The Ghost That Lives Forever In Your Heart
Title: The Ghost That Lives Forever In Your Heart
Fandom: Simoun
Characters: Rodoreamon, Mamiina
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1807
Prompts/Tables: fanfic100: 082. If; shoujoai100: 095. Fantasy; philosophy_20: 05. Syzygy; tables here and here.
Summary: Rodoreamon will always keep Mamiina with her. In fact, she is having a late-night conversation with Mamiina right now.
If Mamiina were alive, things would be better. Rodoreamon knows this is true.
She wishes it were true, anyway.
Mamiina does exist on the desk next to her, arms around a carbon copy of Rodoreamon, their braids in the same style, swinging carelessly (carefree) behind them. She is smiling, which was a rarity but will now be preserved forever.
Rodoreamon studies the picture for a bit and suddenly the picture is partially obscured, made cloudy by a translucent form before her.
Mamiina sits, dangling her legs over the edge of the desk and staring at Rodoreamon. She is trying to decide on either a thunderous frown for being summoned out of nothing or a reluctant smile at seeing Rodoreamon once more. Her blue eyes darken and become more solid as Rodoreamon stares into them. She can see the polka-dotted curtains behind them and the light fixture in her periphery.
“Mamiina,” Rodoreamon asks, “What would you do about the interest rate in Plumbum with the impending war? Should we encourage people to invest while they can or discourage them because of grim future prospects?”
Mamiina doesn’t respond. Her brow furrows in confusion and she decides to ignore Rodoreamon, swinging her legs against the desk. They make ghostly thuds as they cut through the wood. The corners of her lips are curled downward uncertainly.
“You’re no help, Mamiina,” Rodoreamon groans.
She buries her face in her arms, inhaling the smell of ink on paper and the age of the wood. A few pieces of paper quiver and flap as she collapses, tickling her on the arms. They are filled with boxes and numbers and professional, crisp handwriting. Not Rodoreamon’s, surprisingly. Rodoreamon’s handwriting was actually never very good to begin with, and it has been degenerating ever since Rodoreamon hired a secretary to write letters and fill out forms for her. Rodoreamon takes notes and does work in a legal pad half-buried under her right arm, and the secretary scribes everything from that. (He occasionally makes up things when he cannot decipher the text) It is almost illegible now, and uncannily resembles Mamiina’s clumsy scribbles at age six when Rodoreamon took it upon herself to teach Mamiina literacy. Rodoreamon can prove it; she has a sample of Mamiina’s handwriting in her desk drawer, and another one in her mansion, in case she ever abandons everything here in an emergency. Mamiina never knew Rodoreamon kept those scraps.
She does now though. Mamiina shrugs at Rodoreamon’s comment, her surly scowl replacing the doubtful frown, eyes narrowed. Rodoreamon can see all this although she is staring down at a spread of papers in darkness. Mamiina then leans over to get a better look at what Rodoreamon is working on, though she knows she has no hope of understanding the arcane numbers and policies. She squints her eyes as she attempts to read Rodoreamon’s scrawls, then crosses her arms and clucks disapprovingly. No sound comes out of her mouth, but Rodoreamon can hear it all the same, tick-tick in tandem with the clock.
“I know, I know, I should work on my handwriting,” Rodoreamon says.
“When did you learn to read, anyway?” she asks.
Mamiina puts her left hand on her hip and cocks her head, glaring at Rodoreamon. Rodoreamon raises her head to look at Mamiina.
“Oh, right,” she says, smiling sheepishly, “All Sibylla candidates had to learn to read, so you must have learned at some point.”
Mamiina shakes her head, a condescending smirk on her features. Her long blue braid swishes from side to side, almost knocking the picture frame behind her over but missing it by a millimeter every time.
“I wish you could share with me your life after we were separated, and before we met again,” Rodoreamon says, sighing. She looks past Mamiina, through her pale right arm to the white wall corner.
Mamiina smiles sadly and passes her right hand through Rodoreamon’s shoulder. Rodoreamon shivers as she feels the movement, a burst of warmth followed by cold and a tinge of loneliness. She hunches her shoulders and fights it away, determined to enjoy her time with Mamiina.
