◆ ◆ ◆

Lucian and Mixoly didn't alternate, necessarily. Of the memories she'd already seen of both, past the point of entanglement she'd come to observe, they weren't sequential. Octavia gathered them like stones, and they flowed like water once she held them in her hands. The eyes she wore during both instances were anything but normal. She could tell them apart effortlessly. The gaze she stole from Lucian was blighted by violet, hazy and marred in a way no amount of blinking or pleading would undo. The screeching and screaming served as a secondary tell-tale indicator of a tragic Heartful memory.

By comparison, thus far, Mixoly brought her nothing. What visuals Octavia searched for in the Muse's memories came only in the form of brilliant colors and hues that almost warmed her soul to witness. As to what Mixoly saw, it was all but imperceivable. If the Muse herself was more cooperative in the world of the lucid, perhaps Octavia would shower her with questions. As it stood, she'd be lucky if she could get Mixoly to accept a fate that teetered on inevitable.

It hurts, though!

Every cycle was another experience with his pain. Octavia loathed his suffering. To see it again and again was torture, an endless loop of hurt for one boy and one boy alone. In flashes she could sometimes uncover from the depths of muddied darkness, Octavia was burdened with yet more. In the daytime, he would tremble and sweat, try as he might to feign smiles and force his way through what labor he could come across.

Lucian survived and persisted, and it was unfathomably admirable. Octavia could hear the waver in his words when he spoke. She could watch the way he'd occasionally stumble when he walked, whether relative to overstimulation or disorientation. Still, he fought and struggled for the sake of a small boy who knew little of his plight. It mattered not that Mixoly never met his lips, for how he kept her close to his heart through concealing clothing alone. Rarely did they part. When they did, his curse was eternal as ever. He wasn't free.

At night, he suffered much the same. In the company of one so young and ignorant to his plight, the brave face Lucian battled to don was betrayed by shivers and ragged breaths. There was mild reprieve to be found in the dark, the fog that lived in his eyes blunted by that which stole light from his room regardless. Octavia understood Theo's prior point in the worst way, and she was forced to hold her heart together over the idea of him enduring the same. It didn't spare Lucian from the sounds that tore him to shreds all hours of the evening, and no amount of covering his ears offered any semblance of relief. It was difficult to be subtle about it.

So often would Theo sign to him gently, gazing upon the suffering boy with worry as he tossed and turned in agony. Each and every time, what soft signs answered and what false affirmations pleaded for his fears to fade were as weak as they were desperate. The degree to which Lucian prioritized the boy's comfort would've been endearing, had he not been in Hell himself. Even as the Ambassador, simply bearing witness to such brief snippets and fragments was driving Octavia insane. She'd been correct in her belief that she'd someday find a toll that hurt. It wasn't exactly in the way she'd expected.

And for as smart as Theo was, the needs of Lucian's heart were certainly unmistakable. Where he initially indulged in Lucian's dismissals and affirmations of well-being, Lucian eventually found more than distress and despair in his bed each night he accepted fitful rest. Octavia prayed it had sufficed to ease his soul in the slightest. She hoped it was warm. For how tightly he clung to the child, shaking and struggling to breathe, it was surely needed.

Upon the flash that followed, blinding white and unhindered by murky agony, the clarity of her vision first led Octavia to believe that she still clung to Lucian's eyes--cleansed and freed of pain, somehow. She found no suffering in sound, similarly, and the fact that she found sights at all in place of color alone was deeply jarring. Logically, she knew what didn't belong to Lucian surely belonged to Mixoly in the depths. It didn't make any more sense.

It was beautiful. It was impossible, really.

Where Lucian's toll had taken her to a land she'd never seen, pristine and resplendent as the bounty of far-off nature was, the crystal-clear vision she was now afforded spoke to scenes Octavia couldn't wrap her head around. They were amalgamations of concepts she could piece together in dreams and fantasies, and yet more than what she could hope to understand with her gaze alone. It was sweeping, overwhelming, a view of a world so grand in scale that mortal eyes couldn't possibly have taken it all in at once.

