"Do you…want to do your tolls today?" Octavia asked, more directly than intended.

Harper stiffened. It wasn't subtle. "I…we can. If you want, I mean. Get it out of the way."

The distress in his eyes was just as visible, and it stung her heart. "We don't have to," she said hurriedly.

Again, he shook his head. "We have to do it eventually."

"You're keeping the hat on? Seriously?" Josiah's voice came.

From the riverbed, Renato stretched dramatically, loosening his limbs with great--if not exaggerated--effort. "You can pry it from my cold, dead hands."

Josiah smirked.

Renato flinched. "Oh, you're a sick man, you know that?"

Dark or not, it was enough for something to click. Octavia's feet moved before her mouth, and she nearly slipped on the smooth stones beneath her boots as she ran. "Wait a minute, Renato, wait!"

He froze, thankfully, the confusion on his face notwithstanding. Not one drop of water grazed him. Wordlessly, he did as he was told.

She took one wooden hand tenderly into her own, tracing each facet with careful fingertips. She turned, pushed, and pulled, bringing cherry oak near to her eyes in a search for cracks and crevices. She'd already suspected the lacquer was high-quality, the finish equally so. On sight, it seemed sufficient to withstand moisture, if not submersion. Actually testing the hypothesis was concerning. She was fairly certain he didn't bathe with his prosthetics on--at least, he better not have been trying to.

Up close, it satisfied her. Really, the craftsmanship was lovely enough that she would've strangled him if he ruined them. She wouldn't bother trying to convince him to swim without the prosthetics. If nothing else, they'd hold up against a streaming river.

Octavia finally exhaled. "Okay. I just wanted to see if the wood would be alright in the water. You have to be careful with the--"

She looked up. He was blushing--hard.

She found a different flavor of silence entirely in every direction. Four people were left to watch as she tenderly stroked and fondled Renato's hands, heads tilted and eyebrows raised. When her eyes flickered down, she was still clinging. Her fingertips pressed against the smooth wood of his false palms, her grip tight and unwavering. Why it never occurred to her to let go, she had absolutely no idea. It was definitely compromising. He wasn't the only one blushing.

"I-I, uh, I appreciate the inspection, Miss Expert," Renato joked nervously.

His playful, half-hearted shaking of either hand did nothing to loosen her grasp. He found no success, and she found no words.

"You good?" he whispered, just barely loud enough for her alone.

"Madrigal's gonna kill me," Octavia whispered back. "For real this time."

From her current angle, she couldn't see Madrigal to begin with. Frankly, she was afraid to. Her unwillingness to actually release the Maestra's boyfriend wasn't doing her any favors.

Renato only laughed, lingering red still blossoming across his face. "You keep holdin' on like that and I'm pulling you into the water with me."

The threat was enough to make Octavia stumble, and she freed his hands at last. "S-Sorry."

He grinned. "I'm good to swim, then?"

"Just be careful not to damage them. Try not to be too rough or bump into stuff," she said with slightly more composure.

That was enough for him, apparently. A subsequent shrug and a nod were the only precursors of him sprinting--and jumping, and splashing, and just barely missing her with the collateral damage of displaced water. He hadn't lost his acrobatic prowess, at the very least. She smiled.

"If you want to swim, I brought you a swimsuit, too," Viola offered, shaking droplets of misplaced water out of her hair simultaneously. She, too, was doffing her flats one by one, her socks following suit shortly after.

"You're gonna swim?"

Viola leaned onto her shoulder in the process, the sudden and weighted burden of support briefly compromising Octavia's own balance. Asking first would've been nice. "Maybe. I'm just putting my feet in for now."

Octavia sighed. It was an enviable thought. Still, the knowledge of the task at hand was an all-consuming itch that needed no reminding--prompted by Muses or otherwise. "I should…probably do more tolls. You said that's what this was supposed to help with, right?"

Viola's face fell. "I mean, yes, but we can always space it out. There's no rush."

"Harper offered. Sorta. He said we can get it over with today."

"You're gonna take him up on that?"

Octavia nodded. "It's either that or--"

"Octavia?"

Every gentle tap against the stones below drew her attention instead. Devoid of sandals or not, Madrigal handled the slippery surface with impressive skill. Her arms were full, and it wasn't the water's surface alone that sparkled so resplendently. The chill of the drifting stream, too, contrasted with the warmth of her smile.

