Harmony

She hadn’t seen it in days. Ideally, she never would’ve had to see it again. It was every bit as nauseating, every bit as unnerving, and every bit as disgusting. Her heart raced and her breath fled her, for what she knew of it in full. It was recontextualized. Of every place it could possibly be, it followed her to the furthest into the unknown she’d ever been. She outright trembled, her eyes trailing every flickering wisp that rose silently from the man’s shoulders.

“Dissonance,” Octavia murmured, her voice trembling in turn. It was the best she could do.

“What?” Harper asked, nearly breaking his neck with the speed at which his eyes snapped to hers.

Octavia leapt to her feet, either portion of Stradivaria gripped tightly enough to whiten her knuckles permanently. “Dissonance,” she repeated. “I-I think he’s Dissonant.”

“How can you tell?” he asked, the rising panic in his voice slowly beginning to match her own. “What makes you say that?”

She tensed somewhat. She forgot he’d never seen it before. She’d wished all along he’d never have to see it at all. For what power he’d been blessed with, it was a feeble dream that Octavia kicked herself for clinging to.

“His shoulders,” she answered, gesturing accordingly with the tip of the bow. “The smoke. Remember what Viola said?”

Harper nodded. “But…why here? Why now? What does that even mean?”

Octavia shook her head, outright afraid to tear her eyes from the man at all. “I don’t know. I have no idea.”

“What do we do?” he asked hurriedly.

Her last solution had been sickening.

Waking Viola would do nothing, given how she’d be recommended the same resolution a second time over. She couldn’t stomach so much as the concept, let alone follow through. It was to say absolutely nothing of committing murder in front of Harper and Madrigal. Simply being in the presence of a Dissonant person at all was plaguing her with enough of the same dread to leave her nauseated. She swallowed the guilt that came with consideration, her palms clammy and her knees weak. She couldn’t kill someone. She couldn’t give Harper an answer at all, then.

“What are you afraid of?”

The coolness of Madrigal’s voice was somewhat startling, and she did actually jump. She fought to tear her eyes from the man long enough to find the Maestra instead, words still more or less useless. Where her breaths were heavy and anxious, Madrigal was calm and steady.

“What are you afraid of?” she repeated plainly.

“I-I don’t know how to help him,” Octavia admitted. “The last time Viola and I ran into a Dissonant person, there was nothing we could do. We were both too unskilled to…get it out.”

“To purify him.”

She’d never heard it put that way. Really, she wondered if it was another Madrigal-specific term.

“Yeah, that,” Octavia continued regardless. “She told me what happens if I--either of us--mess up. I can’t. All we could do was…try to grant him a quick death.”

“I know,” Madrigal said. Octavia kicked herself. She’d forgotten Madrigal had been there, in truth.

“I don’t know what to do,” Octavia repeated quietly.

Madrigal hugged Lyra’s Repose tightly against her chest, sporting a soft smile. “I can show you,” she offered. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Octavia shook her head. “I can’t. If I mess up, he’ll be--”

“He won’t be. You won’t mess up.”

“Madrigal,” she warned, her tone severe. “Your wind and my light are not the same. Me messing up and you messing up would have two very different endings.”

“You’d be surprised what wind can do,” Madrigal replied coolly. The look it came with was equally cold, and Octavia flinched.

Still, Octavia could do nothing but shake her head. When she refused to budge, Stradivaria still useless in either half of her iron grip, Madrigal stepped before her. With herself and Harper at her back, the Maestra was her shield from the stagnant Dissonance bound so tightly to one soul. She was undaunted, never faltering as her eyes fell to the man alone. She settled Lyra’s Repose snugly in her arms, each finger coming to rest over delicate strings.

“Watch,” she instructed. “I’ll show you how.”

Octavia held her breath. Every gentle note born of the little harp that night had been deceiving, for the incredible gales it had brought forth without mercy. Here, in the darkness of the moonlit evening, the soft melody she wove was as true as it was touched by her storm once more. It was more restrained, somewhat, and Octavia mostly attributed it to the confines of the train. It didn’t deter the winds that rustled her dress and ruffled her braids. She couldn’t see it. For the way her entire being felt the push of every crystalline gust, she knew it was there. She could assume its destination.

