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Damsel has had a lot to think about since she and the rest of the Princesses got catapulted into this new realm. According to Quiet, whose name is apparently The Long Quiet (she was super close on her little nickname!), he and The Shifting Mound made this world for them and their princesses and voices to live in together, the world which everyone had agreed to simply call “The After.” Everyone has their own houses and a place to roam. No more basements, no more chains; Damsel could not be more content. Well, if it weren't for Fury.
Fury was an enigma of a princess, mostly choosing to slink around at night rather than gather during the day. Damsel can sometimes find her talking to Cold, but she always looks exhausted. Nevertheless, Damsel can't seem to keep her eyes off of her in the rare moments that she does find her. There's something about her that's just so… strikingly beautiful. Her hair falls in long, well-maintained waves down her back, with thick, ivory horns curling over her head like a crown. And then, there's the matter of her exposed heart.
The consensus among the princesses and voices is that they have memories of an untold number of outcomes for their "chapters" (as Quiet calls them), but only a handful feel like they were actually lived through. Damsel has memories in which Quiet gores his own ribcage, exposing his heart to her. There was something so alluring about seeing it then, and the same goes for Fury's. The bloody heart framed stunningly by the pearly white bones of her ribcage is nothing short of breathtaking. Damsel has caught herself more than once dreaming of reaching her hands inside Fury's chest cavity to gently hold that heart.
Damsel has made quick friends with Nightmare—she's actually quite sweet once you get to know her—and Smitten ducks his head away from her with a pained expression whenever she tries to get his attention—which doesn't bother her at all!—so Damsel has been left to stew in these feelings for a while.
Following the logical course of action, she seeks out Broken. He seems to have become a bit of this world's therapist, and a good few come to him for advice. This development seems to be purely accidental, but he can be quite empathetic and insightful when Tower isn't around.
The outside of his hut is well-maintained, with Queen Anne's Lace and crawling vines of wisteria—courtesy of the joint efforts between Thorn and Wild—decorating the small home. The smell of incense drifts out through the half-opened window; he must have a visitor right now. Damsel resigns herself to waiting outside until they are done. Most of the time, if a voice or princess visits Broken, it's because they need help, and Damsel would never want to invade someone's privacy.
It's not even a few minutes of Damsel inspecting the creeping wisteria and daydreaming about how it would look tucked behind Fury's ear when the door opens, revealing Songbird making her exit. She's cradled kindly by the body she once was a part of. They seem to have made a tentative peace since entering their weird pocket dimension. The body's chains have long since been untangled by the joint efforts of Songbird and Quiet, leaving it free to move fully. It doesn't seem to be fully sentient—at least Songbird doesn't think it is—but it seems happier.
"Oh, hello, Damsel," Songbird's soft smile tugs at her cheeks. Hearing her name is still strange, now that she's no longer in need of saving. Some of the princesses have begun changing their names, such as the one in front of her, but nothing Damsel has heard yet has stuck with her.
"Hi Songbird!" Damsel's bright voice echoes back. One of the hands of the body gingerly lets go of Songbird's head and waves stutteringly. In any other world, the hand of a beheaded body waving stiltedly would be creepy, but Damsel has been spending a good amount of time with Nightmare, so she just finds it charming. "Is Broken still taking visitors tonight? I would like to talk to him, if that's okay."
Songbird squints her eyes slightly, analyzing Damsel with an observant gaze. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of her neck as her smile becomes more strained. What if she knows? What if she can smell it on her? What if she can read minds like Tower and now she knows and she's going to tell Fury and then her whole life will be over? Wh-
"Yeah, he is. Just don't stay long, he's getting tired," Songbird replies at last, breaking Damsel away from her racing thoughts. The suspicious look is gone; either she found what she was looking for, or she thinks it isn't worth it. Damsel isn't sure which one is worse.
"I won't!" Damsel begins, far too loudly. "I won't," she repeats at a much more palatable volume, a blush spreading across her face. She hurriedly moves around Songbird to enter Broken's home, but not before waving goodbye to her, because she doesn't want to be rude.
The interior of Broken's home (she will not call it a cabin, even though that's objectively what it is) is homier than she had expected. When she first visited him near the very beginning, the inside was completely bare. There wasn't even a nest; Broken had resigned himself to sleeping on the unforgiving wooden floorboards. She remembers the deep ache in her chest that she felt at the sight.