It was vast cities she'd never seen, kingdoms and countries she'd never heard of, cultures and people she'd never meet. It was inventions and contraptions she couldn't begin to fathom, lifestyles and fashions she'd never imagined, an entire dream in and of itself that surely couldn't have been more than a grandiose hallucination. She refused to believe it was true, for how marvelously it thrived in such a different manner. It had its downsides. Everything did. It had more than what Octavia was used to.

What are you?

For what Mixoly was, for who Mixoly was, she wasn't subtle. She didn't flee, nor did she hide her presence from gazes below. As to what form she took, it was utterly impossible for Octavia to tell from inside. As to how they saw her at all, that, too, Octavia couldn't understand.

I am one who seeks to grow what is beautiful.

Her name, if nothing else, was precious.

Are you a god?

I am not.

And yet, she didn't shirk their worship.

We need you.

In what manner, my child?

They all were. She was benevolent, in that way.

This world is filth.

It cannot be so. It was crafted with such care.

It is impure and unclean. It needs your touch. It needs a miracle.

A miracle?

There is so much that brings suffering.

They weren't wrong.

Of what would I give?

Anything.

What is broken?

Everything.

She wasn't helpless. After all, it wasn't the same spider web.

For what hand she'd had in filling it with love, Mixoly could do so from within, much the same. It wasn't to a phenomenal degree, for what Octavia knew of the concepts of conflict and need. It wasn't surprising that they viewed her as a god. She, too, could weave the threads of the spider web.

It was remarkable. It was terrifying. Such a world was malleable. Whether it was beneath her hands alone that adjustments were possible was a mystery. Octavia shuddered under the fleeting concept that Ramulus wasn't the only one who could affect the second spider web she called a home. She prayed that, at least, had been accounted for the second time around.

This is a blessing.

Is it pure?

The world will never be, on its own. We need you.

I will persist.

Mixoly indulged them.

Why does the world continue to suffer?

This is all that I can do.

We believe in you.

I am…trying. How did it become this way?

Mankind is impure.

It should not be so, by design. This is…not what was meant to be.

It is the very nature of the world.

But how?

She doubted them.

What will it take to achieve perfection? What will it take to bring peace?

That is for you to deliver. We pray for a miracle, even now. We need you.

I am trying! This is not how it was supposed to be!

We need a savior! Please, help us! Give us your mercy!

How can I salvage what you continue to destroy?

Mixoly begged. She struggled. Octavia wondered if Muses could cry, for how much sorrow surely lay dormant in their hearts. All she found instead upon her stolen eyes was glass. This time, when it cracked, at least the light that burst in its wake on the way out was natural. Even from a sun shining onto a world in which she'd never set foot, it was better than nothing.

◆̶̨̙͋̓̓͜͠ ̸̟̮̔͌̎̏͊◆̶̧̙͕͈̳̄͒̀ ̵̧̡̛̯̥͍͚͋̔̇̀̒͊͝◆̵͈̤̫̫͓̫̎͐̀̾

Octavia was sweating. She only realized it when her clammy hands recoiled from Miracle Agony, trembling and twitching. No amount of gasping for air was compensating for the inconceivable sights she still fought to process. Each time she tried to fathom the first spider web, draping it delicately across her mind, it fizzled and faded out of self-preservation alone. It was torture.

Theo once more eyed her with concern. Octavia shook her head wordlessly, gritting her teeth. He nodded, and the fire in his eyes as they locked with hers once more was enough to keep her going. Shaky breaths notwithstanding, she dove back into the darkness again.

◆ ◆ ◆

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Lucian did end up indulging the Muse with his Heartful touch exactly once. It was hardly for himself alone.

There was no true merit in gifting her song, necessarily. Rather, he gave the singular blessing her legacy could offer. Mixoly's radiant melodies were infinitely more lovely when they weren't attempting to severely injure Octavia, and she could appreciate the love Lucian handed even to the Muse who'd cursed him with such unbearable agony. Of the light he breathed into the air, it was, unsurprisingly, with the one he treasured most that he shared his birthright. It didn't matter if Theo's smile escaped Octavia's stolen eyes even now. The wonder and awe that graced his face was more than enough to compensate.