“Your partner will guide you. Lyra takes my hands and shows me what to do,” she began.

Madrigal wasn’t immune to the same, her small tempest more than enough to ensnare her curls and taint her clothes. Even Harper at her back was blighted by the storm, forced to cling to his cap and battle his stray bangs as was necessary. For the velocity at which her unseen winds spun ever faster, it was outright audible.

Octavia heard it grow as much as she heard it rise. She heard it move much the same, innocent plucks and soft flicks of Madrigal’s wrists more than enough to control her perfect gusts. It went high. She could feel it change direction, for how the Maestra herself was more than enough of an indicator.

“Think about love, and think about healing. Think about how much you want to help someone,” she continued.

Octavia nodded, her heart pounding rapidly. She was lucky if she could think straight at all.

Every ounce of Madrigal’s swirling storm met the man in full, torturing his clothes and drawing his attention. Given how quickly the newborn gales had been offered to him, they stole his attention as he stirred. So, too, did they steal his breath. At the very least, Octavia could see the exact moment Lyra’s melody met his insides. The slender funnel born of yet the same deceptively-soft strumming and plucking left her rippling winds streaming well past his lips, spiraling down into the depths of his body from within as he choked quietly. His hands never quite rose to his throat in desperation. Octavia at least saw them twitch.

Harper’s own did, by comparison. She winced along with him, well aware of her own conscious breaths. “Damn,” he muttered with immense discomfort.

Madrigal shook her head, never tearing her eyes from the man as her fingers moved swiftly. “He won’t remember. They never do. It doesn’t hurt him.”

“How do you know?” Octavia asked.

“I know.”

Her voice was as heavy as it was quiet. Octavia didn’t dare press.

“You’ll feel it resisting,” Madrigal continued. “It’ll feel like something’s pulling on it. That’s how you’ll know it’s working. Trust your partner. They’ll help.”

There was at least a brief moment where Octavia was more or less forced to wonder if the man was even alive. She trusted Madrigal with everything she had. Still, the sight of him outright slumped over the table, besieged by wind writhing in the depths of his very soul, was somewhat nauseating in and of itself.

He was nearly lifeless, an empty shell offered only to grotesque violet at war with healing gales. The tears claiming his pale cheeks were the only indicator of his distress, physical or otherwise. Really, it was the only thing that gave Octavia hope he wasn’t dead at all. It didn’t matter if he didn’t remember. It surely didn’t change what he felt in the moment.

“Destroy it,” Madrigal stated firmly. “You’ll feel it. The minute you do, crush it. Don’t hesitate. Just keep pushing until it breaks. You’ll know when.”

There was no reaction from the man pinned so viciously by Madrigal’s minor tempest. Of Madrigal herself, the faintest tremble of her fingertips against every string came with notes ever thicker and strums ever more harsh. Beneath the gleaming moonlight of Minuevera, she’d been as obscured as she’d been ethereal, her silhouette more than enough to claim Octavia’s eyes. Up close, with far more moonbeams to slice through the dark, Lyra’s Repose was clear to see. So, too, was the strain on Madrigal’s face and the tremble tainting her muscles. Her song never stilled. Her focus never faltered. Not once, resistance of something unseen be damned, did her fingers ever slow.

It felt like forever, given how long Octavia’s breath sat squarely out of reach. The moment the Maestra’s fingers uncurled from their taut positioning, the explosive storm that followed was nearly horrifying. With the absence of tension came the withdrawal of every gale, agony incarnate captured in its wake. In reverse, the winds that had dug so remorselessly into the man’s body erupted with a force undoubtedly distressing--if not substantially painful.

The billowing smoke carried along with every rapid rotation of Madrigal’s miniature vortex was helplessly confined, cursed to evacuate and blast against the ceiling without restraint. The man didn’t choke quite as much as the one in Minuevera did, and it was somewhat of a relief. It didn’t spare him entirely. It still took time for the useless Dissonance to dissipate in full with every twist and turn of the spiraling gusts.