“You must’ve been a real firecracker,” Rodoreamon says, sitting up again, “Probably got into fights with almost everyone in your competition for the top.”
Mamiina smiles enigmatically at Rodoreamon. She starts petting Rodoreamon’s hair, running her fingers through the sleek brown strands. Rodoreamon closes her eyes, leans back, and revels in the sensation.
“Were you happier then?” Rodoreamon asks, opening her eyes and gazing at Mamiina.
Mamiina says nothing. She keeps on smiling and stroking Rodoreamon’s hair.
“I’ll bet you made a lot of mouse stew,” she says teasingly, searching for a reaction from Mamiina.
She gets what she wants. Mamiina breaks out into a grin. Of course she would. This has always been an inside joke between them.
Rodoreamon rests her head on top of her arms and observes Mamiina adoringly. She takes Mamiina’s free hand and encloses it within her own, forming a fist.
“I hope you had a beautiful funeral,” she says, managing to touch on the dreaded subject this time without tears leaking from her eyes or a hitch in her breath.
Rodoreamon swears that this is the one thing she is sure she never imagines. Mamiina becomes angry. Her eyes narrow into slits and Rodoreamon can see smoke rising from Mamiina in fumes. She stops playing with Rodoreamon’s hair and clenches her hands into tight fists, one hand pulling at Rodoreamon’s hair and one hand overlapping Rodoreamon’s. Rodoreamon is sure that she would cry out in pain if Mamiina was solid, but instead she simply feels cold. Mamiina’s response is always extreme, far beyond Rodoreamon’s expectations. It is at that these times, ironically, that she is reminded that Mamiina is -
No. Rodoreamon shakes her head.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says, dropping her voice to a whisper, “We won’t talk about it.”
She sits up and extends her arm for a hug. Mamiina remains locked in her rage for a few seconds longer before loosening. She looks at Rodoreamon warily for a few agonizing moments, almost fading to transparency. Finally she gains color and substance again, nodding her head in forgiveness and embracing Rodoreamon. Rodoreamon holds her head gingerly, just so, to Mamiina’s neck, as her fingers come around and touch her own ribs.
“Mamiina,” she breathes, closing her eyes peacefully.
Mamiina finally speaks. She whispers, “Rodoreamon,” lovingly and serenely in Rodoreamon’s left ear, voice hoarse from disuse. But the stuttering second hand of the clock is too loud and disturbing; it obscures Mamiina’s utterance so that Rodoreamon can barely hear it. All she feels is the warm gust of breath, gentle against her earlobe. She waits for Mamiina to speak again, blocking out the clock’s noises and focusing only on the other girl, but she has fallen silent.
They stay like that for a while. Rodoreamon thinks of Mamiina’s big red ribbon, and smiles fondly at how she has her own big red ribbon now, just like Mamiina’s. It is a girlish touch to her otherwise professional outfit. She thinks too, of her brash act of cutting her braid off. It was such a silly thing to do, at such a serious time; cutting hair is for unrequited love and breakups, not adolescent tantrums. Nevertheless, it forged a bond between them. Unconsciously she snuggles in a little closer, wanting as much contact with Mamiina as possible. Mamiina yields easily.
She wonders what Mamiina is thinking of. Her neck aches a little, but Mamiina remains stolid, and so she resolves to as well. She opens her eyes and stares at the wall, filled from top to bottom with certificates and accolades, all framed in simple gold-plated copper. Only the picture sitting atop her desk is framed in real gold, two lines of platinum threaded through, solid and heavy.
Presently Mamiina withdraws from Rodoreamon, who shivers at the loss of contact. She looks at Mamiina quizzically. Mamiina’s only response is to point at the hands of the clock. Combined together, the hands point to 2 AM.
“Oh dear!” Rodoreamon exclaims, “I’ve been working far too late!”
She stares unhappily down at the pile of paperwork, dismayed at the meager amount she has completed. It is actually a fair amount, but rarely is she ever satisfied.
“Oh well,” she says, “I’ll just finish the rest tomorrow. I should be getting some sleep.”
