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pomefioredove · 3 months ago

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Noble Bell ; Book One, Part I ; The King of Truands

what if you were sent to Noble Bell College instead?

type of post: series characters: rollo, original characters (pierrot, bou, phoenix) additional info: reader is gender neutral, this is mostly my own vision, influenced by Disney's Hunchback, the 1939 movie, and the original novel

prologue | the king of truands, one | the king of truands, two |

Chapter One

That night, while you slept on uncomfortable bed of straw and mildewed wood, a council was held.

It is important to note that, for all its rules, and there were many, the body of staff of the proud Noble Bell College were rather removed from the common life. Outside the realm of the lecture hall and the office, the scholars were governed by a democratic and elected student council, that which organized the events, kept order, and administered discipline, when necessary.

The council was entirely egalitarian, but there are three key members: The Justice of the Peace, now sitting at the right hand of the stand, looking rather bored, The Vice President, M. Bou de Neige, whom we have already met, and The President, who is unusually absent on this chilled evening.

These three people are responsible for an entire body of students. They are looked up to, not only as scholars, but as diplomats, peacekeepers, and leaders. They are expected to keep the students best interests close to heart, to be the bridge between the scholar and the staff, and this is no easy burden, despite most of the council being no older than sixteen years of age.

You must understand, then, the significance of tonight's council.

Gathered around the dark hall, illuminated by the fire burning at one end of the long room, scholars and staff alike exchange whispers, glances, and moods.

"As far as I'm aware, they're still on school grounds," the Justice of the Peace scratches his head with his quill, and a spurt of black ink stains his light brown hair. "One of my men saw them going with Gregoire to La Tombe."

Bou de Neige, who had, up until this point, been rather quiet, grimaces. "The fool. He just can't help himself, can he?"

"Hospitality is a virtue," says the headmaster, a graying, old man in a white cloak by name of Monsieur Diacre.

"Where is the President?"

"No one can find him," Bou says. "I will be speaking for him tonight."

"Perhaps we should postpone until he's been found?" a council member echoes.

"As much as I would like to, this matter is grave," Monsieur Diacre says. "A decision must be made tonight. The fate of this stranger depends on our council."

A low murmur reverberates through the room.

"Now, I have received word from two arcane academies, and there, no mention has been found of this place they say they came from, in any language, in any history. There is, in principle, no proof that this person has ever existed.

Despite this, they have appeared at our doorstep, in our clothes. By merit, the Bell of Solace has seen them fit as a student of Noble Bell College."

Bou stands. "With all due respect, sir, I strongly disagree. How do we know they are not a thief, a beggar, or a vagrant? You know well the problems Fleur City has-"

"There is another thing," Monsieur Diacre says, calm despite the tension in the hall. "Perhaps even more grave."

"And that is?"

"If you will recall, some hours ago, in my office?"

"Yes," Bou says, sitting down again with his arms crossed over his broad chest. "A useless conversation about their home, which does not exist, because they are a liar, a thief."

"Not so. Remember the way their eyes clouded when we discussed the Bell, the school, and the ceremony? How they asked, in that confounded tone, about magic? Even you must know that they were truthful then,"

He narrows his eyes. The Justice of the Peace, who had, up until that point, been scratching the "Ph" of his name onto the stand with the fine point of his quill, finally looked up.

"You don't mean to say they don't know about magic?"

"That's impossible," Bou says, though his eyes are downcast, seemingly lost in the memory of their conversation.

"Perhaps we have become too dependent on the academics. The sciences," Monsieur Diacre says. "That we forget the power of miracle."

"You are sure, then- that this person- this stranger- has no magic?"

"None whatsoever?" the Justice of Peace echoes.

Monsieur Diacre gives them both a hard stare. "Monsieur de Neige, you were closest to them. Did anything seem strange as you walked them to my office?"

The boy presses his lips together to make a firm line. "...I did have such an impression,"

"We must consider the reality," he continues, "That is that we have a young person, born and raised without magic, on our campus."

A heavy silence follows. Only the matrons, the professors of Noble Bell College, old and dressed in gray, bell-shaped habits, murmur amongst themselves.

"But I do hope," one whispers, "That we will not keep them."

"I pity the housewardens if they are to be carried to their doors for shelter. I would rather shelter a thief!"

"A sign of bad luck for certain. The greatest calamities! It's no wonder we had such low exam scores last year,"

Bou leans on his elbows against the wood of the stand and grumbles.

"So, what will we do?"

"There are options," the headmaster says. "This very building was once a symbol of hope, a sanctuary for outcasts. I know how our scholars pride themselves on tradition..."

"And the other?" Bou asks, eyes narrowing.

"I am of the opinion," one older, respected professor says. "That it would be better for the scholars of Noble Bell, and the people of Fleur City, if that strange thing were not in our walls."

The room erupts into a frenzy of murmurs, whispers, and hisses. Monsieur Diacre sighs.

"...That is a possibility. I have received offer from Headmaster Crowley of Night Raven College, as he is looking for a new boarder, and would be willing to accommodate a magicless persons. We could-"

"That will not be necessary,"

Despite the obvious unrest, the symphony of whispers, the crackling of the fire, the single voice, the unwavering presence at the large doors of the hall, cold, dignified, carries over the room.

"President Flamme," Bou de Neige says. He is not greeted in return.

"Please thank Monsieur Crowley for the offer, and send him on his way. They will be staying at Noble Bell," the boy says, walking briskly into the room, cutting through the mass of students and staff like a hot blade.

He climbs the steps to the stand and sits between the Vice President and the Justice of the Peace. Both stare at him as if they were looking at a ghost.

"On what grounds, Monsieur Flamme?" the headmaster asks. A few heads nod in agreement.

"By our rules," he says. "If the Bell of Solace has chosen them, then they are ours."

For the first time, Bou seems flustered, stumbling over his words and making a spectacle of himself.

"But- well, yes, that is the rule, but- you must consider- there will always be exceptions! They made trouble at orientation, they ran away with Gregoire, and that's not even mentioning- no magic! How can they be expected to study at this college with no magic?"

"Compose yourself, Vice President," Flamme says sternly, folding his hands in front of himself on the table. "Noble Bell has seen them fit for our academy. There are greater powers at work here.

And who knows? Our Bell works in mysterious ways. Some day, they may be of great use to us."

"You are suggesting we enroll them as a student, then?"

The council waits with baited breath. After an amount of suspense, he nods.

"I am. Shall we vote?"

Chapter Two

You jolt awake to the sound of hard knocking on the door.

The makeshift home Pierrot had brought you to the evening prior looked quite different in the light of morning. You could now make out the interior:

On all sides, you are, once again, surrounded by stone walls. On one, the door, large and heavy. Above you, the ceiling is high, vaulted, and tiled.

Everything is thick with grime and dust.

On either side of you are what appear to be two large stone benches, engraved with arches, men in robes, and writing in a language you don't understand. Atop these benches are a number of things: papers, quills, bundles of clothing, a block of moldy cheese, and many, many books, piled and shelved as if this small place, whatever it was when Pierrot found it, had been baptized a library.

The boy himself, across the straw-covered floor, is just now waking, bleary-eyed and confused.

"Who is it?" asks Pierrot.

A low, annoyed voice comes from the other side of the stone door.

"Housewarden and Vice President de Neige. I've come on official council duty,"

The color drains from Pierrot's face. "Yes, just a moment!"

"Pierrot?" you ask, following him as he scrambles to his feet.

"You must speak to him first, I'll be out in a moment!" he ushers you to the heavy door, drags it open, and then closes it behind you with the unpleasant scrape of stone on stone.

The morning on the field is crisp and chilled, somehow much colder than the little stone room. Bou de Neige is standing in front of you, his arms crossed, an unpleasant scowl on his lips.

"Is he hiding?"

"He said he would be out in a moment,"

"Very well," Bou says. "I suppose we may as well start without him. I've come to prepare you for your classes."

You blink. "...My... classes..."

He scowls again. "Yes, and don't look so dumb. A student of Noble Bell ought to conduct themselves with the poise of the Righteous Judge himself. The council and staff held a vote last night. Despite your obvious lack of abilities, the Bell of Solace has chosen you for Noble Bell College, and thus, you will be permitted to study with us for the foreseeable future. Understood?"

You nod. He seems... unhappy, you think. Or perhaps he's always like that...

"Good," Bou crosses his arms. "You should consider yourself quite lucky. You have powerful allies on your side."

A loud, obtrusive crashing, and a high scream come from inside the little building. The stone door suddenly cries open again, and out comes Pierrot, now dressed in a black and white uniform, similar to de Neige's, except with pants rather than a frock. His hat is lopsided. Bou stares at him with clear disdain.