Now, the walls of his house have small sketches and notes scattered about, illuminated in the warm lighting. Two plush coaches sit in the middle of the room with a table in between, holding a few notebooks and potted plants. His pet millipedes also sit in their terrarium on the table, which Damsel finds absolutely adorable. Broken is in the middle of lifting one of them out to play with when he notices Damsel peaking her head in.
He grants her one of his rare, wobbly smiles, a genuine one.
"Hi, Damsel," his weary voice greets. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"If you are not busy, would you mind if I ask you for some advice?" Shit, that sounded rude. "Only if you want to, of course!" There. Problem solved. High five. Broken gestures with the hand not holding his adorable friend to the coach, gifting her another small smile. Damsel looks down at the scaly hand that he gestured with. The tips of the fingers are chopped off, leaving him declawed. The tips of the stubs have painful-looking bioluminescent scars that cover where the end of the digit would be. Damsel withers at the sight.
"I'm free, as long as you don't mind Mildred here." Affection sparkles in his eyes as he raises his pet to eye level, seemingly too preoccupied with his adorable pet to notice Damsel’s (rude) staring. She quickly diverts her attention, not wanting Broken to feel ostracized by her oogling, and sits down on the comfortable coach. She folded her hands in her lap out of habit. She instead turns her attention to her sundress pooling around her knees, patterned with small daisies around the edges. The fabric is softer than she ever could have imagined anything being before The After.
Since arriving in this world, Quiet has found that he can create objects, but only if he's seen a picture of them before. Thankfully, the library that came with the realm was stocked to the brim with a considerable number of different books that mysteriously change out every month. Wraith graciously let her check out a fashion book from the communal library, which she excitedly took to Quiet. It took a few tries, but soon she had a fully stocked closet with more outfits than she could ever imagine (There were only like ten, but still! Ten whole outfits!)
"Your dress is nice," Broken comments softly, seemingly having noticed her staring at it. Damsel practically beams.
"It's so nice to wear new things every day!" she gushes. “Everything in The After has been so wonderful!”
Her face quickly becomes strained as she remembers why she's here. To talk. About feelings. Oh no. Without Damsel's permission, her smile slowly falls. Broken sits slowly on the coach across from her and offers her his hand, the one with Mildred exploring her very large and very small world. Damsel takes her oh so carefully from his open palm, her thin fingers lightly grazing over the glowing scars carved into his fingers.
"Have… have you talked much with Fury?" Damsel initiates slowly. A look of contemplation passes his face, his beak pulling upward as he thinks. Mildred tickles her palm, smelling the new environment curiously.
"I know Cold talks with her sometimes. She's never come to me, if that's what you are asking, although I do have some memories with her," answers Broken. "She was desperate for connection then, and only knew how to hurt to find it. Now… she's so isolated. She must have given up on her dream."
That's… so sad. Damsel feels an ache in her chest in the shape of where love once was. She understands.
"A piece of her is missing, and it's our fault for taking it away," Broken continues, echoing Damsel's thoughts. He lets the silence sit for a moment. "Why do you ask?"
"I…" Damsel takes a moment to consider her words. How does she even explain the feelings she's been having? She doesn't want to seem like a creep, but she can't deny her thoughts for Fury. "I've been… thinking about her recently. I barely see her, but I think I want to talk to her. She seems like she needs someone. Y'know, to be her friend." The and maybe more goes unsaid, but Damsel feels it like it's a physical presence ghosting over her shoulder. Her voice trembles at the end, as if the words are trying to escape on their own accord.
Broken hums softly, appearing to flip over the problem in his head like a physical object he's examining. His head cocks slightly to the side, reminiscent of the crows the voice and Quiet share a resemblance with, before answering. "Have you tried talking to her yet? What do you think makes you want to be her friend?"
"Well, I haven't exactly talked to her yet; I've only interacted with her in passing. And, as for your second question…" Damsel trails off, unsure if it would be breaking Fury's trust by sharing what she accidentally witnessed those few weeks ago. "I'm not sure." She knows it’s not polite not to answer a real answer, but she genuinely doesn’t have one. Maybe it’s their similar history, maybe it’s some unseen will of the Goddess. Maybe Damsel is just that fucking desperate for anyone.
Broken avoids her eyes, looking at his wall. "Smitten has been moping around the pavilion, even worse than I usually do." There's a hint of self-deprecating lightness in his voice, but it is drowned out by the ocean of sorrow that clogs his throat. "Have you talked to him yet?" Goddess, he really has a way of getting to the bottom of problems.