Mamiina rises to stand respectfully by the side of the desk, allowing Rodoreamon to get through. She smiles, and begins walking toward the door. Halfway there she looks over her shoulder quizzically, as if expecting Mamiina to follow her to the bedroom. Mamiina has turned around to face Rodoreamon, but otherwise hasn’t moved from her position.
Rodoreamon sighs and walks back to stand in front of Mamiina. The other girl is slightly taller than her, smooth ashen forehead right on par with the top of Rodoreamon’s head. She bends down to look at Rodoreamon’s upturned face. Rodoreamon cups Mamiina’s cheeks, closes her eyes, and plants a kiss. It is barely a kiss, with only the slightest sensation of papery, spectral lips brushing softly against glossy, plump lips.
Rodoreamon then straightens herself and walks directly through Mamiina. She rests a hand on top of the picture frame and stares at it, long and hard. Will she need it tomorrow too?
At the moment, it seems like no. She has enough strength to tip the frame over and block the picture, although the weight does not succumb easily. Some days she can look at the picture and derive joy, some days she only feels an immense sadness, and some days she simply does not need or want the picture; Mamiina is fresh in her mind.
Rodoreamon nods with finality and strides toward the door. She flips the light switch, leaving the room dark but for the faint rays of the moon, scattered by the blinds and obfuscated by the curtains.
“Thank you,” she says to Mamiina as she walks out, before shutting the door.
Maybe Mamiina nods, and maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she has left already. Rodoreamon heads to bed.
The office is deathly still after Rodoreamon leaves. It is almost suffocating. Although the room is swathed in darkness, everything is perfectly visible, Mamiina most of all. She has not left, as Rodoreamon suspected. She stands, staring into space, more stoic than a gargoyle.
After what seems like an eternity, she closes her eyes and slowly falls backwards. The scent of flowers invades the room, evoking images of the Simulacrum wilderness, and, curiously, a meadow of brilliant white orchids. The wind gusts in despite the solid walls and the shut windows, singing a melody and spraying white petals into the air. They start opaque and slowly fade to invisible as they float towards the ground. Mamiina disappears.
Fandom: Simoun
Characters: Rodoreamon, Mamiina
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1807
Prompts/Tables: fanfic100: 082. If; shoujoai100: 095. Fantasy; philosophy_20: 05. Syzygy; tables here and here.
Summary: Rodoreamon will always keep Mamiina with her. In fact, she is having a late-night conversation with Mamiina right now.
If Mamiina were alive, things would be better. Rodoreamon knows this is true.
She wishes it were true, anyway.
Mamiina does exist on the desk next to her, arms around a carbon copy of Rodoreamon, their braids in the same style, swinging carelessly (carefree) behind them. She is smiling, which was a rarity but will now be preserved forever.
Rodoreamon studies the picture for a bit and suddenly the picture is partially obscured, made cloudy by a translucent form before her.
Mamiina sits, dangling her legs over the edge of the desk and staring at Rodoreamon. She is trying to decide on either a thunderous frown for being summoned out of nothing or a reluctant smile at seeing Rodoreamon once more. Her blue eyes darken and become more solid as Rodoreamon stares into them. She can see the polka-dotted curtains behind them and the light fixture in her periphery.
“Mamiina,” Rodoreamon asks, “What would you do about the interest rate in Plumbum with the impending war? Should we encourage people to invest while they can or discourage them because of grim future prospects?”
Mamiina doesn’t respond. Her brow furrows in confusion and she decides to ignore Rodoreamon, swinging her legs against the desk. They make ghostly thuds as they cut through the wood. The corners of her lips are curled downward uncertainly.
“You’re no help, Mamiina,” Rodoreamon groans.