"Did you know this is the same river that runs behind the Talludo Inn?" she asked, cradling Lyra's Repose against her chest. "It branches in the direction of Coda, and curves back out towards the north. You can follow it all the way to Whitebrook, if you really wanted to."

Octavia tilted her head. "Where's Whitebrook?"

She beamed. "That's where my brothers live. Some of them."

Octavia nodded in turn. "I…heard you picked out this place for today."

"I'm gonna go put my feet in the water," Viola said abruptly, patting Octavia's shoulder.

Octavia never had the chance to object. Damp as the riverbed was, the Maestra didn't dare run. Still, she made for company yet more lively with surprising urgency. It left inexplicable discomfort, augmented only by inexplicable actions. It left Octavia with a heroine and vague suspicions. She fought the urge to call for Viola once more. It would delay the inevitable, if nothing else.

"This place is special to me," Madrigal began. "This river is special to me. We're closer to Minuevera right now than we are to Coda. I've been here a few times to wash vegetables, although I usually only do that out back at home. Sometimes I need a change of pace, too."

As to where this was going, it no longer matched her guess. She folded her hands together, drinking in every word.

"This river brought me something special, just like that chest in Silver Ridge brought you something special."

Octavia's eyes widened. "You remembered about that?"

Madrigal beamed. "I wouldn't forget that. Stratos is my friend, too."

It was Octavia's turn to smile. "And…Lyra is my friend, just the same."

Madrigal was quiet for a moment. "I figure…there's no better place to do this. If you would have me."

There it was. "Do you mean--"

She was dramatic about it, and that shouldn't have been a surprise. Lyra's Repose nearly hit Octavia in the chest, for how fast the Spirited Maestra thrust the glimmering harp before her. "Mighty Ambassador, I, the Magical Madrigal Talludo, stand before you. I humbly beg your assistance to defeat the forces of darkness in tandem, and to free my Muse from the shackles of her toll. Together, we will do what must be done!"

Octavia had to consciously resist the urge to laugh. "I…yeah, of course. I'll witness your toll."

Lyra got the message. Apparently, Octavia didn't have to do anything.

The Muse's sudden visage crowned Madrigal from on high, luminescent viridian shaming every speck of forest around them. A gorgeous view paled in comparison to an iridescent Lyra, showering her partner with grace just beyond two plush buns. Of them all, Octavia still considered her the most angelic. The outstretched arms and cascading brilliance along her back did little to impede the image. Madrigal never failed to embellish the Muse's splendor, and that helped nothing. It was valid, to be fair.

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"Are the…do the others have to be here, too?" Octavia asked, her eyes cast just above Madrigal's head.

"It is not so. The toll is a burden shared solely between this child and yourself," Lyra spoke, her tone gentle despite what was to come. "Your companions need not attend."

Octavia's gaze flickered to the riverbed. If they were aware of Lyra's presence, they made no indication of such. Instead, they indulged in much the same enjoyment with blissful ignorance to her impending death. She was going to die--again. They were surprisingly okay with it. For more reasons than one, the thought was extremely confusing.

"We kinda agreed to do each person one at a time, unless you want us all to be here," Madrigal clarified. "I don't know if it's…weird for all of us to be staring at you at the same time. This felt more intimate."

"I meant the Muses, actually."

Lyra shook her head. "The toll of my own concerns them not. Their duty is to care for each of their own, and nothing more. Even so, child, would it ease your heart to have Stratos by your side for the Witnessing?"

Part of her voted instantly for a "yes". Part of her knew she was clinging to him. It was becoming hazardous. Against her better judgment, Octavia declined with a shake of her own head. "I'll be fine," she lied.

"Are you prepared, then, Ambassador?"

Absolutely not.

"Yes."

"We can do it, Octavia!" Madrigal cheered.

Were it anyone else, the enthusiasm immediately prior to her death would've been almost insensitive. Still, for what heroine believed in her, she found only warmth. Madrigal had been onto something, in terms of intimacy. Alone, she was comfortable. She smiled.

"We can do anything together, tolls or not! As long as we're a team, we'll get through it. Now that we have our fearless leader back, we're unstoppable!"

Octavia blinked.

"I've…always been here," she said.

Madrigal's beaming smile softened into something delicate, Lyra's Repose still extended before her. "But now you're back to the Octavia we know. We're all glad that you're feeling better!"