Enraptured by shrill, crystalline notes yet unheard, it was the Maestro-to-be's first true encounter with his future partner. If he'd known what was to come, Octavia wondered if Theo would've found so much delight in her existence. Mixoly's song was just barely louder than the screeching that lived forever in Lucian's head. Octavia had half a mind to wonder why he didn't seek her companionship more often, in that case. Even now, his fingers trembled atop every shimmering key. It was a reflex. It was involuntary.

Sometimes, Lucian cried. It was soft. It was in the dead of night, usually, long after the one comfort at his side had surrendered to peaceful sleep he'd never claim for himself. Theo wasn't always immune, for the sobbing and shaking it regularly became. Where the sounds of his sorrow were lost, the aching in his heart was palpable enough to warrant whatever comfort could be given. Once, their hands had rarely parted for Theo's sake. Now, it was Theo who so often tended to him in return.

Some days, Lucian didn't eat. Some days, he didn't sleep at all. Some days, he didn't leave the house, and some days, he didn't so much as leave his bed. It grew louder. It grew hazier. It was unbearable.

Where am I supposed to find the Ambassador? he once struggled to ask between gasping breaths, racked by chills that couldn't be stemmed.

I…do not know.

You have to know! You have to know how to make this stop!

My child, I wish with all of my heart that I knew. I, too, wish that you did not suffer so.

Lucian no longer cried. Now, he sobbed in earnest. Where once he'd attempted to stifle his distress in front of Theo, it was no longer an option. It was no longer controllable in the first place. For each day the screeching grew worse, for each day his vision swam and grew tinted ever more disgustingly violet in every way, his agitation reached new heights.

To his credit, it was perhaps the softness of his legacy alone that turned his anger inwards, blunted by desperation and agonizing distress rather than rage. He scratched his skin until it bled. He hit his head until he could hardly walk. He begged, pleaded, growled, and sometimes screamed until his throat was red and raw. It was through exhaustion alone that he would sleep, some nights, burned out solely by resistance to the plague upon his senses.

Theo watched every moment he suffered, a once-brilliant star fizzling and fading. Where Lucian's light should've shined down onto him with all of the love in his radiant heart, pain had long since dulled his sparkle. No amount of comfort, physical or otherwise, was enough to stem Lucian's tears. Octavia couldn't blame either of them. Simply bearing the weight of his curse by proxy was growing absolutely impossible. She couldn't stand it.

Why are you doing this to me?

My child, I assure you, it is not intentional. I have said as much, and will say so one thousand times over. I cannot apologize enough.

Please, make it stop! I don't care how, just stop it already! I can't live like this, Mixoly!

This is not what I wanted for you.

Mixoly, please! Please, I'm begging you, I'll do anything!

All that is to be done is to find the Ambassador alone. They are the only--

Then help me! I can't do this anymore! I hate this!

Do you hate me?

I don't want to!

Lucian, she heard the Muse offer softly. It was the first time. Her sorrow was more than audible upon every syllable.

Please!

With a flash so vivid and quick that she could've very well blinked, Octavia was practically in the clouds by comparison. She was free of pain. It was a peace Lucian couldn't be granted, and she felt guilty each and every time she found the reprieve he couldn't cling to. Her suffering, at least, was temporary.

Mixoly's was not.

Do you hear my voice?

It was Mixoly's alone that Octavia found.

Can you…hear me?

And again, the same.

Please. Are you there?

The world was beneath her, literally and figuratively. Again was Octavia struggling to process what impossible sights the Muse had granted to her, both colorful and not all at once. It was as imperceivable as it was sensible, radiant and tangible as she practically straddled existence itself. Once more, she couldn't wrap her head around it. It was all she could do to surrender to the idea of a dream once again. It was the closest she could come to making light of what eyes she didn't deserve were gifting to her.

I…do not understand.

As to what process was taking place with each fizzling flicker, every flash that briefly sparked in Octavia's stolen gaze, she was just as unsure.

What is this?