She buries her face in her arms, inhaling the smell of ink on paper and the age of the wood. A few pieces of paper quiver and flap as she collapses, tickling her on the arms. They are filled with boxes and numbers and professional, crisp handwriting. Not Rodoreamon’s, surprisingly. Rodoreamon’s handwriting was actually never very good to begin with, and it has been degenerating ever since Rodoreamon hired a secretary to write letters and fill out forms for her. Rodoreamon takes notes and does work in a legal pad half-buried under her right arm, and the secretary scribes everything from that. (He occasionally makes up things when he cannot decipher the text) It is almost illegible now, and uncannily resembles Mamiina’s clumsy scribbles at age six when Rodoreamon took it upon herself to teach Mamiina literacy. Rodoreamon can prove it; she has a sample of Mamiina’s handwriting in her desk drawer, and another one in her mansion, in case she ever abandons everything here in an emergency. Mamiina never knew Rodoreamon kept those scraps.
She does now though. Mamiina shrugs at Rodoreamon’s comment, her surly scowl replacing the doubtful frown, eyes narrowed. Rodoreamon can see all this although she is staring down at a spread of papers in darkness. Mamiina then leans over to get a better look at what Rodoreamon is working on, though she knows she has no hope of understanding the arcane numbers and policies. She squints her eyes as she attempts to read Rodoreamon’s scrawls, then crosses her arms and clucks disapprovingly. No sound comes out of her mouth, but Rodoreamon can hear it all the same, tick-tick in tandem with the clock.
“I know, I know, I should work on my handwriting,” Rodoreamon says.
“When did you learn to read, anyway?” she asks.
Mamiina puts her left hand on her hip and cocks her head, glaring at Rodoreamon. Rodoreamon raises her head to look at Mamiina.
“Oh, right,” she says, smiling sheepishly, “All Sibylla candidates had to learn to read, so you must have learned at some point.”
Mamiina shakes her head, a condescending smirk on her features. Her long blue braid swishes from side to side, almost knocking the picture frame behind her over but missing it by a millimeter every time.
“I wish you could share with me your life after we were separated, and before we met again,” Rodoreamon says, sighing. She looks past Mamiina, through her pale right arm to the white wall corner.
Mamiina smiles sadly and passes her right hand through Rodoreamon’s shoulder. Rodoreamon shivers as she feels the movement, a burst of warmth followed by cold and a tinge of loneliness. She hunches her shoulders and fights it away, determined to enjoy her time with Mamiina.
“You must’ve been a real firecracker,” Rodoreamon says, sitting up again, “Probably got into fights with almost everyone in your competition for the top.”
Mamiina smiles enigmatically at Rodoreamon. She starts petting Rodoreamon’s hair, running her fingers through the sleek brown strands. Rodoreamon closes her eyes, leans back, and revels in the sensation.
“Were you happier then?” Rodoreamon asks, opening her eyes and gazing at Mamiina.
Mamiina says nothing. She keeps on smiling and stroking Rodoreamon’s hair.
“I’ll bet you made a lot of mouse stew,” she says teasingly, searching for a reaction from Mamiina.
She gets what she wants. Mamiina breaks out into a grin. Of course she would. This has always been an inside joke between them.
Rodoreamon rests her head on top of her arms and observes Mamiina adoringly. She takes Mamiina’s free hand and encloses it within her own, forming a fist.
“I hope you had a beautiful funeral,” she says, managing to touch on the dreaded subject this time without tears leaking from her eyes or a hitch in her breath.
Rodoreamon swears that this is the one thing she is sure she never imagines. Mamiina becomes angry. Her eyes narrow into slits and Rodoreamon can see smoke rising from Mamiina in fumes. She stops playing with Rodoreamon’s hair and clenches her hands into tight fists, one hand pulling at Rodoreamon’s hair and one hand overlapping Rodoreamon’s. Rodoreamon is sure that she would cry out in pain if Mamiina was solid, but instead she simply feels cold. Mamiina’s response is always extreme, far beyond Rodoreamon’s expectations. It is at that these times, ironically, that she is reminded that Mamiina is -
No. Rodoreamon shakes her head.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says, dropping her voice to a whisper, “We won’t talk about it.”
She sits up and extends her arm for a hug. Mamiina remains locked in her rage for a few seconds longer before loosening. She looks at Rodoreamon warily for a few agonizing moments, almost fading to transparency. Finally she gains color and substance again, nodding her head in forgiveness and embracing Rodoreamon. Rodoreamon holds her head gingerly, just so, to Mamiina’s neck, as her fingers come around and touch her own ribs.
