance tonight, right? Stay for dinner then," Lumine says as she pulls him toward the kitchen. Her home is quaint but clearly new, judging by the relatively fresh wallpaper that’s standard for recently-rented units. There’s a mishmash of clutter on the shelves, gadgets and gems collected from her recent travels across Fontaine, he’s sure.

"How can I refuse, if you’re so adamant?" Lyney says easily, even as his heart is thudding too loud in his ears. Also, is that a giant crab claw shoved in the corner of the kitchen, or is it just his imagination?

"Favourite dish?"

On a closer examination, definitely a giant crab claw.

"Anything you make would become my favourite," Lyney begins, but reddens when Lumine aims a look at him, amused and exasperated all at once.

"If I want any semblance of honesty from you, I feel like I should ask for it in the form of a magic trick instead," Lumine says. "Will that get me better results?"

"Maybe," he says faintly. "A fish dish, please. Nothing too oily." 

"Poisson seafood soup, then. I’m not too used to Fontainian dishes yet," Lumine says brusquely, "but I’ll try."

"Whatever you make will taste great, I’m sure," Lyney reassures.

"You say that now, but wait until I burn something."

"And I’ll still drink down every last drop," he vows.

"Uh huh. Again, you say that now." Lumine has sprung into 'chef Lumine' mode, already taking out the cutting board and the ingredients. Honestly, Lyney’s impressed at the speedy way she’s handling herself.

 "Should I buy some garlic baguette from the nearby bakery then?" he proposes as she begins to dice the fish. He feels… pampered like this, nothing to do while she’s preparing the food. It’s very different from how it usually is, owing to Lynette’s laziness—and the fact that Lyney would prefer to keep his kitchen disaster-free.

"I thought you could just magic them into existence," Lumine says lightly, waving a knife at him. "Why do you think I dragged you here for dinner, magician?"

"Have mercy," Lyney begs. "There is, tragically, a severe lack of baguettes in my usual performances. The rabbits would be sure to nibble on them, given the chance."

"Rabbits shouldn’t eat bread."

"So you understand my dilemma," Lyney says with a helpless shrug. "Thus, the lack of baguette in my sleeves."

Lumine tilts her head. "I’ve been told that baguettes are essential to Fontainian households."

"Very true," Lyney says, nodding sagely.

"I’ve also been told that when in Fontaine," Lumine says, "one should do as Fontainians do."

"Wise words to live by, madame."

"Then I’ll free you from your prison for a few minutes, so you can grab that garlic baguette. Go on, now,” Lumine orders, knife pointing to the door. Her face is regal, severe, as though she were the queen of a foreign nation—betrayed by the twitch of her lips when Lyney salutes with an audacious wink.

The bakery isn’t far. Not the new one they’d visited before, because Lyney doesn’t trust the quality of their goods, not after the sugary macarons that almost gave him a heart attack. The outing is also an opportunity to sit on the steps of the bakery, so that he can put a hand to his heated cheeks, trying to cool down the boiled ends of his nerves.

A bell rings above him, a man pokes his head out the door. "Are you going to buy something, or are you planning to just loiter?" he asks with a scowl. He peers closer at Lyney, demands, "What’s wrong with you? About to faint?"

"Well, if you must know, sir"—the man looks stricken at his faux pas, immediate regret creeping over his face for having asked—"I’ve just held a beautiful woman’s hand," Lyney informs him with a charming smile, out of place against the man’s sullen aura.

The man’s scowl deepens. "Lovesick idiots, always crowding on my steps. Can’t go to a nice tree to brood instead, no, it has to be on the stairs to my bakery," the man mutters, before he slams the door shut.

Lyney gives himself a few minutes before he heads up the steps to the entrance. The transaction goes smooth enough, though the bakery owner does say gruffly, "Good luck with the lady," before he all but boots Lyney out the door.

The paper bag crinkles in his arms as he pushes open the door to Lumine’s home, the fragrant smell of seafood soup in the air. It smells good.

In the kitchen, he informs Lumine so, and she gets that faraway look in her eyes for a second before she comes back to herself.

"My brother was the better cook," Lumine says. "He used to cook me all sorts of things, as long as I aimed the right type of expression at him. He knew what I was doing, but he’d give in, anyway."

"The joys of being an older brother," he says. The eternal strife between siblings, always in favour of the younger sister. 

Lumine stirs the soup. "I miss him," she admits.

"I know," Lyney says.

"You remind me of him, sometimes."

"I know that too."

"Every time I see you and Lynette together…"

"You envy us," Lyney summarizes. "That’s why it hurt, our lies."

Lumine takes a long, shuddering breath. "Yes."

"Your brother and I," Lyney says, "are we alike?"

"Not at all," Lumine says. "There’s more differences than similarities. But when you stand next to Lynette…"

"You see yourself in Lynette, and his shadow in me."

Lumine’s voice droops, pleading, "You have to understand—"

"I do," Lyney says honestly. Lyney takes Lumine by the hands then, the seafood soup left to bubble and ruin. Have her hands always been so small, or is love its own sort of magic?

"You always read people so easily," Lumine says. "Can you read me, then? What am I thinking about?"