"This concerns you, as well Gregoire," de Neige says, hands on his hips.

"Me?"

"Wipe that stupid look off your face," he scowls. "Now, listen. You,"

de Neige points at your chest. "...Are useless in the practice of magic. Correct?"

You nod.

"And you-" he points at Pierrot. "Have lost your scholarship, your dorm accommodations, and your respect. You buffoon."

Pierrot blushes and sticks his hands in his pockets, as if feeling their emptiness. One has a finger-sized hole you can see his pinky wiggling out of.

"The council has come up with a solution that would be beneficial to the both of you. As an act of charity, the expenses of the new scholar have been covered by the college. That includes your books, uniforms, and meals. This does not change the fact that you at a clear academic disadvantage; magicless.

Here is the proposition: you and Gregoire, from the moment you accept, will count for one student. You will share your school materials, meals, and clothing provided by your scholarship, you will study together, take the same classes, and in return, he will perform the necessary magic for both of you."

You and Pierrot share a glance.

Bou sighs. "I, personally, would have never come up with such a ridiculous idea, but... unfortunately... your old tutor seems to have faith in you still, Gregoire,"

Pierrot's face goes pale. "You mean-"

"Either that," de Neige interrupts. "Or he simply thinks you are too weak-willed and incompetent to take advantage of them. I expect your answer before the first bell."

He turns on his heels, long, dark hair whipping behind him, and disappears into the grove, on a dirty cobblestone path back to the school.

"...Well?" a voice says from beneath you. You jump, and look down to see the goat, Hugo. Talking. You're still getting used to that...

"Where have you b... never mind," you say. "What do you think, P- Pierrot?"

You look back around to see the gentleman on his knees in front of you, his hands clasped as if in prayer. He's giving you terrible puppydog eyes.

"Please, please, please, this could be my only opportunity! I have nothing else! My studies- Noble Bell is everything!"

You grimace. "...I don't know. I just met you."

For a moment, he almost looks... taken aback, as if he found it strange of you to consider him, of all people, a suspicious character.

His voice drops, and he answers carefully.

"...I swear to you, by my quill, by my hopes of success, not to even approach you without your permission and consent, but, for the Judge's sake, give me a meal plan!"

Hugo bursts out into bleating laughter, and even you smile.

"...Alright," you say. "Let's go give him an answer, then."

Chapter Three

The dining hall, eerily void of living bodies at this early hour, is a thin, and humble building reaching towards the edge of the campus.

Hidden by the monotonous stone walls of the school, it is rather indistinct, the only remarkable thing being that it is held between courtyards on both sides, making it a sort of bridge between one row of buildings and the other, not unlike the stone bridges that hold the embrace between the island and the city.

This modest, almost dull exterior is deceptive, though, as appearances so often are. Once inside the hall, one is met with the magnificent vaulted ceilings, painted dark with stars, held high by the thinnest of thin, delicate arches on the walls, themselves sheltering bodies of stained glass in every color the eye can perceive. Warmed by candlelight and the fire crackling at one end of the magnificent hall, it is nothing short of... well, magic.

The body, no matter how exquisite, dull, or deformed, is nothing without the matter of the soul.

You tilt your head. In a sad sort of way, the feeling reminds you of your straw bed. Dirty, but warmer than the harsh morning outside.

"What did the building used to be?"

"Hm?"

Pierrot hums, smiling as if he had not heard you, preoccupied with piling his plate. You had counted sixteen strips of bacon so far. At this rate, he would build a tower high enough to touch the painted stars on the ceiling.

"Where you sleep. Your room. It's not a dorm, is it?" you ask, following behind, setting a fruit or two on his plate when the opportunity presents itself.

"More oranges," Hugo demands from beneath you. You concede.

Pierrot finishes off his mountain of breakfast with a few slices of bread, and then leads you off to a far corner of the magnificent dining hall.

"Oh, no. A mausoleum,"

"A what?"

"Don't worry, it's empty," he says. "...I think. I've never checked. I recall reading that the bodies from the old cemetery had been moved."

"Cemetery?"

"Fleur City is full of them," Hugo says. "I've been to my fair share. People just leave flowers all over 'em. A free meal is a free meal, right?"

Pierrot nods in agreement, though he doesn't really seem to be listening. You grimace.

"Yes. The field is covered in tombstones. They're quite pretty," he says. "But the bodies were reburied under the tiles in Noble Bell a long time ago."

Each thing they add seems to be more concerning than the last.

Hugo bleats. "You're gonna have to get used to the cadavers, y'know. This place is old, and full of 'em... and their parts,"

"Yuck,"

"Nonsense," Pierrot says. "There is beauty and life in everything, even death itself. Such is the danse macabre."

You and Hugo share a look. What did he say he was, again...?

"Do you think he came out like that, or was he taught?"

"Rude," Pierrot mumbles. "But one might say it runs in my family."

He offers you a slice of bread, and you decline. The headache you'd been fighting off since first light is making you nauseous.

"Tell us about your family," anything to distract yourself now.

Pierrot smiles, his features warming like the sun on a winter day. He always seems quite pleased to talk about himself.

"I'm afraid it's nothing interesting. My father is a notary, and I have five brothers, though most are older than I. The closest in age, a year younger, is at another arcane academy. Alas, I was disowned, and haven't spoken to them in some time,"

"Unsurprising," Hugo mutters. He snags the slice of bread that would have been yours off the plate, between his teeth, and returns to lying under the table.

You lean into your elbow. "Why were you disowned?"

"By my passion," he smiles. "See, I tried to be a guard, but wasn't brave enough. I became a religious man, but was not devout enough, and couldn't drink enough, anyway. I tried carpentry, but wasn't strong enough. At last, I realized I was good at nothing- therefore, I became a writer."

"And your family didn't approve?"

"Not quite. But then I was here," Pierrot becomes quiet, his eyes turned up at the colored windows of the hall with a sort of holy reverence.

"...And the rest is history."

You blink. Disowned by his family, stripped of his scholarship and thrown out of his own dorm by his housewarden?

He's resilient, at least. You'll give him that.

"And your scholarship?"

"Bah, that was nothing. I simply... printed a pamphlet on free thought that the school officials did not care for,"

"Your dorm?"

"I annoyed the housewarden,"

This guy can't catch a break. No wonder he was so desperate for your help.

"Who's the housewarden?" you ask, watching him absent-mindedly scratch beneath his cap.

"Of L'Universite? You've already met him. He is the one who came to see us this morning, Bou de Neige,"

You hum. Of course... Perhaps he is always that unhappy, then.

"I don't miss him. I kept to myself at L'Universite. The students were... unpleasant," Pierrot shudders, as if taken by some unfelt chill, and you raise an eyebrow.

He goes on without question. "You'd assume, with such a name, that the dorm is only for the most exemplary of scholars, but they're unruly. I was almost burnt alive only once, though,"

Huh. "Why is it called that?"

"The three dorms of Noble Bell are based upon the ancient divisions of Fleur City. On one side, the university district- L'Universite- on one, the aristocratic gardens- here, called La Ville- and in the center, the sacred island, which we call The City," he explains, snapping a crisp piece of bacon in half.

"...But the histories of the dorms have little to do with their personalities. They're only to pay homage to the time when Noble Bell was established. Up until Monsieur de Neige, L'Universite had no housewarden, as per tradition. It was overseen by the college itself..."

"Then the kids got too rough, and the administration had had enough of 'em. I heard about that," Hugo's voice comes from under the table.

Pierrot nods. "Now, de Neige has completely turned it around. He punishes anyone who steps out of line,"

This is a strange place, you think for the umpteenth time.

Chapter Four

Fed, sated, and warmed by good conversation, Pierrot leads you through the delicate halls of Noble Bell College with a renewed lust for life in his step.

He goes about, pointing towards windows and great pillars and plaques on the walls and floor, explaining their origins, which came from where, from what year and artist.

You nod along, content to just listen while your mind wandered.

It feels too real to be a dream, but it must be one. In your world, animals don't talk, humans don't cast spells, and schools don't have astrology classes.

Hugo had disappeared again, likely off looking for table scraps. He seemed to have a will of his own. Pierrot hadn't noticed yet.

"And the tile from this courtyard was repurposed from the Place de Grève..."

He talks so much to himself, it almost feels as if you are alone while right beside him. Despite that, and that he's facing away from you, his sunny self pointed toward the tiled courtyard he seems so enthusiastic about, you can't help but feel as if someone is watching you.

That strange, unnerving feeling had been following you since you left the dining hall. No matter how many times you turned over your shoulder, reassuring yourself that it was only your nerves, it lingered.

Every corner or so, another dignified scholar will pass you by, dressed in the same uniform, quiet, poised, looking straight ahead. Once, you walk by someone shrouded in a blue cloak, singing "Thaumarks to spare? Thaumarks to spare?" to whom you apologize for having nothing.