"I tried, a while ago. Just said hi, I didn’t ambush him, and he just… ran." The admission feels less like a physical blow and more like a creeping dread strangling her heart. She misses him. Really fucking bad.
"I wasn't there for this, but I heard from Hero that he had a… pretty bad chapter, and I think it's his 'core memory' chapter." Broken meets her eyes at last. "Some hurts need more time than others. He'll come back to you." He offers the olive branch of a soothing smile; she returns it, but it wavers. "As for Fury, I think it would be best if you seek her out. I'm not sure how exactly you'd start that conversation, but let it come naturally. There's nothing worse than being left to your thoughts. She's strong, but she hungers to share that strength with others. Be patient."
Broken's back stoops forward. He has always been the quickest to tire out of all the people here, and his eyes are beginning to droop drastically, the light from his many scars dimming. Damsel stands to take her leave, placing Mildred back in her container.
"Thank you," she sincerely says.
"It's an honor."
By the time she's but a mere few feet away from the home, all the candles have been blown out, and the door closed shut.
Damsel spent most of that night lying awake on her quilted bed, thinking about what Broken had said. She agrees with him; it would be good for both of them to have someone. Nevertheless, anytime she thinks about seeking Fury out, her heart feels like it's going to explode in her chest: probably some bizarre mixture of terror and… affection, she's deduced.
As it turns out, she doesn't have to engineer a scenario to have an excuse to talk to Fury: one falls right into her lap.
Damsel starts on her way home after a long day of baking with Nightmare. Everyone else in The After seems to avoid her, but she’s been nothing but pleasant to Damsel! She thinks people are too judgmental based on their pasts. This is their second chance, and it would be a poor choice to get hung up on the past. As if Damsel doesn't feel herself crumple from the inside out anytime anyone asks her a question, as a small, scrambling part of her rushes to find the answer that will keep her safe, keep them happy.
The path home is familiar in a way that leaves a light, fluttering feeling in Damsel's chest. She is home, and she will always be. The soft chatter of her neighbors gathering around the pavilion drifts leisurely to Damsel's ear. A soft smile spreads across her face as her eyes close in a wave of pure calm. Good Goddess, it feels great to have the wind flow through her hair, a stark contrast to the stifl-
"Hiya." Damsel swears she jumps five feet into the air as a wispy figure peeks its head out of the ground in front of her. A frankly embarrassing sound escapes from Damsel's mouth—the same mouth she promptly slaps two hands over, eyes wide in shock. Spectre lets out a giggle that seems to echo through the woods as she pushes herself out of the ground and comes to float leisurely. Damsel feels her heart slow down as she lets out a sigh and relaxes her shoulders in relief. Goddess, that got her.
"Broken sent me to find ya."
Now, that piques Damsel's interest; what could Broken want with her? Is he okay?
Unbeknownst to Damsel's inner turmoil, Spectre continues, spinning upside down as she speaks. "He said that you should head to the beach. That," she puts up her fingers to make quotation marks, "'she would be better at this than me.'" She lightly mocks his gloomy tone in a way that Damsel can tell isn't malicious. There would be no reason for Broken to reach out to her. They weren't close, unless…
Damsel takes off in a sprint towards the beach, yelling a quick thank you at Spectre, who seems stunned at her swift departure, but shrugs it off and floats off to who-knows-where. Damsel's sandaled feet flop loudly against the uneven ground as she huffs heavily through her nose.
After what feels like an eternity, she breaks through the underbrush of the lush forest into the clearing that leads to the beach. She bends over at her midsection, hands on her knees as she breathes laboriously. Lifting her head slowly, sweat still glistening on her tan face, Damsel scans the beach. Just as she had both feared and hoped, she spots a familiar bloody figure looking forlornly out at the ocean waves.
Her heart rate spikes, and a hot sweat breaks out on her face, which Damsel quickly attempts unsuccessfully to fan away. Fury’s head is tucked between her knees, her hands folded on her neck like she is trying to protect it. Her back rises and falls slowly to the rhythm of the waves, as if Fury is trying to become one with the water. Her dress—the same one she was wearing when they all arrived in The After; why hasn’t she changed?—flows around her softly in the salt-addled breeze, her undone and unkempt hair following suit.
