seikilos

Title: An Unmatched Set
Fandom: Tales of Legendia
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Words: 1748
Disclaimer: I don't own the above fandom.
Summary: Slowly, Shirley learns to extend her hand to the right person.
Author's Notes: This is a birthday present for Feral, who's been having a truly abysmal year, so I hope it can make her smile even a little. I'm a bit concerned about it turning out all right, because, erm, the person I'm most comfortable writing in this fic is dead and the person I'm least comfortable writing is the viewpoint character. orz Hopefully it's okay, though!

Thanks again go to Yosie for helping me get this up and running faster than I would have otherwise--although considering the subject matter, somehow, I don't think it was too much of a hardship for him. :P

Sometimes, it still bothers Shirley that Fenimore's grave is all by itself. She understands the reasoning behind it: she was the only one of the captured Ferines who was able to be given a respectful burial. In a way, it serves as a monument to all the others who died in agony at Vaclav's command. But . . . until she and Fenimore had become friends, Fenimore had been almost completely alone. It doesn't seem right for her to be alone in death, too.

When she comes to stand before her grave, despite these thoughts, Shirley puts a smile on her face. It wouldn't do to visit her friend looking sad.

"Hi Fenimore. I brought some Harriet flowers for your grave," she says and steps forward to carefully lay them to bloom against the grass. "It's lucky that the Legacy has been staying down south. I think it's winter on the mainland now, so it would be a lot harder to bring you anything if we were there instead."

As always, her conversation with her friend is a mix of what isn't important and what is, whatever comes to mind. When her words run dry, she bends her head and says a prayer for Fenimore's soul. Then she sets a hand on the curved body of the broken sentinel that rests beside Fenimore's headstone and offers a prayer for it, too. She doesn't know if Nerifes watches over the automata, but surely it wouldn't be offended by a prayer for something so faithful.

Aloud, she says, "Thank you for always keeping watch over Fenimore."

She lifts her hand away from the cool and unrusting metal, ready to leave.

"I can't believe you're still visiting Fenimore's grave."

The voice has too hard of an edge to be (right) familiar, but Shirley's heart jumps in false hope all the same. Its beat is so hard that it makes her body tremble as she turns. "Ah—Thyra."

Fenimore's twin strides forward, the set of her shoulders just as stiff as always. Fenimore hadn't been a relaxed person, but compared to the way Thyra moves, she seemed almost easygoing.

"I really thought you'd have given up visiting her long ago," she goes on, stopping next to her. Hands on her hips, she takes in the Harriet flowers resting before the grave. She makes no comment but a soft "Huh."

"Fenimore was my friend," Shirley answers. She's said it often to Thyra and she knows the other girl is aware—but getting her to acknowledge the fact can be difficult.

Thyra doesn't react to the reminder one way or another, and so Shirley takes a chance. "I still want to be your friend, too."

"No, you don't." Thyra's voice is suddenly angry; she turns too fast. Shirley has made a mistake. "You just want Fenimore back."

"That's not true!" Shirley immediately denies. "I want to be your friend because I like you, just as you are."

"Stop lying to yourself." It's disorienting how much Thyra looks like Fenimore when she's angry; it makes it feel as if she's being yelled at by her first friend. "Every time you look at me, you're trying to find Fenimore. I can see it in your face. You're acting like I'm a replacement for my sister!"

"I—" Shirley chokes on the rest of the sentence, because—because Thyra is right. Hadn't there been happiness beneath her dismay when she'd learned that Fenimore had a twin? Hadn't she been glad to see her face for the first time, because it had felt like "again"? Didn't seeing Thyra bring her comfort, even now?

"I'm so s—"

"Don't you dare apologize," Thyra cuts her off. "If you really want to be my friend, then come back when you see me for myself!"

She doesn't run, but as she walks away, she's tense enough to snap and moving very fast indeed.

Shirley, by contrast, feels ready to collapse with guilt. How could she have extended so many offers of friendship without realizing the truth? If she didn't value Thyra for herself, they had all been meaningless.

She takes in a deep breath of the clear, damp air and stands straighter. She's just going to have to work hard so that the next time she holds out her hand, it's to the right person.

*

Breaking the habit of comparing Thyra to Fenimore is not easy. The next visit, the one after, and the one after all end with Thyra leaving, accusation in her face and her clenched fists.

She doesn't let herself be discouraged for more than a moment or two, though. Even if Norma questions what she's doing, wasting so much time with a crankypants like Tulip, she knows that this is definitely worth the effort—that Thyra is definitely worth the effort.