You don't even know what a thaumark is.

Pierrot leads you through yet another courtyard, and the feeling of eyes on your person never leaves.

It's beginning to weigh on you.

"How much longer?"

"Hm?" he finally turns to look at you, and the strange feeling subsides, slipping back into the shadows of the hall.

"Not much. Don't worry, Scriptorium is easy. As long as you pretend to be busy, no one will bother you,"

Chapter Five

Pierrot could not have given a truer description.

Though, he could have at least warned you about the boredom.

The melodious sound of forty quills on paper echoes off the stone walls and tiled floors. There is no talking, no eating, no foot-tapping, no whispers. The faint sound of the city, as close as it is, feels distant from here.

The parchment before you is as empty as it was at the beginning of class, and the book you'd been provided is on the very same page. The student in front of you has filled two pages already, delicately copying the contents of the book onto the parchment.

Pierrot, sitting beside you, seems to be writing something of his own. At least he seems entertained...

Then, all at once, everyone begins gathering their quills and ink, standing from their seats without a word. Pierrot jolts, shuffling around his things to cover his pages of writing as the other students pass him by.

Though he waits until everyone else is gone before getting up himself, avoiding their prying eyes is useless. Waiting outside the lecture hall is none other than his ex-housewarden himself.

"You. Come with me," Bou says, sharp, crimson eyes boring into you. "We have some things to discuss."

You share a glance with Pierrot. He looks sympathetic, waving you goodbye as de Neige leads you in the other direction.

"I trust you enjoyed Scriptorium?" he doesn't look at you when he speaks.

"Oh- um, yes,"

"Good. Copying manuscripts is an honored tradition of Noble Bell," he says.

"Until the invention of the printing press, all books were made by hand. Though the press made the process fast and inexpensive, the beauty of manuscripts remains unmatched."

You look at him. "You seem to have a lot of traditions,"

He returns your look with a glare. "We are a proud school. It would do you well to adopt a similar attitude. And not to let the idealistic drivel of that fool get to you,"

By "that fool", you assume he means Pierrot. That boy keeps getting stranger and stranger...

"What did he do, anyway?"

de Neige mumbles "heresy", and then clears his throat. "Nothing of your concern. Now, hurry up. You're dawdling,"

Chapter Six

As you pass through the halls of Noble Bell, you think of how easy one could get lost in a place like this.

It's almost labyrinthine. It seems as if every turn leads to another lecture hall, another crypt, another library...

"You should consider yourself fortunate," de Neige says. He's been going on about Noble Bell for some time.

"Of all the arcane academies, Noble Bell College's curriculum has the least practical magic."

"Right," you mutter, following him up another narrow flight of stairs.

"And despite that," he says, "You are already being coddled. The headmaster is... soft. Which brings us to the purpose of my visit."

Bou stops in front of a narrow wooden door and turns in a swift movement to face you. "Follow me," he says.

He takes something out of the depths of his pocket and slots it into the heavy, iron-bound wooden door, then pushes it open as if it were a silk curtain.

You follow him up another flight of stairs, and into a darkened room. The only light, cold and gray, comes from a handful of flower-shaped windows, whose glow illuminates the piles of books and dusty furniture cluttering the small room. Another staircase at the far end leads further into the unknown.

Your eyes are drawn to the window closest to yourself, and you peer out over the island, studying the city, its shape, its color, the curve of its river. You could spend your life up here, alone, comforted only by stone and the dim, foggy noon outside.

Bou hums, drawing your attention back to the present moment. He seems familiar with the room, walking about it and dusting its worn furniture with the sleeve of his uniform.

"Here is the north bell tower. You will be staying here from now on,"

Your eyes widen. "But..."

"Careful. It would be unwise to reject such a generous offer," Bou says, refusing to face you. "The bell towers are spacious, quiet, and warm. Winters are quite cold here."

"But Pierrot?"

Finally, you can see the crimson of his eyes, as he turns over his shoulder to glare at you.

"The student council thinks it improper for you to be living alone with Gregoire. He will stay in La Tombe,"

"But-"

"The key," Bou says, ignoring your protests. He takes something cold out of his pocket and places it in your hand. His skin is almost as chilled as the metal.

"I'll see to it that your mail is forwarded here,"

He turns and leaves you in the room, the rough, cold key still cradled in your open palm. You scoff. What mail?

No one knows you. And no one you know knows where you are.

You don't belong. You're an outcast here.

Your fingers tighten around the key. The least you can do is tell Pierrot. You don't want him to worry when you don't come back tonight, after all.

Finally finding some semblance of purpose, you take long, confident steps back the way you came.

Down the narrow wooden stairs, out the left door, down the stone ones, through this passage, this hallway, this turn, then this, and then...

...No. You don't recognize this hallway. It's darker, and the ceiling is lower. You must have gone too far down.

You take a breath. Don't worry. You'll just retrace your steps.

It isn't over. You've been telling yourself that all day. This is not where it ends. You'll find a way out of this.

All of this.

And then, you're no longer alone.

Though there is no noise, no light, no voice that would indicate a human presence, you are suddenly quite aware that there's someone behind you, watching you from the way you came.

All the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you stay in place. If you are to turn now, will you see someone- or something- standing behind you? A pair of eyes watching you from the doorway you'd just ducked under?

Or, worse- will you see nothing at all?

You decide you don't want to find out either way.

You keep going. Into the dark of the hall, over another threshold and another, around the corner. At some lengths, the feeling seems to subside, giving you a moment's worth of peace, and then it returns.

The halls are getting narrower. You have an inexplicable feeling that you are no longer in the school, but somewhere much deeper, much older, primeval.

The scuff of shoe against stone, which most certainly did not come from your own feet, makes you go cold.

"Who's there?" you shout.

The only response in your own echo.

"Come out! Stop following me! Leave me alone!"

The words come tumbling out without much thought. You can feel yourself slipping into a panic.

Thoughts chase each other through your mind, and then suspicions and paranoia poison those thoughts. You must ask yourself now, what is this? What's there, in the dark, just out of sight?

And your mind answers for you: it is a monster.

There is a monster in Noble Bell College, and it wants you.

"Leave me be!" you yell at nothing. You're starting to get desperate.

Nothing happens. Then, all at once, a light comes from ahead of you, not behind, and someone shouts:

"Who's there?"

You turn your back to the dark behind you in a frenzy, and, finally, the feeling of being watched disappears entirely.

"Me! I'm here!"

Around the corner comes a boy, one you had not seen before. Not tall, but not short, sturdily built, we'll say. He's quite good looking, at least compared to the other students you'd met, with light brown hair spilling out of a short, stubby ponytail, blue eyes, darkened by the black of the hall, and, curiously, the wisps of a beard on his chin. He's quite unlike any of the other students you'd seen so far.

But, the more pressing question-

"Who are you?" he asks it before you can.

You say your name, and his eyes widen. His stern expression turns merry, and he smiles.

"Ah, I know you. The magicless one,"

That's not very reassuring. You grimace.

"...How do you know who-"

"You shouldn't be down here alone, you know. It's not safe. We've had some thieves on campus lately,"

"Thieves?"

"Yes. Or so I've heard," he nods solemnly, and then a strange mood comes about him.

He smirks and puts his hand on his hip, his other at his hilt, purposefully drawing your eyes to what must be a sword. A big one, too, if his smile is any indication.

"But don't worry. I'll protect you. You know, I haven't seen you in person yet. The way everyone's been talking about you, I assumed you were some sort of monster. But you're actually very pretty,"

You give him a weird look. Perhaps you were wrong- of course, he's just as strange as the others. "Um... alright...."

"Ah, where are my manners? Let me escort you back to your room."

"...Right," you say, looking over your shoulder one last time. The boy follows your gaze, and then coughs for your attention.

"Bell tower, yes?"

You look back at him and nod.

"Then let's not waste any time,"

Chapter Seven

Despite his confidence, it takes the boy a full hour to find the right passage out of the tunnels. He gets to the bell tower easy enough, at least.

Something about him tells you he's not from here, either, but you keep the thought to yourself for now.

"Well, here we are," he says, hands on his hips as if he had just accomplished something.

"...Yes. Well, thank you,"

He beams, gives you a courteous bow, locks of hair falling over his face as he does. They turn golden in the sunlight. "It was my honor. And if you need anything else-"

"There you are," someone says from within the bell tower. You recognize the gruff voice, but before you can answer, the heavy wooden door bursts open and Hugo tumbles out.

He chuffs. "We've been worried sick, 'ya know! Pierrot's all over the place! Who's the stiff?"

You turn to the boy, and his smirk sharpens at the acknowledgement. "Um... I don't know, actually. Who are you?"