Mixoly's words were for no one. What desperate masses she'd left so far below were voiceless in a floating fragment, isolated solely to the Muse and an interloping Ambassador. Again and again she struggled and sparked, flashing and flashing with such fervor that Octavia initially believed herself to be cycling through broken memories once more.

I do not understand!

It was endless.

Do you hear my voice? Please!

It was desperate.

My Lord?

It was raw.

My Lord!

It was panicked.

Stratos!

It was inconsolable.

Stratos, please!

They were words, time and time again, rapid as they were, that Octavia had heard tumble from Mixoly's lips in excess.

Please, it cannot be this way! I beg of you, help me! Help me! Help me! Please!

The violet was the catalyst for every crack that splintered her glass.

Do not leave me here!

Octavia never made it far enough to see what followed.

◆̶̦͍͚̮̻̇͜͝ͅ ̶̧̱̠̥͉̦̯̼̭͖͂̿̌͑͐̒̈́̚̕◆̷͚̩̫̥͛ ̶̡̺̳̆̆͌͂̏͗◆̵̟̫̼̟̰͖̮̅̓̃̓̿̍̈́̓̕͝

Mixoly's plight was difficult enough, for what Octavia continuously fought to understand with eyes not hers to utilize. It was Lucian's suffering, though, that blighted her the most. She was outright nauseous. Dizziness had settled onto her in tandem with a headache that had just begun to throb. She was panting. She hated it. She hated it knowing it was obvious even more.

Theo still watched her every move and expression, unwavering. When she hesitated, briefly battling the way the world spun and her ears rang, one warm hand came to rest over her own. He squeezed tightly. It was enough to keep her grounded, his free hand offering up Miracle Agony once more. Octavia intertwined her trembling fingers with his, forgoing the nod of confidence she wished she could offer him in turn. Only now did she wonder if he'd known exactly what was in there.

It was all she could do to honor Lucian's pain, in that way. She accepted what she could with her heart and submitted to more with her touch.

◆ ◆ ◆

And yet, it was Mixoly who ultimately barred her path. In truth, it wasn't surprising.

Help me!

Every plea practically echoed.

Save me!

For one who'd offered up such salvation to a broken world, she found none of her own.

Please!

That was the boundary, Octavia supposed, intangible and inconceivable as it was.

I beg of you, save me!

Given what she'd been forced to witness, touch, repair, and tolerate, Mixoly was surely more than impure. Hers was a heart blemished by mortal malice. Octavia pitied her as much as she did empathize.

Save me!

Where the violet she'd grown to utterly loathe was so slow to foster in others, it was an explosive birth from the shattered heart and memories of a Muse. It was a supernova.

Help me!

From an outside perspective, Octavia wondered what it must've looked like. Whether to rest peacefully Above, safe and pure behind the protection of the boundary, or whether to go about aimlessly below, treading the broken spider web, the experience was impossible to imagine. It wasn't as though human eyes would know better. Perhaps it was instant--or at least Octavia liked to hope so. Perhaps they didn't suffer. Of the Muses, Octavia knew better. Of the boundary, for what she knew had occurred, it was frustrating that she couldn't quite see.

Please!

Mixoly was an endless fountain of pleas, much the same as she was an endless fountain of agony. Octavia could rank those mired in suffering in a hierarchy, if she tried. Ivy and Vincent served as her baseline for what could be considered a fountain. Selena was a tidal wave, an ocean unleashing chaos where desired and without remorse. Mixoly, by comparison to all, was a black hole. She was, perhaps, maybe more so by one thousand times over. For every ounce of light stolen from her own heart, the explosive misery that filled the gap colored the world--and Octavia's borrowed eyes--an equally-miserable violet.

It was too much to bear. The glass shattered long before she could see it spread, cracking and crumbling beneath the weight of Mixoly's agony.

◆̸̧͖̫̖͙͂͆̐̓̐͒̒͌̏̆̈̕̚ ̵̪̘̺͕̝̈́̈́̈́͌◆̵̮͉̜̤̟̰͔͎̞̳̝̂̏͋̒̚ ̶͖̰̯̣̺͂̇̐̈̈́̑͆◆̵̛̞̄́

Octavia was gasping. She was well aware of her distress, her head actively throbbing. Again did her ears ring relentlessly. She couldn't fight the dizziness that grew ever more potent with each and every dive into the darkness, and simply sitting up was a struggle. Her vision blurred.

