...This is how you know the world was created by dragons. If you dare to roar at it, it will always sink its fangs into you in turn.

Yes, this is the typical shape of this sort of attack. The insistent rapping of the world against the hollow of your breast, and the blinding light of dawn pressing insistently on eyes that remain stubbornly squeezed dark. Still empty. Still blind. But there is the rhythm of a heartbeat where I had tried to place the void, and brilliant red that spoils my perfect black. My darkness. The peace that is supposed to come from no longer caring is torn to pieces by white hot lances masquerading as pink and cream warmth.

I cannot say it is not sharp. I cannot say it does not cut. This is the second time a mere knife has felled me. 

I am on my knee. I must get closer to the painting to drink in every detail of it. So that I will not misplace the memory even without my notes. My face is calm. My mask is perfect. But I feel the tight and wet clutch of tears squeeze inside my ribs, and it will not let me retreat any farther.

"Very well."

This is not the correct thing to say. But they are the words that leave my mouth. I do not take this child's painting from her. Neither do I reach to put my name on it. Shall I taint it so? Shall I rob this world of all its treasures? I refuse this arrogance. Instead I take this girl herself, picture and all.

My arm wraps around her legs and I lift her into the air until she is of a height with me. She reaches for my neck; I presume for stability. I make the decision to allow it. She pulls close to me in the safety of my arm, and I feel her body trembling. I reach for her painting with my spare hand.

"Very well," I say again, "Help me hold this nice and high, if you would be so kind. My Lady. And do not forget your smile."

I gesture by nodding toward the tablet I see hanging by the elegant purse strap at the Royal Banker's arm.

"Mother? Father? If you do not mind."

Waiting for the shot is torture. I wish that I could simply take it myself and have this be done with. But it simply will not do to have to send this child a photo of herself from the account of a wanted criminal. I say again, I shall not rob this world of its treasures. I am only too eager to set her back on her feet when I see their faces satisfied. Before she can notice for herself that it was my own strong arm that trembled and not her body anymore.

I reach into my sleeve to hide my use of a Manor requisition slip. When I pull my hand free, I flourish the pink ribbon and tie it in a bow around her wrist.

"Ordinarily it is the knight's custom to beg a token from her Lady. But. You are my courage. For as long as you wear this, I will have the strength to continue working here. That makes you a hero of Vespergift too, understand?"

Ah. Damn you. No, this is much worse than giving up. It was a mistake to call a requisition after all. I feel the weight of those closed doors. I miss my Sisters. I do not understand why they could not tell me what is happening. I do not understand why they did not ask for me to come back. And now I cannot even say that they were wrong. I am.

I am... needed...

I will not let this show upon my face. I refuse to sully Mayzie's work. I refuse to tarnish a child's dream, no less beautiful than an Aurora. But I. If I live to see the close of this accursed party and the inside of a room where I may be free of the title of 'Mystery Builder'. I would. I will. Beg for my best friend's arms. 

I require strength to cry. 

"Please," I say as I will my voice to be a hero's, "Live the life that you deserve."