"My name is Phoenix. It means, ah, sun bird," he chuckles.

You and Hugo exchange a glance, and he stops laughing. "I'm the Justice of the Peace of the student council. I was doing my rounds when I heard you shouting,"

You turn back to Hugo to explain. "I got lost,"

"No kidding!"

"I didn't know you had a kid," Phoenix says, the same sly smile on his lips. You almost scoff.

"Yeah, and he doesn't take kindly to pigs!" Hugo says. "Now, get lost! That's our magicless human!"

As the two go back-and-forth, a little glimmer of white against the dark brown of the floor catches your eye. You kneel, and pull a thin envelope from under the wooden door. It has your name on the back, and a bite taken out of the corner. You roll your eyes at that. Hugo.

The goat sets off, headbutting Phoenix back down the narrow stairs and leaving you alone again. You sit on the floor and open the letter.

Dearly Beloved, it starts,

The King of Truands has reviewed your case and sees you fit to join his Cour des Miracles. All thieves, beggars, vagrants, or otherwise outcasts, welcome.

You turn over the parchment, noting its weight, and stuck to the back is a thin pendant, woven of purple and teal twine, in the shape of a leaf. At its heart, a small, golden cross.

How strange...

You squint at the pendant, and then the letter, which, quite rudely, bursts into flame in your hand.

You drop the fiery letter and it dissolves into ashes on the floor. You huff. Magic...

"And stay out!" Hugo's voice returns from the stairs. For a goat, he certainly has a loud bark.

The white of his small head crowns over the steps, and you stand.

"Hugo," you hold out the pendant to him. "Do you know what this is?"

The goat stops and squints, then scoffs. "One 'a those touristy necklaces. They're all over the city, I can't remember what they're for, though. Just that they don't taste good,"

You hum, bringing the pendant back towards yourself. Why would this King of Truands send you a souvenir?

"...Maybe Pierrot will know," you finally say. He seems to know a lot of useless things, after all.

You hurry to the stairs, Hugo trotting behind you. "What's the big deal?"

"I don't know," you say, paying close attention to each step. You don't want to get lost all over again, after all.

"I've had a bad feeling all day. I think this means something."

"Great, a fortune teller," Hugo sighs.

He follows you, anyway.

Chapter Eight

The sun is already setting over the city when you stumble down the steps of Noble Bell.

The sky is streaked with fiery pinks and oranges, making the school look cold and dull by comparison. Even the clouds, red and descending on the wrought iron gates like a bloodied army, turn the stone of the city into a dull, lifeless blue.

You stumble across the sports field and into the grove at the end of the island.

"Slow down!" Hugo gasps.

You don't. But you do stop at La Tombe and pull open its heavy stone door. It's dark inside.

"Pierrot?" you call for him, as if he were hiding behind a book or in a stray shoe.

Nothing.

"Hey, come look at this!"

You abandon the mausoleum and turn to its side, where Hugo is standing over an attached tomb. Its stone lid has been pushed to the ground beside it, and there's light coming from its depths.

"You think he...?" you start, unable to look away from its gaping mouth. Instead of dust and bones, there's a flight of stairs.

"Who else?" Hugo sighs. "He was looking all over for you."

"He must've panicked when the sun started going down," you murmur. "We have to get him."

"What?" Hugo asks, eyes wide. "Are you crazy?"

You take the pendant out of your pocket and hold it against the warm light coming from inside the tomb.

"I just have a feeling," you breathe in slowly, and take your first step into the grave. "Let's go find Pierrot."

#noble bell #noble bell college #twisted wonderland #twst #rollo flamme

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pomefioredove · 21 days ago

Text

Noble Bell ; Book Two, Part I ; The Knight of The Sun

what if you were sent to Noble Bell College instead?

type of post: series characters: rollo, original characters (pierrot, bou, phoenix, clodio) additional info: reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu and has a canon yuu personality, I edited this ONCE and it took an hour I'm not doing that again. if there are mistakes that's my bad word count: 8.1k HELP ME

prologue | the king of truands, 1 | the king of truands, 2 | the knight of the sun, 1 |

Chapter One

The lingering warmth of summer had long kissed the noble City of Flowers good-bye, leaving nothing but the white sun as a reminder of what had once been. The north bell tower became colder, the sun-stained banners on the stone walls of the school became duller, and you were left to your silence and solemnity.

From your place in the bell tower, Fleur City became your closest friend, your confidant, your only color in the white light that poured through the windows of the tower, every cloudy morning. It rained. Your curiosity led you higher and higher, closer to heaven and further away from the people on earth, up to the stone statues, abandoned by time and speckled by moss and weather, up to the bells, to the fingerprints and breath left on the noble bronze. Away from the lives of the students, the city, the fishermen and bakers, where on foggy mornings (and it was often foggy), it was only you, the bells, the gargoyles, and the clouds which separated you from the earth and its people.

There was evidence of life in this place. The fingerprints on the bells, empty wine bottles, wood shavings you seem to find everywhere, no matter how much you sweep and dust and organize and try to make a home of this place. You found a wooden ladle and a bejeweled dagger wedged behind a door, once. You use the ladle as a door jamb and the dagger to open letters from the school, which never seem to stop coming. They pour in like the rain, each addressed in neat, orderly handwriting, signed by your professors and your headmaster and your student council.

Almost all are about your temperament. Your behavior. Unorderly, they say. No matter how straight you stand, your shoulders are never back far enough, your chin is never held high enough.

Some are about your classes and grades. Some come from Clodio LeFou, the self-named “King of Truands”, who has taken you as a penpal against your will. Some are simple weather reports to warn you of coming storms, signed by Vice President Bou de Neige. You keep those. You’re not sure why, but you do.

Three weeks flow over you like the cold water of the Soleil. You become less of a visitor, and more of a roommate to whomever lived in the bell tower last. Still not a student. Never quite a student.

But you have the company of the bells. The gargoyles. The city, from above its roofs and heads, from heaven. Your mysterious roommate, and their wine bottles, their wood shavings, their ladles and daggers.

It’s the only place where you don’t feel unwelcome. Where you don’t feel abnormal. It’s home, in a melancholic sense, because you are alone there.

Some days, in the late of September, when the sun still held your hand and warmed you, you think that you could stay there forever. Where there are no sneers or whispers, no looks of disgust, no eyes that follow you.

But you can’t.

“Watch your head, dearest!”

You miraculously avoid the trio of stilt walkers carrying a long wooden beam between them just to crash into Clodio LeFou, who, mercifully, catches you before you can bruise your tailbone as well as your ego.

“Sorry,”

The young gentleman, hair pulled back into two artfully messy pigtails, eyes hidden but impish grin still striking under the unfeeling white of an unpainted carnival mask, brushes off your shoulders, and pats you twice on the head.

“Where’s your mind at today, hm?”

The Miracle Court, buried six feet deep beneath the well-mannered people of Fleur City, is unusually alive today, even with the smell of death only a breath away. “Students” of the makeshift dorm are carrying banners, painting wood, sewing costumes, and chatting amongst themselves with an excitement that makes your existence above ground seem dull. There’s life here; completely unlike the stillness of your bell tower.

It had been but a month since you unceremoniously stumbled into orientation and became an unwelcome guest of the college, and an unwilling guest of the Miracle Court. The hours of waiting for home stretched into days, and then into weeks, although every minute still felt like an eternity. The classes were near impossible to keep up with, even with Pierrot, who, both endearingly and annoyingly, seems entirely disinterested in helping you.

“I like you more when you’re you, not them,” he says.

It would be a romantic sentiment if the cream-colored letters holding your grades, like a captive in rope, didn’t send a shiver down your spine.

You find yourself strangely grateful for Clodio, who, despite his eccentric passion for la scène and his disregard for the rules and rigidity of Noble Bell College, is more intelligent than anyone else you’ve met thus far.

“What’s going on here?”

“Mystère , you do not know? Has no one the decency!” he gasps, holding a hand over his chest as if his heart had been struck by an arrow. Dramatic as ever. “Pierrot! Where is Monsieur Philosophie?”

His voice becomes higher with each echo across the imposing walls and vaulted ceiling of the Miracle Court. As if on cue, a loud crash follows, and then Pierrot Gregoire comes stumbling out of what was presumably once a stage prop, but is now an inconveniently placed pile of wood.

“Here! What is the problem? Has anyone a question about the script?”

Perhaps you wouldn’t say it aloud, but Pierrot has become a warm familiarity to you. The time you’re apart- that is, as soon as classes end and before they begin again- can feel like an eternity. He isn’t allowed in the bell tower. You’ve received several angry letters from a certain Vice President Bou de Neige about having him there.