Despite Damsel’s attempts to remain quiet to not disturb what looks like a “moment,” one of Fury’s goat eyes flicks back in her direction, although no other part of Fury moved. A sigh escaped from her still-hidden mouth. Damsel can imagine the sight of her canines flashing in the low light of the sunset.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, little dove?” Fury’s voice rasped out, still booming even through the evident exhaustion. Damsel feels herself flush from head to toe at the endearing pet name.
“I-I was just coming to see the sunset,” she stammers out. It’s a bad lie, even Damsel knows that. She was never a good liar.
Fury turns her face away from the ground for a moment, one coffee black eye appearing from above her folded arms. At the motion, more of her voluminous hair cascades over her shoulders teasingly. Damsel has to physically restrain herself from running delicate fingers through the tangled locks, opting to fiddle with the hem of her dress instead.
There’s a knowing glint in Fury’s eye when she speaks, although her voice remains sorrowfully unaffected. “The beach is open to everyone.” She unfolds the hand closest to Damsel and pats the sand. Cautiously, Damsel folds herself down onto the sand, sweeping her dress underneath her to give her thighs a barrier from the coarse blonde sand.
Damsel takes a cursory sweep over Fury’s bunched-up form. Her legs are bowed in front of her, casting triangular shadows into the sand where her bony knees peak. Her dress, which bunches around her limber thighs, reveals the muscle of her calf, the tissue twitching every once in a while. A decent amount of grains of sand were blown into the wound in a way Damsel knows must be painful, but Fury shows no signs of acknowledging the susceptible area.
She slowly moves her head to rest on her folded arms on top of her knees, her sunken eyes staring forlornly out to the distant sun. They glitter in the light like obsidian stones.
The silence is light and airy, like the salt-tinged breeze. It holds tight, as the sun sinks lower and lower into the ocean, casting out strokes of orange and red. Damsel itches for her paintbrush to capture this moment, and the beautiful, mournful girl beside her.
Even though she wants nothing but for this to last forever, Damsel needs to say something. She musters up all of the courage buried deep, deep within her being and opens her mouth.
“Why did you decide to come to the beach?” she speaks slowly, choosing her words carefully.
Fury tilts her head to face her, cheek resting on her arms. The crow’s feet beneath her eyes carve canyons, etching her pale skin with evidence of her pain. She smiles ever-so-slightly, the only evidence of the emotion being the subtle crinkle of her face.
“The waves, the ocean, it is a complete symphony. Everything flows and ebbs as it’s supposed to,” she lazily drags her face back towards the water, although her eyes linger on Damsel’s face. The soft, steady beating of her heart echoes through the ground. “There is no uncertainty here.”
Damsel honestly wasn’t expecting an answer at all. Fury has been strangely open with her, in a way she wouldn’t have predicted from the observations she made about her from their shallow interactions.
“I think I like the beach because it changes.” She lifts one hand from her lap to gesture softly at where the water meets the sand. “Every day, a piece of this land shifts, and more is brought to shore. There’s always motion. The change gives it meaning.”
Fury is quiet for a moment, and Damsel feels the paralyzing fear that she said the wrong thing and upset her, but before she can go back on her word, Fury hums softly.
“I never thought of it like that. You are quite a thoughtful one, little dove.” She fights off her blush once more. No one has ever called her thoughtful. Beautiful, yes. Gentle, more time than she can count. Ditzy, more times than she would like (which would be zero). But thoughtful? That was reserved for philosophers and philanthropists. Damsel’s more of the ‘wet rag’ type, not some great scholar. One look at Fury’s face reveals that she isn’t teasing, however. She looks earnest.
Their eyes meet, and, for a moment, the world seems to slow down. The sound of the tide fades into the background, replaced with a sort of humming. It spreads through Damsel’s bones, shivering its way up her spinal cord and into her brain, sending her neurons shooting off like fireworks.
The moment ends when Fury clears her throat, ducking her face away just as Damsel begins to make out a faint blush rising in her gaunt cheeks. She must have imagined it; there’s no way.
The feeling still fading away, they both turn back towards the ocean, the sun just barely peeking shyly above the horizon. Okay, Damsel, one last push. You can do this.
“If you ever need a friend, I’m about as available as one can be,” she tells the sky delicately. Fury shuffles where she sits, rearranges her legs. Sand brushes up against where Damsel has her hands planted in the ground.
“I’ll think about it.”
As her words hang in the air, and the sun sends its goodbye of purple streaks across the star-filled sky, Damsel feels a soft hand brush up against hers.