Theo was blurry, too. With what she could find of him, she could at least salvage determination and drive that didn't belong to her. For how close he was, Octavia liked to imagine it was hers to take. He gripped her hand tighter. It was something to hold her down, and she clung to him with everything she had.

She gritted her teeth, squeezed her eyes shut, and plunged into the depths again.

◆ ◆ ◆

Please!

Please!

Please!

Help me!

Help me!

Help me!

It burned.

It burned each and every time she got to it. For how many times Octavia had to brave Lucian's curse again and again to make it there, she wasn't sure how much more she could take. The world was violet. Her vision was violet. The sky Mixoly had once adored was deep, remorseless violet, screeching and screaming in every way.

Help me!

Sometimes, they even blurred into one another, inseparable. It wasn't as though Octavia could make out words. Ultimately, a screech was a screech, wordless and incomprehensible. From the Dissonance, it was doubly so. It didn't curdle her blood any less.

Save me!

It never withstood, no matter how many of Mixoly's pleas she could gather in her heart. Each time, it was most definitely more. It was endless, the Muse's black hole all-consuming and burdened by grief. Time and time again, the glass Octavia could no longer preserve beneath the pressure of infinite agony gave way. She was a victim of two Heartful tragedies forever.

◆̵̨̨̹͈̼̝̦̖̪͔͘ ̶̢̧̫͔̯̖͔̤̩͗͐◆̵̧̨̯̹̰͖̜̲͙̼͇̰̥̌̽̊̔̇̀̀ ̵̢̼̹̝̰͚̖̘͇̼͎̐́͋̏́̀̕̚◆̸̛͍̙̠̞̹̜̪̪͇͓̓̂́́͋̏ͅ

It was their close proximity that saved her from collapsing. Where disorientation and pain had begun to severely wear her down, Theo's arm around her shoulders and his forehead pressed firmly against hers were the anchors she so desperately needed. His size was irrelevant, his age even more so. His heart was hers, and he spoke with his resilient gaze alone. His touch was enough. Octavia was aware that her pain wasn't silent. Part of her hoped Mixoly heard it every time she went down. If the Muse was watching, even now, she hoped it meant something.

◆̴̛͍̭̗̰̬͔̗̩̈́̈̈́͑͘ ̷͇͍̈́̎◆̶̢̟̫̜̮̩̄͐ ̷̺̘͔̿̋̀̀͠◆̸̥̺̤͓̯̪̯́͂

Help me!

◆̸̼̣̟̬̏̔͊̑͐̂ ̵̝͇̰̙̮̿͆̋͝◆̷̙̱̟͐͊̆̄̌͠ ̴̜̥̈́̒̌́̇◆̶̫̩̥̘̉͜

It had to.

◆̸̧͖̫̖͙͂͆̐̓̐͒̒͌̏̆̈̕̚ ̵̪̘̺͕̝̈́̈́̈́͌◆̵̮͉̜̤̟̰͔͎̞̳̝̂̏͋̒̚ ̶͖̰̯̣̺͂̇̐̈̈́̑͆◆̵̛̞̄́

Help me, please!

◆̵̨̨̹͈̼̝̦̖̪͔͘ ̶̢̧̫͔̯̖͔̤̩͗͐◆̵̧̨̯̹̰͖̜̲͙̼͇̰̥̌̽̊̔̇̀̀ ̵̢̼̹̝̰͚̖̘͇̼͎̐́͋̏́̀̕̚◆̸̛͍̙̠̞̹̜̪̪͇͓̓̂́́͋̏ͅ

There was no alternative.

◆̵̗̩̟͔̺̲̌̽̕ ̶̛͙͉̼̭́̾̒̋͊̈́͊◆̶̧̞͓͉̤̯͙̱̈́͋̉̊̆̋ ̴̳̖̹̠͇̯̆̽ͅ◆̸̢̢̮͕̣̠̗̭̎͑̽́̈́̚͠

Save me!