“Worry not, your script is so derivative and simple, a circus monkey could understand it! Our mystère would only like a proper welcome!” Clo smiles merrily and slings an arm around a very grumpy Pierrot’s shoulder.

“Oh, I didn’t-”

“Nonsense,” he cuts you off. “As a part of our court, you are a part of our stage. Pierrot! Show our mystère around, would you?”

Pierrot, sour about his script, takes your hand and pulls you away from the eccentric thespian. “Pretentious, demanding, tone-deaf…” he grumbles to himself.

“What’s going on here?” your question echoes quietly, coming back to you in the same voice.

“Ah,” Pierrot says, turning over his shoulder to you with wide eyes. “I forgot you were here… we’re making preparations for Topsy-Turvy fest… which, of course, you wouldn’t know. It’s a Fleur City festival. Noble Bell provides much of the entertainment: music, dancing, singing, acting, puppet shows…”

“Puppet shows?”

He sighs. “Clodio insists. He says he would much rather spend time with the “bright-eyed children” than us dull scholars,”

“Right…” you mutter, watching a trio of students dressed as dogs practice cartwheels around each other.

“I will, of course, be writing and directing a one-act of my own creation,” A proud smile suddenly pulls at the corners of his lips. “It will be performed first, as per tradition.”

“Only to get it over with!” Clodio’s voice carries from somewhere behind you. Pierrot’s smile immediately drops.

“Anyway,” he says, back to his grumpy disposition. “I’ve taken a historical inspiration, and adapted a famous Fleur City folk story. In the spirit of the festivities, I’d like it to be… interactive, for the audience. That’s where you come in.”

You’re suddenly very aware of your place on the floor and the feeling of your feet in your too-tight school shoes. You turn to him, your eyes widened. There are many things about Pierrot to appreciate, and his impressive ability to talk about his interests for hours on end, providing ample, comfortable background noise, is one of them. It’s unlike him to surprise you.

“What?”

Pierrot forces a smile. “N-now, I know you haven’t had the most pleasant experience with the students of Noble Bell College-”

“That’s an understatement,”

“But you won’t be alone!” he says, setting his hand on the small of your back and ushering you to a corner strung with curtains and beads. “You’ve met Jolie, haven’t you?”

An emerald green curtain parts and a person you’ve certainly never met, nor seen before, peers out. You think you surely would have remembered. Jolie is not only a girl, but a child.

“Who- ah, Pierrot,” her voice is warm but strained with accent. “Your friend?”

She’s not much taller than you, and can’t be any older than thirteen years old, but even aside from that, she looks like no one else you’d seen here. Her hair is short, white and streaked with gray, her eyes golden, and she’s wearing a…

Her eyes narrow at Pierrot. “Why are you not in your dorm uniform? Clodio says-”

“HUSH! He hasn’t said anything, I don’t think he’s noticed yet. And I want to keep it that way, thank you!” he whispers. “And- yes, this is them.”

“Took you long enough,” and that familiar scratchy voice is followed by Hugo, who comes out of the tent to twirl around Jolie’s legs like a cat. She kneels to scratch his head, giving you silence and the opportunity to look at Pierrot with a devilish grin.

“Dorm uniform?” You ask. “You mean that?”

Jolie, even shorter now as she kneels beneath the two of you, is dressed in a very, very colorful tunic, clearly sewn out of old flags and banners in a gold-and-emerald checkered pattern, with a gold-colored undershirt and tights. It’s quite unlike the somber and dark school uniform of Noble Bell, and the dull color palette of the city.

He sighs, his arms crossed. “Mine is in gold and red, actually,”

“Clodio’s has purple!” Jolie chimes. “But he’s in costume now. We’re rehearsing.”

You just barely manage to withhold a snicker. Luckily for Pierrot (or perhaps unluckily, because you’re certainly going to remind him later), Jolie’s change of subject saves him from his tight, tunic’d fate.

“For Topsy-Turvy Fest?”

“Yes,” Pierrot grumbles. “...Which is why we’re here. Jolie will be helping with the play.”

The girl smiles, exuding a warmth that once again reminds you she is not a student of Noble Bell. It was as if the summer sun had retired from the sky and become a person, now under the streets of Fleur City, wearing a dorm uniform made of scraps and shoes a size too large for her.

She couldn’t have fit in any less if she tried.

Watching her joke with Pierrot, smile at him with a sort of familiarity and warmth that you yourself had not felt in months, makes something without a name twist in your stomach. Here, the smell of baking bread is not enough to cover the stench of death.

“Then what will I be doing?”

Pierrot’s eyes, dull in Noble Bell’s dark uniform but alight with life and breath nonetheless, brighten, becoming a luminous emerald when he looks at you. It’s as if he’s been waiting all his life to tell you this.

“You will be Jolie’s assistant,”

...Anticlimactic.

But thoughtful, nonetheless. Pierrot is, perhaps, more empathetic than even he himself knows. As much is apparent from the soft look he gives you, his back turned to Jolie as she plays with your goat and his voice but a whisper.

“I don’t want to give you any more trouble than you’ve already had,” he says. “Clo will demand your participation no matter what. At least, in this way, I can keep you close to me.”

Pierrot isn’t the sort of brave that leads uprisings or searches for adventure. He isn’t really brave at all. But he’s offering you what he can: kindness. Which is invaluable to you now.

You nod. “I’ll do my best,”

He deserves as much, you think. A flicker of warmth makes Pierrot’s face glow for but a second, and he smiles.

“Thank you. And worry not- you’ll only be chaperoning,”

You share his smile. His pride can be deathly contagious, sometimes. “Should I be worried about that?”

Pierrot peers over his shoulder to look at the girl, who seems far more interested in playing with Hugo than “rehearsing”.

“It’s not uncommon to see children here. I’ve had my own concerns, but it’s Clodio’s call, and he can’t seem to stop himself from adopting every lonely child he finds,” Pierrot says. “Better in here than on the streets, at least.”

Or in the bell tower, you think, and then just as soon drown that thought. “I suppose, when you put it like that, it’s smart,”

The playwright turns back to you with another smile. “Of course. I said it, after all. Now, let’s talk about your costume…”

Chapter Two

If he were allowed in the bell tower, Pierrot could have written a novel about the differences between your home and the Miracle Court.

Mornings are always quiet. The sound of rain comes before the sound of humans, their walking, breathing, shouting and bartering and laughing on the streets below, living the life one can’t help but dream of. To belong somewhere.

Today, there is no rain.

You wake to the gray of morning pressing its foggy hands against your windows, asking to be let into your tower and into your lungs. The air is sharp, the glass frosted over with cold, and you’re shivering before you’re even out of bed. For once, you’re grateful for the stifling, heavy Noble Bell uniform; it’s better than your blankets on mornings like these.

Once dressed and no longer at risk of hypothermia, you begin your morning trek to greet the bells and the gargoyles and the city. It’s a journey in itself, but you can’t seem to stop yourself from doing it. It’s become a compulsion.

Much has changed since you came here.

The bells are cold and stiff with frost. There are icicles hanging from every wooden beam and rafter.

It’s only the second of October, but you have to brush a thick layer of snow off the gargoyles this morning. You’re suddenly quite grateful that neither you nor Pierrot are sleeping in La Tombe anymore. You’d be dead before sunrise.

Fleur City looks warm, despite the snow blanketing the roofs and streets. Candle and firelight pour out of every window and open doorway, small children waddle around each other in snug coats and boots that were likely meant for winter, not October, and are thus much too big for their small feet. The wind carries a smell of cinnamon and butter from a bakery across the Soleil.

It’s almost beautiful.

And then you have to walk to class in snow up to your ankles, and suddenly it’s no longer so charming.

“Rough weather,” you sit next to Pierrot in Astrology, brushing snow off the shoulders of your uniform just as you had done to the gargoyles that very morning.

Pierrot, who had again been hunched over his paper, likely writing something that had nothing to do with the class agenda on the board, glances up at you.

“Yes. It doesn’t usually snow so early,”

“I figured not. I’d have gotten a letter about it, if it did,” you say. Pierrot looks confused for a moment (as he so often does), and then lights up.

“Oh, I have something for you,”

You raise an eyebrow, watching him awkwardly crawl under the table, hit his head as he tried to come back, and then hand you a folded piece of paper.

“From Jolie. She insisted I deliver, since you and Clo have no classes together,” he says. “She can be quite scary when she wants to be…”

You roll your eyes and open the letter. It’s a drawing of you in the Miracle Court dorm uniform. Gold, and a fiery orange.

“...Interesting choice,” you say, taking in each meticulously placed detail and design note, in a different language. “But nice. You’ll have to thank her for me.”

“I’m not a messenger, you know…” he grumbles, and then sighs. “But very well.”

