perfectmatch | week three

[The ripples distort the surface, barring their view of the stones that lie scattered across the floor. Were this a pond, it might have been the death of their reflections.]

. . . Mm.

[When she says it so, he does.]

[ He truly is easy to understand, to speak with... if it weren’t so certain that she's more likely to have a match of the same sex, then perhaps... ]

... Then, in regards to the you within the mirror -- your reflection, as you call him. Can you guess my thoughts?

[He stares into the water, which never fully stills from the endless inpour.

He can hardly bear the weight of his own thoughts. How is he to shoulder hers on top of them? She asserts that she can understand him, but he cannot in confidence make the same claim.

Even so, he turns her words over and over again in his mind. He considers their weight, curious and detached at once. The moon in the mirror is a reflection of the moon outside of it. This is true. If the moon outside of the mirror turns its back, so should the moon in it. Thus . . . ]

The moon in the pond . . . matches the moon in the sky.

[ She's patient, waiting as he turns it in mind and slowly words it out loud. It's important, Odile feels, for him to come upon this himself -- to understand her thoughts on it, rather than her explain it so. ]

And should the moon in the pond reflect something...

[A bucket tears through the pond. It disturbs the once round and full moon within, distorting the reflection of the moon in the sky. Consumed with longing and agony, the moon in the pond despairs, unable to hang amid its writhing.

Yet there will come a time when the water stills, its ripples spent. And, when it does, the moon in the pond will be round and full once more, just the same as the moon in the sky.]

. . . the moon in the pond must be the opposite of the moon in the sky . . . yet quite similar.

[ ... It feels like he's really circling around it now. Odile turns her head slightly to stare at him. ]

Yi Sang. Are you grasping what it is I'm trying to say, or do you need me to say it directly?

[He continues to eye the water, which isn't as clear as the surface of the many ponds that dot the estate. He can see neither himself nor his image. He isn't sure what to think.]

My reflection in the mirror . . .

[Round and full, free and resplendent. His left-handed self is nowhere to be seen.]

... Reflects your reality, if unseen.

[ Though it's softly said, more of a gauging statement. ]

You have been on my mind as of late for that reason, Yi Sang. I believe you capable of all that you presume of another and more.

[A mirror that reflects any possibility. A pond that reflects what is. A reflection that returns reality in its reversed form. If the pond reflects the reflection, which is the reversed image?]

My wings have torn, and I cannot fly. How can I flutter that which I have lost?

[ Simply: ]

Your wings will heal. You need only allow yourself the want and time to let them.

[They will heal. She says it with such confidence, such faith. In the end, it all comes back to time.

In his time here, he's found others who walk paths parallel to his own. Soon those paths will diverge, and he will wander the darkness on his own again. But the others will continue to move forward as life goes on, weathering its waves.

As for him . . . he was propelled to leave the white square, only for its walls to stop him in place before he could take the leap. Will those walls remain standing forevermore? Or . . . ]

Is it truly okay . . . for me to have them?

Of course. Who says you can't?

[ No one that she knows of, but... she also does not know much about his world -- that which shaped him, tore his wings, left him as he is.

...

Regardless of that, though, Craft refers to the act of sculpting parts of the world into the shape or form one wants them to be. Therefore, it seems ludicrous to her that Yi Sang, Aventurine, Edamura, Verso -- that they can't wield their wills the same, and shape their world as they see fit. Whether by means of creation or something else. ]

[Who, indeed? A loophole cost the League everything, and a colorless fire consumed everything he held dear. When the world forbids it, how can he fly as he once did?

Like a chicken, he flaps the remnants of his wings uselessly. Yet a flightless blimp flew, bucking the chains holding it down. All it needed . . . was the faith of those whose eyes reflected another reality.

If he can soar one last time, will it be worth the effort?

He exhales—a cleansing sigh, surrounded by the heat of the hot spring.]

[ ... It sounded like a good sigh, and so Odile closes her eyes again as she returns to "look" up at the sky.

Silence, just for a short while, before she speaks just once more. ]

There are those would be happy to see your smile, Yi Sang. I am one of them.

My smile, you say . . .

[He is uncertain of how he feels at this moment. Between the depths of the hot spring and the rising heat, he finds himself nigh weightless with an odd sensation in his chest as if the water is running straight through him. The proper words to convey escape him even now, but he knows this much:]

. . . I thank you, Miss Odile.

week three | dates

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