“Mamiina,” she breathes, closing her eyes peacefully.
Mamiina finally speaks. She whispers, “Rodoreamon,” lovingly and serenely in Rodoreamon’s left ear, voice hoarse from disuse. But the stuttering second hand of the clock is too loud and disturbing; it obscures Mamiina’s utterance so that Rodoreamon can barely hear it. All she feels is the warm gust of breath, gentle against her earlobe. She waits for Mamiina to speak again, blocking out the clock’s noises and focusing only on the other girl, but she has fallen silent.
They stay like that for a while. Rodoreamon thinks of Mamiina’s big red ribbon, and smiles fondly at how she has her own big red ribbon now, just like Mamiina’s. It is a girlish touch to her otherwise professional outfit. She thinks too, of her brash act of cutting her braid off. It was such a silly thing to do, at such a serious time; cutting hair is for unrequited love and breakups, not adolescent tantrums. Nevertheless, it forged a bond between them. Unconsciously she snuggles in a little closer, wanting as much contact with Mamiina as possible. Mamiina yields easily.
She wonders what Mamiina is thinking of. Her neck aches a little, but Mamiina remains stolid, and so she resolves to as well. She opens her eyes and stares at the wall, filled from top to bottom with certificates and accolades, all framed in simple gold-plated copper. Only the picture sitting atop her desk is framed in real gold, two lines of platinum threaded through, solid and heavy.
Presently Mamiina withdraws from Rodoreamon, who shivers at the loss of contact. She looks at Mamiina quizzically. Mamiina’s only response is to point at the hands of the clock. Combined together, the hands point to 2 AM.
“Oh dear!” Rodoreamon exclaims, “I’ve been working far too late!”
She stares unhappily down at the pile of paperwork, dismayed at the meager amount she has completed. It is actually a fair amount, but rarely is she ever satisfied.
“Oh well,” she says, “I’ll just finish the rest tomorrow. I should be getting some sleep.”
Mamiina rises to stand respectfully by the side of the desk, allowing Rodoreamon to get through. She smiles, and begins walking toward the door. Halfway there she looks over her shoulder quizzically, as if expecting Mamiina to follow her to the bedroom. Mamiina has turned around to face Rodoreamon, but otherwise hasn’t moved from her position.
Rodoreamon sighs and walks back to stand in front of Mamiina. The other girl is slightly taller than her, smooth ashen forehead right on par with the top of Rodoreamon’s head. She bends down to look at Rodoreamon’s upturned face. Rodoreamon cups Mamiina’s cheeks, closes her eyes, and plants a kiss. It is barely a kiss, with only the slightest sensation of papery, spectral lips brushing softly against glossy, plump lips.
Rodoreamon then straightens herself and walks directly through Mamiina. She rests a hand on top of the picture frame and stares at it, long and hard. Will she need it tomorrow too?
At the moment, it seems like no. She has enough strength to tip the frame over and block the picture, although the weight does not succumb easily. Some days she can look at the picture and derive joy, some days she only feels an immense sadness, and some days she simply does not need or want the picture; Mamiina is fresh in her mind.
Rodoreamon nods with finality and strides toward the door. She flips the light switch, leaving the room dark but for the faint rays of the moon, scattered by the blinds and obfuscated by the curtains.
“Thank you,” she says to Mamiina as she walks out, before shutting the door.
Maybe Mamiina nods, and maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she has left already. Rodoreamon heads to bed.
The office is deathly still after Rodoreamon leaves. It is almost suffocating. Although the room is swathed in darkness, everything is perfectly visible, Mamiina most of all. She has not left, as Rodoreamon suspected. She stands, staring into space, more stoic than a gargoyle.
After what seems like an eternity, she closes her eyes and slowly falls backwards. The scent of flowers invades the room, evoking images of the Simulacrum wilderness, and, curiously, a meadow of brilliant white orchids. The wind gusts in despite the solid walls and the shut windows, singing a melody and spraying white petals into the air. They start opaque and slowly fade to invisible as they float towards the ground. Mamiina disappears.