Just as soon as her roaring winds had been unleashed upon the aisle, they stilled with equal grace and a clear breeze as their sole momento. The song of such power that had touched the air tapered and faded as delicately as the violet she’d stolen, every crystalline echo trailing off in time with wispy mists. One soft exhale was enough for Madrigal.

“Whoa,” Harper breathed. “I…wow.”

The returned peace and the gentle clacking below her feet did nothing for her heart. Still, even now, Octavia couldn’t fight the way she trembled fiercely, every heartbeat pounding against her chest so loudly she was convinced it was audible. The blood that rushed through her ears matched with her adrenaline. Every attempt to open her mouth came with no words to show for it.

The warm smile Madrigal blessed her with was much needed. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she repeated.

With hesitation, Octavia cast her eyes back at the innocent man once plagued by agony. Again, he was just as limp and slack against the table. She still feared for his life, initially. The tears, genuine and clear, that trickled steadily down his cheeks were once more her one counter. The sigh of relief she breathed was wonderful, and she could’ve collapsed to the carpet below.

“How would I even…do that with light?” she murmured.

Madrigal beamed. “Ask Stradivaria.”

Harper, too, exhaled almost just as heavily. “Can I…eventually do that too?”

Madrigal’s smile never faltered. “Of course. It’s just like I said. Your partner will help.”

“But if I mess…” he started, falling silent just as quickly.

Octavia winced. He didn’t need to finish. The mental imagery the implication alone came with was horrifying. Suppressing it took far more effort than she would’ve liked.

“Should we tell Viola?” she interjected, lest the same violent image sit for too long in Harper’s own head as well.

Harper sighed. “We can tell her tomorrow. She needs her rest. Honestly, after all of that, so do we. It’s late.”

Octavia was more than inclined to agree, and Madrigal nodded in turn. She at least took the liberty of offering her attention to the man once last time, notably unconscious. At the very least, it seemed far more natural. The shoulders that rose and fell evenly were devoid of smoky violet, and she gave her silent praise to Lyra’s Repose. It was a peace she feared her light could never grant, and a reprieve her song could never give. She desperately wanted to. Fear was indestructible all the same.

If nothing else, he was alive. Were it her light alone that sought to free him of pain tonight, she doubted that would’ve been the case. The knowledge of his salvation was the only thing that would let her sleep peacefully tonight.

The travel that followed was blindingly uneventful in comparison to the agony-stained evening she’d been forced to bear witness to. She’d hesitated to tell Viola, somewhat, for fear of any myriad of reactions that could’ve followed. To recount the tale of a Dissonant person to her once near-accomplice in murder at all was a sickening enough thought. Still, Viola took the news with startling coolness, her surprise much more muted than expected.

She’d been just as perplexed, at least. For a train consisting of less occupants than Octavia could count on one hand--themselves notwithstanding--the sight of Dissonance at all came in the company of shockingly low odds. Madrigal’s so-called “purification” process was another topic for another time. If Viola’s prior confessions had been anything to go by, it surely wasn’t the best time to discuss that situation.

She left Stradivaria alone. If they connected, they connected. Octavia didn’t bother to push, nor could she if she wanted to--and by God, did she want to. She thought to bother Viola as to whether she’d been lucky enough to beat her to the punch with Silver Brevada. If she got an affirmative, the jealousy might’ve been enough to burn her heart. She kept her mouth shut.

She really did spend almost two straight days sleeping, Viola’s joking be damned. She remembered to eat, and she remembered to bathe. It was with sealed curtains and gloriously-crafted darkness that she and her exhausted companion indulged in as much unconsciousness as could be desired. It wasn’t as though there was much left to be desired otherwise, although Madrigal and Harper seemed to get something or another out of what sunshine was offered from day to day. She didn’t particularly bother to check.

They found her often enough, at least one of them content to tease regularly as to her somewhat-questionable commitment to sleeping. She didn’t need to roll over to figure out which one it was--she was starting to get used to him. Viola dismissed them on her behalf as much as was necessary, be it with a tired wave of her hand or a choice gesture of her fingers that Octavia was surprised she knew.