"…That the soup will be ready soon," Lyney says.

"…You’re right," Lumine says, grateful for the easy escape he’s offered her with his lie. She turns from him, slips out of his hands, and reaches for the ladle.

It troubles him, to see her troubled. He’s a magician, a damn great one; he should be able to distract her—but he can’t. In the silence, the truth settles between them, sharp as any glass shard: I want to see my brother again, Lyney, but you are not him.

Lyney wants to tell her what his thoughts had been, instead of hers. That in her longing and pain, she was still beautiful. That he would have liked to kiss the hurt in her voice away.

: : :

True to his words, Lyney does drink down every last drop of the soup. It tastes comforting, like the warm embrace of sunshine joined to a salty sea breeze. The garlic baguette is a perfect addition, crust crackling, crumb fluffy. Lyney notes to revisit that bakery in the future for more; Lynette would enjoy it, too, he’s sure.

"There’s this one dream that haunts me," Lyney says nonchalantly, after Lumine finishes with her own meal. "Magic and secrets, piling beneath me into a tower. And me, sitting upon that tower as it spirals and stretches upward."

Lumine regards him. “That pillar of lies,” she says, “what god were you hoping to reach, Lyney?”

She is not reprimanding him, but he feels it anyway: the casual blow, the mortal wound. The familiar recitations return, For crowns we wear masks that deplore the twisted logic of the heavens, and false gods and vanquished foes lie at our feet.

"Ah, but you see," Lyney says grandly, "I was not looking skyward."

Lumine frowns. "You wanted to reach down, but you couldn’t."

"Exactly."

Despite the character that Lyney has assumed, he has no grandiose illusion of magnificence. When he dies, it will be at a young age. His funeral will be quiet and swift. He will be buried unceremoniously in an unmarked grave, its location known to only Lynette.

It’s his only wish in life that his twin live a long life before being buried next to him, and he is afraid of wishing for more.

But Lyney looks at Lumine, and she smells faintly of rainbow roses, a consequence of the pink flower that’s still tucked in her hair, and she paints a pretty picture against the orange-yellow of the sunset, and her topaz eyes are as mesmerizing as ever, as lovely as ever, and against his better judgment, Lyney wishes for more.

"Sometimes," he confides, "I almost plummet from that tower. It’s only Lynette’s hand that pulls me back, only Lynette who comes to save me."

Lumine takes in the information, eyebrows drawn together. He’d like to smooth the wrinkle out, soothe the worry. "I would also come to save you," she says.

"You can’t," Lyney says indulgently. "You’re good at masking your emotions, but you’re not much of a liar. I’ll always be looking down toward you, too far to reach."

Lumine has never had cause for lies, has never been weak enough to need lies. It’s not in her nature, and they both knew it.

"Then I’ll just fly up," Lumine says determinedly. She rests her chin over the back of her hands and muses, "Or I’ll catch you. Either which way, I’ll save you somehow. I’ve faced worse odds."

Lyney looks at her, stunned. "Why go that far for a stranger?"

"You’re not a stranger. Not anymore." Lumine reaches up to take out the rainbow rose in her hair, and holds it in her palms, offers it back to him.

"What kind of magician would I be, to make what’s been vanished and produced, vanished yet again? The routine would get tiring. It’s yours to keep, madame," Lyney says with a cheeky grin. "Though I do wish you’d wear it in your hair just a tad bit longer."

"It clashes something awful with my colours," Lumine says, but tucks the flower back into her hair, pink against clusters of white and blue. The gutter rat in him is pleased beyond compare at the contrast. "Lumidouce bells would look better."

"You’re a horribly vain creature," Lyney accuses. And it’s too bad for her, that he’s vowed to never give her another lumidouce bell. He may not be superstitious like other magicians, but why tempt fate?

"To hear that from you," Lumine says disapprovingly.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" he protests.

"Only that you’re touchy about your appearance. A real attention seeker."

"Magicians," he says, an unapologetic shrug. "It’s who we are."

Lumine laughs, Lyney grins. They share a look, and for a moment, they’re back on that aquabus, swelling with the adrenaline of exploring a new unknown.

"I keep thinking back," Lumine murmurs, "to what your sister said. How she’d asked me to take good care of that rainbow rose."

"Yes?" Lyney says, feigning indifference. "What about it?"

Lumine leans forward, takes his hands. "I promised I would," she says. "So. Am I doing a good job, Lyney?"

Here, they are not performer and audience. Here, they are stripped down to their elements from their own admissions. Equalized; distantless.

Lyney is a man composed of parlour tricks and artificial fog, smokes and mirrors and nothing entirely substantial; he can’t fathom why she’d want him, other than for his wily tricks. Strip away the magic, and he’s nothing underneath.

Yet, Lumine sees something he cannot. Lyney thinks back, that arrow notched and aimed at the apple on his head. The cut of Lumine’s gemstone eyes, when she asked, Do you trust me?

"Yes," Lyney says, with all his heart. A singular, bloody truth, clawed out of his chest, offered with wounding honesty.

Lumine smiles, pleased. "I believe you," she says simply.

In the here and now, it’s enough.