Her heart cracked.

"I know we…went through a lot of stuff. I think everybody needed some time to think about what happened. It took longer for some people than others, and that's okay."

It splintered.

"We wanted to give you your space for a while."

It could've shattered.

"But now we're here, and we're all back together again! No matter how hard things get, we'll always have each other. We can't do this without you, you know?"

It did, somewhat.

And when she beamed again, it was no longer packed with sunshine. It was aflame, searing, scorching in a way that burnt holes in her soul. It was unintentional. It didn't matter. "We're happy that you're okay."

She wasn't.

She wasn't.

She wasn't.

How could she be?

"Ready?"

She meant the toll. It was a double-sided word regardless.

"Octavia?"

As to how long five sets of patient lips had swallowed the question, she was horrified to ask. Four, for how one had shared in her suffering. Days, at best. Weeks, at worst. It was a new kind of pain altogether. She was collecting them lately.

"Oc…tavia?"

It took far, far more than a moment to reacclimate to the world that was Madrigal's voice. She could feel the hurt that splashed her own face, strained and stiff. If she was lucky, she could feign anxiety. In light of a faltering smile on the lips of a heroine, she deflected. It was the best her breaking heart could do.

"D-Do you have any idea who your toll is, exactly?"

They traded.

The shift was instant and jarring. Where a smile had slipped, it now faded altogether. Dying eyes accompanied a loose grip around glimmering gold. Madrigal tilted her head, her hollow gaze never once parting from Octavia's own. Every breath rattled. If the warmth between them had already been tainted, then it now grew toxic in turn.

"Madrigal Talludo, your toll has been paid once over. Now, Ambassador, see through the eyes of the one who paid the toll."

Lyra didn't spare them. If she felt the same poison herself, she didn't show it. Permission granted from a Muse or otherwise, it was a Maestra alone from whom Octavia sought consent.

"Madrigal?" Octavia offered. "Let's…do this together, right?"

The words almost burned on the way out, for how their context had been tainted. Still, Madrigal was of notable concern. At the very least, the Spirited girl had the capacity to nod, her hollow smile forced enough to leave her skin taut.

"Let's do this," Madrigal said, her voice deceivingly vibrant. "Together."

Octavia refrained from pressing further, confused or not. Her raised hands trembled, and not for fear of death alone. Madrigal's own did the same as they clutched Lyra's Repose in turn. Plunging was preferable to easing in, and it left Octavia's hands thrusting outwards to brush every copper string. Stumbling off the edge of the world, she nearly missed the whispered words that tumbled down into the dark with her.

"Don't hate me, okay?"

◆ ◆ ◆

For the first time, her stranger wasn't a woman. Consciousness came with a masculine voice from her own throat. It accompanied rugged hands, physical labor, and hallmarks of masculinity she expected from rural life not unlike that of Silver Ridge. To inhabit such an unfamiliar body after "falling" was strange. The man was unfamiliar. He held a name she didn't recognize, spoke a language she couldn't understand, and was born of a land she couldn't place.

The landscape spoke little to Mezzoria--from what she knew of it thus far, at least. As to whether or not he truly exceeded its borders, she was unsure. Discrepancies in gender or otherwise, every fragment was almost nostalgic versus those she'd seen before. She found childhood joys and the happier tribulations of young adulthood. She found a loving father, a gentle mother, and what adoring companionship came in between. He was a stranger all the same, and Octavia had little with which to empathize. It was a running theme. Still, from afar, she silently blessed his satisfaction.

And he was, in every way, a true stranger. He didn't resemble Madrigal in any capacity--her hair, her skin, her linguistic fluency, and every last feature was forsaken. He wasn't a relative, and of that much, Octavia was certain. Whatever connected the two was beyond her. She would learn soon enough, to be fair. It hadn't stopped her from speculating both times before.

As to the tolls of the others, Octavia had at least vague guesses. Viola's had been obvious enough upon entry. The untimely victims of Vincent Vacanti's Dissonant assault were sure to await within, and it had been no surprise. She had no solid proof of Harper's, although they were excruciatingly suspicious. She had a feeling, for what she knew of him, and that was enough--provided sickening violet had somehow plagued those he'd cherished most. Etherion spoke for itself, all but confirmed. Renato was immune. It was another crisis for another time. The Ambassador's trial was outlined in blood, and that which stained Stradivaria in turn was all too obvious. So deep in the dark, she refused to think about either of them.