You run your thumb over the rich color of it. “How does a child like this end up in a place like that?”

Pierrot dabs his quill back into his inkwell and does nothing with it. Habit, you suppose. “Clo has mentioned that the family came to Fleur City a few months ago. Father always working, no mother, no siblings, and her language proficiency is not good enough to enroll her in school. So, we tutor her at the Court,”

You blink. “...Ah… I see. I couldn’t even tell she wasn’t fluent,”

“She’s come quite a ways. As much as I cannot stand his tastes, I admit that Clodio is an adequate tutor,”

“And what’s his story?”

“Pardon?”

You lean against the thick wooden desk on your elbow. “I mean, he’s been writing to me for weeks, and I barely know anything about him,”

“No one does,” He shrugs. “He’s rather mysterious, and I think he prefers it that way. We’re not even sure of his real name. It’s said that he lost his parents some time ago, but I can’t say when or how.”

“He’s smart enough to be going here, though,”

“That he is,” Pierrot says. “We were accepted in the same scholarship program. Just three of us. But he has the sense to keep his dislike of the institute rules to himself.”

“Heh. Unlike you,”

He smiles slightly. “Unlike me,”

The large doors open behind you and Madame Jean-Marie, an old, gray-frocked professor, comes in whacking her cane against any feet not firmly planted under a desk. You and Pierrot both fall silent.

She takes a seat and loudly clears the mucus from her throat, a grating, unpleasant sound that makes everyone sit up straighter.

“Now. I am well aware of our unfortunate weather. Do not ask me about it. Do not mumble about it. This hour is not for the affairs of the city. Astrology is a science, not a superstition, so I will have no talk of fortune or misfortune here. Am I understood?”

The class hums, and you give Pierrot a confused look. He refuses to meet your eyes, staring down at the ink dripping from his quill.

“Good. Begin, then. Pages one-thousand and sixty!”

Pierrot still won’t look at you, though he’s the only one. When you finally turn back to the front of the room, everyone is staring right at you. Everyone. Some only give glances before burying their noses in their textbooks, some outright glare.

It’s uncomfortable.

Madame Jean-Marie falls asleep in her chair, as per usual, and the room remains silent. The sound of quills scratching on paper is not as melodious as it usually is, but dissonant, broken by the silences the scholars take when they turn to look at you. Each time the wind blows against the window, each shiver that goes down a spine.

It lasts for an eternity. The sound of the noon bells could not have come soon enough, and as soon as you’re permitted to stand, you practically drag Pierrot out of the lecture hall by the scruff of his neck.

“What was that?”

Pierrot laughs, nervously. “What was what?”

“Seriously?”

Even now, standing in the hall, you’re being stared at. Glared at. The whispers are suffocating. Pierrot looks like he’d much rather be in the gallows, now.

“It’s alright, Gregoire,” a cold voice says from behind you, making Pierrot jump. “And calm yourself. You’ll pop a blood vessel.”

You turn to see Vice President Bou de Neige, his arms crossed over his broad chest, hair pulled behind his shoulders. “I will escort them for today,”

“But-”

“Dismissed,” he says, and puts a firm hand on your shoulder. He guides you away from your poor friend without so much as a smile.

At least the other students don’t stare when you’re with him.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“Ignore them,” his tone is sharp, demanding. “It’s nothing but superstition. Old wives’ tales.”

He glares at a few dawdling first years, and his hold on your shoulder tightens.

“What does that have to do with me?”

Bou scoffs. “It’s nothing to concern yourself over. An early winter is regarded by the people of Fleur City as “bad luck”. They think you’ve caused it.”

Unlike Pierrot, who concerns himself far too much with protecting your feelings, Bou de Neige has no problem with pulling the rug out from under you.

“Excuse me?”

“You are unusual, yes?” he says. “Chaotic. You don’t belong here. They believe you’re causing misfortune. It’s nothing but talk based on centuries’ old superstition. Ignore them.”

He stops you in front of a heavy wooden door, that of your next class, and finally lets go of your shoulder.

“And if you should need help… Do not ask Gregoire. Come to me,”

Chapter Three

You need to get out.

You’re not sure where, or how, but you need to get out of here. The bell tower feels suffocating. Smaller. The school is a prison. A beautiful one, but a prison nonetheless.

Bou’s words meant nothing to you. You wouldn’t have gone to anyone if you needed help, not here. The stares and whispers and sneers and shoves of the students, even of the teachers, would keep you firmly in place, your nice school shoes fused with the tiled floor.

You just need an afternoon off. Alone.

That word feels heavy now. Pierrot had once said something to you about the mightiness of the written word, but he never said how to wield it. You would continue letting the other, smarter, better students slash into you until you bled out. You had no other choice.

And so, you left. Just for the afternoon. For a pastry or juice or something else good with the meek allowance that comes in envelopes signed in the headmaster’s handwriting.

Anything.

You had been out of the school before, with Pierrot, once with Clo to get some flour, and so you at least know the way to your favorite spots.

If you don’t draw attention to yourself, if you pull up the hood of your uniform and act like a Noble Bell student, you can pretend, if only for a fleeting moment, that you belong here. People won’t stare, or sneer, or gossip. Vendors will try to get you to buy their fish and flowers and desserts. Parents with babies will smile at you.

It’s an illusion, but one you need. Being cooped up inside Noble Bell forever would lead you to madness.

Your cafe of choice is, mercifully, still open despite the snow. It’s busy inside, selling hot chocolate and coffee for the cold weather, but you don’t mind. The less attention on you, the better. You’re out on the street within minutes, walking aimlessly with a treat in hand and no desire to return to your bell tower before dark.

It’s funny, you think. For all the insistence that Fleur City is a safe, modern place, you’re warned about going out after dark by everyone you speak to.

You wonder what else people are lying about.

You’re thinking of a good place to sit when you hear someone shouting, and it draws you closer. Not out of curiosity, but out of familiarity. That voice…

Outside of an empty bakery and a dark boutique, you see two boys in Noble Bell uniform. They must be first years, judging from their baby faces and their unfamiliarity. You’ve never seen them before, though. Then who-

Something moves on the ground. You hadn’t noticed them before, because their hair is the same color as the snow, and they’re much smaller than the boys. Something in your chest tightens.

“Hey- get away! Back off!” You shout without thinking, pushing between them and helping Jolie out of the snow. She’s shivering, but not bleeding. You can settle for that.

The two boys turn to you wide-eyed, but the fear of this unknown mediator turns to something smug when they see that you’re not so unknown after all.

“It’s them,” one says to the other. “The magicless one. What’re you gonna do, huh?” he shouts back.

You have no answer for that. You shouldn’t have shouted. You should’ve found someone- de Neige or Pierrot or anyone-

The second boy, smaller than the first, follows his lead. “Y-yeah! Mind your own business!”

“You know we could kill you if we wanted to. And you couldn’t even do anything, could you?”

“G-go hide in your tower!”

“Monster!”

The first takes a step closer, and then the snow stops. The clouds vanish, and sunlight pours over all of you.

But it’s not sunlight. It’s magic. And it’s still snowing.

“And what’s going on here?”

The boys fall silent. You look behind yourself, but Jolie is gone, a set of shoeprints in the snow leading away from you. Smart kid.

You look back. The boys are quiet, stuck in place. “N-nothing, Monsieur Bussiere,” the second one says.

Phoenix Bussiere scoffs. He’s got that stupid smile on his face again, and his hands on his hips.

“Now, don’t think that just because we’re not on campus, I won’t arrest you. I’m sure President Flamme would be beside himself if he lost the chance to punish you accordingly,”

The two shake their heads. “We didn’t do anything! We were just talking!”

“Lying is a vice, you know,” he chuckles as if he’d said something clever. “I better not catch you two picking fights again. Now, get out of here.”

The boys run off like they’d gotten their tails stepped on, leaving you and Phoenix alone. He smirks.

“We meet again. You have a way of finding trouble, you know,”

More like trouble has a way of finding you. But oh, well.

You’re in no place to be ungrateful, after all, he just saved you. Again. It’s just that stupid cocky look he gets…

“Can I escort you back to campus? Ahem, I mean… may I?”

His one-liners are awful. But you suppose humoring him is the least you could do. He holds out an arm, which you ignore, and you awkwardly walk side-by-side instead. The setting sun casts an orange glow over the city, like fire.

The wind and weather picks up, blowing around you in thick swirls of snow and ice. You have nothing to say. Today has been pretty terrible. And very, very exhausting. You’re not looking forward to how cold the bell tower will be tonight…

You feel something around your shoulders, and you turn sharply to see Phoenix putting his cloak around you. “What are you doing?”

“I’m… being chivalrous,” he says, obviously trying not to smile. He seems very pleased with himself. “It suits me, doesn’t it?”