On the day of her fourth visit since Thyra challenged her, Shirley is not quite as focused on looking for her as usual. Instead, as she enters the Village of the Ferines, she tries to remember everything she wants to tell Fenimore. There had been something else, but she just can't seem to call it to mind. . . .

"Well, gee, there's no need to be rude." A tetchy voice breaks into her concentration and she jumps a bit.

"Thyra?"

Her gaze skips over the girl the first time. But then, abruptly, it shoots back, and before she can think, what falls from her mouth is, "Oh no! You cut your hair off!"

In the breath before Thyra's face is fixed in a scowl, Shirley knows that once again, she has made a mistake.

She tries to fix it: "I-I didn't recognize you—I'm sorry."

"You're just sorry because I don't look like Fenimore now!" Thyra throws at her, and she's right, she's completely right. It feels as though Fenimore really is gone all over again, because now there isn't even someone left who looks like her.

Through a burning throat, she squeezes, "Thyra—"

"Don't even bother." Thyra has already turned her back. "There's obviously no point in speaking with you today."

She strides away, and it's the (wrong) changed movement of her hair in the faint breeze that frees Shirley's tears.

*

She doesn't see Thyra at all for the next few visits. After each time, when she leaves the village, a melancholy mood settles into her bones and, if she let it, would stay for some time. She keeps her spirits up as best she can, but she can't help fretting. How can she make things right between her and Thyra if she never sees her?

When she departs today, she's already feeling disappointment tug at her—until, just out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of dark blond hair.

Shirley turns and almost calls out to her, but then she checks herself. Thyra's posture is set, her hands are fisted, and she's staring fixedly at the water. Being cheerful would be yet another mistake.

Instead, she takes in a breath and gathers her strength before approaching the other girl. "Hi Thyra."

"What do you want?"

There's no edge to her voice today; it's been dulled by sullenness. Shirley doesn't need to work from her memories of Fenimore to know that something has happened.

"Are you all right?" she asks, just a bit more tentatively than she would have wanted.

Somehow, Thyra tenses further. "I'm fine."

It's so clearly a lie (how many times has she said the same?) that Shirley doesn't even bother to reply. Instead, she lifts her hand—then, like a frightened bird, it draws back to her chest. Another breath for courage and it floats through the air, ready to alight on her shoulder. . . .

Thyra whirls and Shirley's hand drops. "The girl I like just turned me down, okay?"

Shirley stares blankly. "The . . . girl?"

Now the anger she knows is well and truly back in Thyra's voice. "Weren't you paying attention? That's what I said—the girl. Do you have a problem with that?"

Thyra almost looks ready to attack her with all her weight leaning on her front foot and a furious blush across her face. But—Shirley knows better. Fenimore used to cover her feelings this way, too.

And so she shakes her head, keeping her movements contained, and says, "N-No, I don't. I was just surprised, that's all."

Thyra's response is to turn her back on her, the same as last time; when she speaks next, her voice has lost its fight. "Well, you shouldn't be. Fenimore was like that, too."

She runs off, leaving Shirley to gape inelegantly at her back. When she can move again, she doesn’t continue on her way, but returns to the village. There, she calls in a favour and borrows another friend's kitchen. Thyra won't open the door when she knocks two hours later, but when Shirley leaves, she's just fast enough to glance back and glimpse Thyra jerking the cake on its plate inside with her.

*

Seasons only turn on the Legacy when the ship changes its course. Shirley likes to imagine she can smell the newness of spring in the air, even if it probably isn't true.

"Hi Fenimore," she greets her old friend with a smile. "I brought you some daisies today—I found a nice bunch on my way here."

She lays them alongside the crystalized Harriet flowers. These flowers will soon fade and vanish, leaving the pink blossoms behind, but they're still beautiful while they're here.

She takes in a breath to begin sharing her day when a familiar voice speaks first. "Back again, huh?"

Shirley turns with a smile. "Hi Thyra. Yes, I'm back again. Would you like to join me?"

Thyra spends a long, long moment simply looking into her face, her blue eyes darting back and forth as if she were reading a story. Then, she . . . relaxes. "Yeah. I would. And. . . ."

When she stops, Shirley prompts, "Yes?"

Thyra waits, waits—exhales. "I know this place that's not too bad. By the water. We could have lunch there, if you don't think it'd be too boring."

Shirley beams and only just doesn't hug her tight. "Oh, I'd love to! Thank you for the invitation!"

Thyra's cheeks turn pink; her smile is (just right) her own. "Yeah."

Maybe it's a strange thing to say when you're being thanked, but Shirley knows her new friend well enough to understand that what she really means . . . is "You're welcome."