Her sleep was largely empty and dreamless, save for flickering scenes of an auction hall or the lighter aspects of her prior Maestro introductions. She didn’t particularly dislike them. She was spared of the Dissonance creeping into her head, mostly. She wasn’t entirely immune, and she awoke with at least somewhat of a shudder in those instances. If nothing else, there were no boxes of which to speak. That was one victory.

Octavia didn’t bother keeping track of time, after a certain point. When they got there, they got there. As such, the overwhelming blare of the train whistle was more than enough to nearly knock her off the top bunk entirely, by which she would’ve landed face-down on the floor gracelessly. Viola, by comparison, did actually fall--a shorter distance, granted, and blessed with the ceiling to meet her annoyed eyes, but still enough to surely hurt. It didn’t stop Octavia from snickering, and she probably earned the pillow that was subsequently hurtled into her face.

In truth, so long had Octavia traveled that she’d almost forgotten where she was headed entirely. Madrigal helped, somewhat, for how many times she had to excitedly hear the name “Velrose” repeated in far too elated of a tone so soon after becoming conscious. The blinding sunshine wasn’t pleasant, blasted upon her as it was with curtains torn open against her will. At least one of them was awake enough to challenge the Blessed City. It certainly wasn’t her.

Every anxiety she'd carried with her all the way to the city had ultimately been blunted by the monotony of the voyage. She’d left them in Coda, and those that had stowed away had been scattered upon the tracks in her wake. Instead, every unfamiliar field and distant mountain that passed her by cursed her with what she’d long forgotten. Each window offered her the same, territory she couldn’t place bursting on all sides with a sea of greenery unmatched. It spoke to nothing of what lay ahead, no matter how hard she fought to peer forward.

When her feet touched solid ground for the first time in three days, the sensation of hard earth beneath her soles felt outright foreign. In some ways, it was--a simple seven days prior had seen her entire life bound behind the borders of Silver Ridge. Now, instead, she more or less had little idea as to where in Mezzoria she was at all. It wasn’t as terrifying a concept as she’d expected it to be.

At the very least, Viola and Harper had been localized to Coda for the duration of their lives, and it was somewhat of a comfort to not be isolated in her experiences. Madrigal had slightly more of an advantage. It still wasn’t by much. The bursting sparkle in the eyes of the latter was contagious, and it eased whatever fears could’ve clung to her even now.

The station, if it could even be considered such, was in such stark contrast to Coda’s own that Octavia briefly wondered if they had yet a ways to go. She didn’t hate that it was open, by which the summer breeze kissed her skin in excess and the brilliant sunshine poured down through the glass overhang. It was roughly as empty as she’d expected, for what she’d been led to believe of the city’s secrecy. So unrestrained was the station by architecture that she may as well have been abandoned in a sea of sprawling green. It was as lovely as it was disorienting. Beneath the blue skies overhead, the lush atmosphere was pristine.

Of equal purity were the distant stone walls rising high enough to practically kiss the sky itself, a barrier her eyes were helpless to penetrate from afar. If she cast them high enough, she could just barely make out one structure towering well above the rest. It was a beacon that captured the gleaming sun just the slightest bit more, resplendent as it held fast to the same shimmer. She had a strong guess. She couldn’t prove it from here.

“Why is it…so far back?” Harper asked, more or less echoing her sentiment.

It was at least ten minutes’ worth of walking, if she eyed the gap to the towering walls beyond correctly. Only the grassy ocean lay between the station and the presumed city, with solely distant mountains to keep her company on the flanking horizons. They were the only train, and the lack of mechanical companionship was just as jarring. Before the Blessed City, she may as well have been in another world entirely.

“Privacy,” the conductor offered. “Not my idea of a good location, but it’s the best they were willing to offer under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” Harper pressed.

Octavia blinked. “Wait, who’s ‘they’?”

“The higher-ups,” he answered plainly. “But that’s no problem of mine. I stay out of all of that. I’d suggest you kids do, too, but you’re already here.”

Madrigal beamed, seemingly immune to whatever offense could’ve been garnered from his words. “We’re really good at being right where we need to be.”