◆̵͉̤̞̻̣͓̱͆̑̈̈̋̾̕ͅ ̶̨̛͓̦̻̤͍̞̱̅́̎̀̄̓̿́̀̕͝͠◆̶͙̙̦͓̖͈̰̐͂̈̔̈́̔͐̍͘͘̚͠ͅ ̶̘̀́͐͛̑̀́̓̆̅͝͝◆̷̼̞̔̑̓̀͂̅̇̏

For as badly as she wanted to succeed on Mixoly's behalf, it wasn't her heart alone that hung in the balance.

◆̴̛͍̭̗̰̬͔̗̩̈́̈̈́͑͘ ̷͇͍̈́̎◆̶̢̟̫̜̮̩̄͐ ̷̺̘͔̿̋̀̀͠◆̸̥̺̤͓̯̪̯́͂

Please!

◆̵̗̩̟͔̺̲̌̽̕ ̶̛͙͉̼̭́̾̒̋͊̈́͊◆̶̧̞͓͉̤̯͙̱̈́͋̉̊̆̋ ̴̳̖̹̠͇̯̆̽ͅ◆̸̢̢̮͕̣̠̗̭̎͑̽́̈́̚͠

"Don't fight me on this, Mixoly!" Octavia growled, spilling what little resolve she could spare into her voice.

"Ambassador--"

"I'm not giving up on you!" she cried.

◆̵̨̨̹͈̼̝̦̖̪͔͘ ̶̢̧̫͔̯̖͔̤̩͗͐◆̵̧̨̯̹̰͖̜̲͙̼͇̰̥̌̽̊̔̇̀̀ ̵̢̼̹̝̰͚̖̘͇̼͎̐́͋̏́̀̕̚◆̸̛͍̙̠̞̹̜̪̪͇͓̓̂́́͋̏ͅ

Help me!

◆̶͖̲̼͖̳͙̘͓͐̒̉͛̓͗͑̌͜͠ ̶̨̰̪̠̲̮̤͔̜͂͌◆̴̡̦̭̣̤͚̮͎̖̺͉͕͛́̿͐́̅̈́̉ ̸͚̝͇͗͐͂̂̅◆̵̩̤͛̃̀̔̈́́̏͆̀̚͝͠

Octavia could hardly breathe. What few words she could spare snuck between ragged breaths, and even that took everything she had. Were it not for Theo's support, she surely would've collapsed long ago.

"And you better not give up on me, either!" she demanded of the Muse who watched her still.

◆̵̗̩̟͔̺̲̌̽̕ ̶̛͙͉̼̭́̾̒̋͊̈́͊◆̶̧̞͓͉̤̯͙̱̈́͋̉̊̆̋ ̴̳̖̹̠͇̯̆̽ͅ◆̸̢̢̮͕̣̠̗̭̎͑̽́̈́̚͠

Save me, please!

◆̶̬̗̀̃̑͊̂̄̽͆̇̍̑̂̽̓ ̵̻̘͑̓͋◆̴̥̤̘͐̚ ̸̧̠̭̫̤̺̪̥̤̔͗̋̍◆̶̨̙̰͇̼̳͓̱̝̟̫̠̖̃̈̈́̈́̽̀̒̆́̕̕͝͝

"Damn it, Mixoly!" she shouted through her pain. "You better give this world a fighting chance after all this!"

"Ambassador, you do not need to go this far!" Mixoly begged.

Octavia shook her head, bringing Theo's own along with her slightly. He clung to her harder. "I already told you! I'm your Ambassador, too!"

"Please," Mixoly pleaded softly. As to what she pleaded for, Octavia was unsure.

Theo didn't waver. For how he was forced to attend to her upon every attempt, Octavia knew he was contributing in his own way. His heart was contagious, and his love burned. What he offered her with his glow, as brilliant as it was quiet, was a miracle of its own.

She was his Ambassador, too. If not for Mixoly, then Octavia could try for a different heart.

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