This left Madrigal, and exclusively Madrigal.

It wasn't that she knew nothing about the girl, for how they'd conquered far too much in unison. She was The Magical Madrigal, hostess of the Talludo Inn and liberator of the darkness. She was Spirited, blessed with precious winds and a brilliant smile. In her arms came Lyra's Repose, just as beloved as Lyra herself. She utterly adored Renato, a hopeless romantic as she was. She spoke eight languages. She had siblings--brothers. Each member of her family bore buns. She liked cats. She hailed from Minuevera.

That was it.

Her toll was entirely a mystery. The uncertainty was agonizing, even if the revelation would come soon enough. His relationship to Madrigal was a nightmare to speculate upon, and she did so for far longer than she should've. For every second her stranger's life unfolded in peace, her heart beat ever faster to compensate. Waiting for the puzzle pieces to click was the worst part.

He lost his work. He did so twice, then thrice over. He fell short often enough to insult his craft, by which blacksmithing earned him nothing. Hard work was useless to provide, whether for himself or others. Were Octavia not a woodworker's daughter, she perhaps would've envied his skilled hands. As it was, she pitied his crisis instead. His distress set the pendulum of misfortune into motion, and her racing heart cracked ever further. He had enough bad memories. Bad memories came with a problem. Ideally, this would go anywhere but there.

The whims of fate left him wandering, failure to provide driving him far from home. It was just as unproductive, and Octavia ached more for her stranger with every flash. Each town offered nothing. Each day brought no success.

So, too, was he luckless amongst greenery, betrayed by ripe produce that towered in his wake. The bounties of nature, cultivated and exported en masse, meant nothing to hands that cradled steel. He sought lodging. He found it. Kindness came with graceful maturity, abundant curls crowned by fluffy buns as the mature woman guided his way.

Oh.

The fragment that followed betrayed the warmth of an inn, traded for crisp air and rushing waters. Octavia knew the river. She even knew the adjacent hill, an instant reminder of a crisis she'd never forget. She didn't need wispy violet, nor toxic pores to classify every unnatural movement. He had his dejection. He had his turmoil and suffering. She'd caught enough of his memories, and she should've seen it coming.

Visible or not, it was her first time Dissonant through the eyes of another. He'd be swallowed by it, maybe. How that tethered him to Madrigal was beyond Octavia. If nothing else, she could take a guess as to the girl's mother, visualized not long ago. They were the only threads she could string together.

He never surrendered to personal agony. For the first time during the Witnessing, words of merit and meaning graced her stolen ears.

You, who've been swallowed by darkness incarnate, I am your liberator!

She knew the voice, and she knew it well.

Soft, crystalline notes blessed the air, breathing a rippling wind into the chilled depths of night. She knew the harp, and she knew it extremely well.

Through blurring vision that steadily faded into the dark, the moon above left the scene nearly mirrored. There were differences, granted. The thought of liberation was horrifying, for how she knew the process to go. She knew what was coming, and the Ambassador was powerless to flee. Octavia couldn't flinch, nor turn, nor hide in any capacity from the roaring tempest that barreled down her stranger's throat. Her one blessing was the lack of sensation, and yet it didn't stem his struggling. It was a new kind of agony in place of violet.

He flailed wildly, choking and gasping as he clawed at a throat unseen. Scraping fingernails drew blood. The Maestra had once insisted that gushing wind strangling suffering was painless, if not accompanied by amnesia. For Octavia's peace of mind, she better have been correct. This was borderline barbaric. As to how Dissonant he truly was, Octavia didn't want to know.

Wait, stop!

Madrigal's frantic voice erupted in time with more scarlet, albeit from within. He was coughing, every sputter excessive in a way that left him splattered with red. He couldn't cry out. He couldn't move. Even now, he could hardly see, his sight blighted by another agony entirely. His pain was twofold and inescapable, his desperate clawing at broken skin never once ceasing. The sound of screaming wind was unbearable, rushing through his ears and reverberating through his entire being.

No, no, wait, wait, wait!

His body jerked upwards, impossibly high to such a degree that he was lifted from the ground.

Lyra, help me!

And his vision, along with roughly one-third of his insides, came with it.

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