“Do you need to see our passports again?” Viola interrupted, one hand already drifting towards her bag.

The conductor shook his head. “No need. The people at the entrance won’t ask. You did all you had to do just by boarding. As for whatever you’re actually doing here, that’s none of my business, either.”

Octavia smiled weakly, adjusting Stradivaria’s case on her shoulders. “Thank you for everything,” she offered.

He nodded. “You kids stay safe.”

She tried to ignore the “from what” that nearly slipped out of her mouth. If she had to ask, she’d surely find out eventually. She wasn’t sure she particularly wanted to know before she so much as set foot inside.

It really was an ocean, more or less. High-rising grasses of an endless field fought to swallow her whole from her ankles with every step. She didn’t hate it, necessarily, picturesque as it was. For what she was led to expect of the Blessed City by name alone, the nature beyond its walls was doing it incredible justice. Every step that left leafy sprouts battling to sneak into her socks was somehow welcome. She embraced the silence that settled neatly and comfortably between them, broken up largely by the soft rustling they crafted underfoot. It was as disorienting as it was enjoyable, peaceful in a way she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Do you hear that?” Viola murmured, shattering their silence suddenly enough to startle Octavia.

She tilted her head. “Hear…what?”

“There’s this…kind of rushing sound, almost. It’s sort of far away, but if you listen really hard, I think you can hear it.”

It took effort to hear over the wind in the first place, blessing her ears in mild excess as it was. If she really strained, she could just barely make out the vestiges of a steady and audible rumble. Far and gentle, it was intermittent to a degree that she hardly held the ebbing noise for long.

“Are those…waves?” she tried.

Madrigal’s voice behind her overshadowed the soft sound altogether. “I think that’s the ocean!” she cried happily.

“Is Velrose an ocean city?” Harper asked. “I thought we were in a mountain range or something.”

Viola shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen the ocean, though. That’ll be interesting.”

The dread she’d managed to suppress for three straight days and scatter to the wind found a way back to her soul. For a town so carefully encircled by infinite stone and impenetrable walls, the gate that threatened her was ominous in a different manner entirely. It was iron, for one, and every spearing point could easily have pierced what courage to challenge the Blessed City she’d managed to bring along. Grass became cobblestone, and she nearly tripped the moment the difference greeted her boots underfoot. It was as much of a literal barrier as it was symbolic, and such a towering city already left her feeling small in every way.

The man before the gate was, at the very least, of a reasonable height by comparison to every form of protection the city offered. It hardly made his presence more welcoming, the stranger clad in black a stark contrast to the shades of her little rosy passport. The mental image she’d been given by the name alone was faltering before she’d so much as set foot within. The glare she was offered didn’t help, crossed arms and cold eyes refusing to grant respite in the wake of her arduous voyage.

“Can I help you kids?” he spoke plainly. If he truly wanted to help, she absolutely would not have known by his tone.

Octavia tried and failed not to stammer. “W-We just want to enter. We have passports.”

He scoffed. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have made it this far.”

She blushed somewhat. It was her fault for forgetting the boarding rules. It spared her more interactions she very much did not want, at least.

“I can’t stop you--not legally. Go ahead,” he spoke in a voice far too low.

The creak that came with the unlatching and subsequent swinging of the gates was unsettling in and of itself. As to how often they were opened to the outside world at all, Octavia wasn’t particularly sure any guess she gave would come close to being accurate. She tensed, resisting the simultaneous urge to move forward and backpedal all at once.

The soft sound of her own boots clacking against true cobblestone in full echoed slightly beneath the arches overhead. Penetrating the high-rising walls was as much of a victory as it was distressing, uncertainty pooling in every step she left behind. No amount of peering over her shoulder at those who followed was helping. If anything, it was worse, for the apprehension she caught on their faces in turn.

The bang that followed the gate swinging shut behind her startled her fiercely. Where she’d battled at an auction for the right to simply be here, she was now formally forced to come to terms with her decision. She’d been in too deep that night, and slightly less, for the one before it. This was on another level.

“Welcome to Velrose,” she heard of her stranger beyond the gate. “You don’t belong here.”