Ugh. “Sure,”

“You can keep it, if you want. It looks good on you,”

You wouldn’t like to admit it, but with the night ahead, you sort of need it. “...Aren’t these uniform pieces super expensive?”

Phoenix shrugs.

“My mom will just buy me a new one. I’ll say I lost it,”

He doesn’t seem particularly worried about that. Or about… Anything, really. The most you’ve seen him care was months ago, when you went still and silent like an idiot because you thought something was following you under the city. He had practically carried you out.

“Your mom is nice,” you mutter. You don’t know what else to say, really.

Phoenix scratches his chin, looking ahead with disinterest. “She’s alright. She really wants me to do well here, so she’ll do whatever if I say it’s for class.”

“Doesn’t your dad care?”

“He doesn’t talk much,”

Another silence. You cross one of the bridges back to the school, and he kicks a chunk of ice across the stone path. You can’t stand the quiet. Not with him, of all people. It’s… weird. It’s unlike him.

“Thank you for the coat,”

“Hm? Oh, no problem,” he says. “I’m housewarden of La Ville, you know. Knight of the Sun. Chivalry and all that.”

He says it as if you know what any of that means. You’ll ask Pierrot tomorrow.

Chapter Four

“Places, everyone, places!”

You look up from your outfit. You’ve been picking at the scratchy fabric all morning. What was this made out of, flour sacks?

It’s nothing like what Jolie had designed for you. No, of course not, because life can’t be easy for you. They just had to run out of gold fabric for the jester outfit everyone else has, and put you in something you’re pretty sure Clodio found floating at the top of the Soleil instead.

It’s stylish, in a depressing sort of way.

You adjust the headpiece one final time before the curtain to your changing tent splits at the seams and Pierrot falls in, landing on his rear (and a table… and a vase). Hugo climbs over him with a sigh.

“Can’t take him anywhere,”

You shake your head. This may be miserable, but at least there’s free entertainment. “Hey, you two. Ready?”

Pierrot gets up, shaking the rope he tripped on off his foot. He’s in uniform today, the red and gold standing out brilliantly against his eyes. Say what you will about the man himself, but Clo knows his way around a stage outfit.

“As I’ll ever be,” he sighs, brushing shards of porcelain vase off his tights.

Despite the costumes, the tents and flags and banners, the stage at one end of the courtyard, today is not the Topsy Turvy fest. It’s only a Friday in late October, just after classes, and it’s only a rehearsal. A… test screening of sorts.

“Don’t be nervous. It’s only for the students,” Pierrot says, perhaps more to himself than to you. “The public won’t see it until the festival itself.”

“The students are what I’m nervous about,” you mutter.

Hugo eats a flower from the once-was vase off the floor. “You’ll be fine. You don’t even have any lines,”

“Exactly,” Pierrot says. “All you have to do is select some volunteers from the audience to go on stage. You won’t say a word.”

The reassurance feels hollow. You go back to picking at your costume, obviously still grumpy about… well, everything.

Hugo bleats, and then talks through a mouthful of daisies. “You can’t hide in that bell tower forever, you know,”

“Hugo!” Pierrot scolds.

“What? Someone has to say it. No one wants to stay cooped up in there forever. Topsy Turvy fest is fun!”

He hums, and scratches his chin. “Mmm… Well, it is an educational experience. Plays, performances, folk music…”

“I was thinking more about the food, but yeah,”

“Oh, of course. The regional cheeses,”

“Mmm,”

“Guys,” you interrupt, drawing their attention back to you. “Let’s just do this.”

Chapter Five

There's more of an audience than you would have liked.

You watch the students talk and laugh and shout for the play to start from the thin sliver between the curtains, silky and blue, the only thing that separates you from them.

“See anyone you recognize?” Clo asks, putting the finishing touches on the actors’ costumes behind you.

You shake your head. “No. Pierrot is backstage, and I don’t see Bou de Neige or Phoenix Bussiere,”

“Ehehe, I’m not surprised. The student council president has a notorious dislike for these events, so they’re likely with him,” he rolls his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “Blind devotion. Isn’t it beautiful?”

You don’t have a response for that. You’re still trying to decide if performing to an audience of strangers is better or worse than to friends.

Well, sort of friends.

Acquaintances.

People you know.

“Places! Places, everyone!” Clodio shouts, ushering the actors into their spots. Jolie appears at your side, and you force yourself not to panic.

The music starts. The curtains split open, the dark blue giving way to the gray sky. You stand where you were told to stand, letting the play go on without much care or attention. You’re not listening for anything but your cue.

How much easier this would have been if you were anywhere but here…

The crowd murmurs and cheers and sings along and seems to be engaging just fine with Pierrot’s “derivative and simple” script, which gives you some assurance. Perhaps, if they’re enjoying the play, they won’t even notice it’s you on stage.

“And here it is- the moment you’ve been waiting for!” Jolie recites each word with care, a delicacy to pronounce everything correctly, though she likely doesn’t know what she’s actually saying.

“Now, it’s time to crown the king!”

The actors dance around, swirling in circles that you’d be dizzy watching, if you were in the audience and not here. Jolie calls for volunteers, and you hurry to the edge of the stage, reaching out a hand to the more outgoing people in the crowd. It’s not difficult, but not without some awkwardness.

Hand after hand, student after student as you move down the stage in a line, waiting for the end of your part with practiced patience. You’re not even watching.

You were almost done when it happened.

Of course, you hadn’t been looking. You simply reached into the moving crowd, waiting for a taker, and felt a cold, dry hand slip into yours, almost making you shiver. You could have sworn, feeling that hand in your own, that familiar sense of dread that had been following you for months, in long, quiet halls, in dark places, under the school itself, was with you.

You force yourself to shake off the feeling, and you help the owner of the hand on stage.

And then everything goes quiet.

The music stops. The crowd becomes as still and quiet as the school’s statues. Even the actors have lost character, staring at you with widened eyes, horror etched into their features.

The owner of this hand has not let go yet. He keeps your hand in his, close to him, his emerald eyes drawn to the touch.

It’s as if time has stopped. No one speaks. Nothing moves, except for the chest of this boy, which rises and falls with each breath. His fingers twitch, and he tightens his grip around your hand, turning it over so he can see your palm. There’s something familiar about the gesture. A feeling which has no name.

And then, all at once, he lets go, practically pushing you away from himself, and leaves, clutching his robes in the hand that held yours as he descends the stairs of the stage and vanishes into the school.

It begins to snow.

The clouds, darker and thicker, now, breathe wintry death over the courtyard, turning everyone’s heads to the heavens.

And then hell breaks loose.

“Get off the stage!”

“Get them out of here!”

“Out!”

“They don’t belong here!”

“Get out of our school!”

“Demon!”

“Monster!”

The crowd pulses, pressing towards the stage like the waves of an angry sea, lapping at your feet. You stumble backwards and nearly crash into the actor behind you, but someone grabs your wrist and keeps you upright.

“Come with me,”

In a blur of anger and spitting and hissing and shouting, it’s dark again. You’re inside the main building, your home, your prison, under the rich purple and yellows and reds of the stained glass.

And there’s Phoenix, a beam of light in the dark, pulling you to a standstill by the doors.

“You’ll be safe. They can’t bother you in here,” he says, releasing your wrist and taking a step back to give you some air. “Are you alright?”

You say nothing. You don’t know. You don’t know anything. And you certainly can’t keep pretending like you do.

Phoenix looks like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth, he breathes, and then he closes it again. He holds out a hand, and then withdraws it. His blue eyes are darker in the low light of the building. You’re much closer here. Has he always had freckles? That scar over his lip?

“...I’ll inform Monsieur Diacre of what happened,”

“That won’t be necessary,” someone calls out from the dark. You both turn, eyes following the tiled floor, the carved columns, the art on the wall, and Bou de Neige comes out of the shadows.

“I sent word as soon as I was told. This will be dealt with. Bussiere, you are dismissed,”

Phoenix doesn’t look like he wants to leave. “But-”

“You are dismissed,” the vice president repeats himself, his voice colder and sharper than before. Phoenix still hesitates, his mouth open again, glancing to you, then to Bou, and then he closes his mouth and leaves.

The both of you watch him go, and only when he is gone, does Bou speak.

“You caused quite a commotion today,”

You look away from him. You know that. Of course you know that.

de Neige leans closer, trying to meet your eyes again. “You’re not in trouble,”

You have nothing to say to him. To any of them. He’s not an idiot, he knows this. But there’s still something in his expression, the wideness of his eyes, crinkle of his nose, maybe, that’s not unhappy, or cold, or harsh.

And then he looks away again.

“I know what you did for that girl. Jolie,”

Your bitter expression breaks instantly, and he holds a hand out to silence you before you can even speak.

“She and I live in the same part of the city,” he answers your question for you. “I visit my mother every weekend."

This is, perhaps, the most you’d ever heard him talk about himself. When you speak, your voice is softer than you’d meant it to be. “You…”

“Most of the students of Noble Bell College are not here on scholarship. They will never have to worry about not having heat in the winter. Or not knowing when their next meal will be. They purchase their uniforms from boutiques in town, so their mother won’t spend every night for months sewing it for them,” he turns over a side of his cloak as he speaks, running his thumb over the fabric.

You don’t know what to say. You watch him fidget with his cloak, and then let go of it, his hands going still.

“Thank you for helping her,” he says. “No one else would have.”

You can suddenly feel the anger, the resentment, the bitterness you’d been holding down for so long, smothering under your foot, under you too-tight, too-perfect shoes like the embers of a fire, swelling in your chest.

“What do they have against people who are different, anyway?”

Bou looks at you, his eyes softened, but melancholy all the same.

“You can’t right all of the wrongs in the world on your own. I know. I’ve been trying for years,”

You shake your head and look away again, refusing to answer that. He’s right. You know he is. But you don’t want him to be. You want Fleur City, Noble Bell College, to be the modern, safe, perfect place that everyone says it is. You want to believe.

But you can’t.

de Neige sighs, and he looks away again. This building; outside of its classrooms and lecture halls, outside of its libraries and crypts, is a museum. A moment of time. The vaulted ceilings, the paintings and statues, the stained glass, the wooden doors, the stone walls, even the bodies inside it, the few students lingering about, trying not to stare at the two of you as they walk the nave, are sacred.

This is a school. A place of education. Of science. But it wasn’t always that. And you can feel it. You’re sure everyone can. This is a home of scholars who believe that forgoing the past will right it, forgetting their wrongs, burying them under the tiles, smothering them like the flames of a fire, will save them. That absolution comes from repression.

This place is a grave, and yet it is more alive than it ever has been.

“You know,” Bou says, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Here, in this very building, students, with… respect, may ask for things. It’s only a tradition, it doesn’t mean anything. Just a way to calm the nerves before exams... But miracles have happened in stranger places.”

You glance at him, and he smiles weakly. It’s a strange look on him. “Maybe it’s true that no one out there can help. But there might be something in here that can,”

He lets go of your shoulder and leaves you there, standing against one of the stone walls of the school, in a quiet, dark room, full of people that are dead and ideas that are more alive than they should be.

This is ridiculous.

And yet, you lean against the wall, and you look at the statues, the paintings, the windows. You ask yourself what you’re doing here, and why. You know no one can hear you, and there’s nothing here. Nothing you can see.

The wind howls outside, beating against the windows and rattling the iron bound doors, and yet it’s warm inside. The chandeliers are lit with candles, casting a golden glow over the floor. You shouldn’t be here, you know. You should have left the second de Neige was out the door. But here you are, anyway.

The name you have in your mind, what you speak to, is entirely yours to keep. Perhaps it’s nothing at all. Perhaps it’s only yourself. You want to feel as if everything is going to be okay, even if it’s not.

That's all you can ask for.

“I know I’m only me, and I shouldn’t be here,” you start, only a murmur. “Still, I see this place, and wonder if you’ve been outcasted, too.”

A few students pass you by with their own wants, again trying not to stare at you, you, the magicless student, the misfortune. You’re quiet until they’ve gone.

“I don’t want anything. I can get by, but I know so many less lucky than I… someone has to help the outcasts, we look for you still. Please help the outcasts, or nobody will,”

The snow has calmed outside, the clouds giving way to the sun, now setting in the west, which reaches its hands through the large windows and colors everything in purples, pinks, yellows, reds and blues. It’s more color than you’d ever seen on Noble Bell campus, and you spend a moment just standing in its light.

The air feels clearer here. You drink in the sun’s light until the clouds pass over it again, leaving you with nothing but dark, and the feeling of eyes on you.

You turn around quickly just to see a candelabra crashing to the ground and a flash of black and purple. Somehow, you know just who it is.

“Wait!”

You call out, running towards the door he’d disappeared into. You follow a narrow flight of stairs, spiraling higher and higher towards the heavens, the twin sister of your home, the southern bell tower.

You can hear the sound of shoes scuffing on stone ahead of you. The footsteps are quick and lithe, each with precision, as if he’d been up here a million times before.

“Wait, I just want to talk to you!” You shout, coming to a wooden landing, and stopping at a short, rickety set of steps.

“I’m sorry, if I’d known who you were, I never would’ve pulled you onto… stage.”

Crowning over the steps, at the precipice of the bell tower, is the biggest, most beautiful bell you’ve ever seen in your entire life. It dwarfs the bells you’d become so familiar with, and, quite frankly, no amount of words could do it justice.

“...Who are you?” you whisper to it, still only halfway over the last step, stuck in place.

“The Bell of Salvation,”

Out from behind the bell, like a shy child behind the legs of its mother, he appears. His emerald eyes meet yours for but a moment, lingering, drinking in the sight of you, before he looks away again.

“The heart of Noble Bell College. Its namesake. Its magic,” he says, looking at the bell with reverence, as if it were something holy. You suppose it is. “I am its keeper.”

You finish your step, now standing on even ground with him. “You…”

And he looks at you, something not quite hostile, but not quite trusting, either, in his eye.

“I am Rollo Flamme. Student council president of Noble Bell College,”

You hold onto a wooden beam, as if you might get blown away. You had never been so high up in your own bell tower. “We haven’t met before,”

Rollo stares you down, his emerald eyes lowered, as if he’s waiting for something. When nothing comes, he looks away again.

“I suppose we haven’t. I apologize for not formally introducing myself. I’ve been… quite busy,”

“That’s alright,” you say, daring to step a little closer. He looks unsure of you, as if he’s afraid. Or perhaps you make him nervous. But what a silly thought that is…

“I take it you’ve been enjoying your time here?”

Small talk. Not exactly what you’d been looking for after having a breakdown and then chasing him up a bell tower.

He takes your silence as an answer. “It must be taxing, living amongst mages. I understand,”

You lean against the beam, watching him. His mannerisms, his expression, the way his back is straightened, his head held high. It’s rigid. Unnatural. It’s the perfect image of a Noble Bell student, nonetheless. Proud. Emotionless. Polite.

“Do you?”

You hadn’t meant for that to come out the way it did. Rollo’s eyes widen, his arms fall to his sides, and he says nothing. He just looks at you. Your question lingers in the air, making it heavy with unspoken things.

“Yes. I do,”

The setting sun paints the sky with reds and oranges, colors too bright and too violent for a moment like this. It’s quiet. And cold. You look at him again.

“I'm a monster here,”

Again, you hadn’t meant for it to sound that way. You were only reciting what people had been calling you, treating you as, since you stepped foot on this little island at the heart of the city. Rollo doesn’t take it as such.

“Come with me,” he says, and you follow.

Your hands curl around the wooden banister that separates you and him from the sky at the edge of the bell tower. You can see far over the city, the river, glimmering in the light of the setting sun, and the sky, purple and orange and yellow and blue, sparkling with stars, alight with color and life not unlike the window you’d been standing under earlier.

You exhale, your breath visible in the chill. “It’s beautiful,”

“I think so as well,” Rollo says, though he’s looking at you, not the sky. “I come here when I want to be alone.”

“I could stay here forever,”

“You could,”

You’re drawn back to him, and he returns your gaze. His hair, white, but tinted dark purple from the light of the sky, flutters around his face in the wind. The ribbon of his hat is stuck over his shoulder, and his robes are tousled. The cold has turned his pale face a little pink. He looks… unkempt, almost. Nothing like one would expect from the student council president of a place like this. It’s almost comforting.

“I can’t,” you finally say, looking at your hands, dry and cracked from the cold wind. “I don’t belong here. I’m a monster, remember?”

Rollo finally lets his eyes rest on the island, the river, and the city beyond. The sky is dark now, purple with early evening.

“You’re not,”

“How can you say that?” you ask, leaning against the banister. “Everyone loves you. They all talk about how great you are. You’re respected. You’re admired. You belong here…”

For whatever reason, that seems to strike a nerve with him. His nose wrinkles and lips go tight, as if he’d tasted something sour, and he turns to face you fully.

“I don’t care for what they think. You’re not a monster,” he says.

His conviction, the look in his eyes, dark yet warm like the dying embers of a fire, forces your silence. And yet, he says nothing more. He, again, stares at the city, but there’s something different in him now. Something secret. Something bitter. Even you can feel it. He parts his lips again, breathing in the cold air, his brow still knotted with frustration.

“And perhaps they’re wrong about the both of us.”

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