#i like to think rollo confides in the gargoyles

[merakiui]

cannot stop thinking about enemies to lovers with rollo, but you’re each other’s secret santa.

Your plan is to get Rollo something he’ll never need or use (a really petty revenge on your part, but you don’t like him and in the midst of your hatred it sounds reasonable), while Rollo genuinely wants to get you something meaningful. Putting differences aside, he realizes he doesn’t know much about your preferences, so he tries to ask around without seeming too suspicious. As troublesome of a disruption as you are, everyone deserves a lovely gift for the holidays. You’ve given Rollo nothing but headaches and irritation, but since it’s the festive season he can be softer and forgive past disagreements. Anything after the holiday break is fair game, though, so it’s best to cause mischief while the holidays are in full swing because he’s prone to be only slightly less overbearing (depending on his mood as the festivities become more apparent).

Somehow, with all of his asking around, rumor spreads throughout Noble Bell that President Rollo is planning to ask you out on the eve of the holidays at exactly midnight under the bell tower. How such an absurd rumor started is beyond him, and Rollo is fully ready to refute every gossiping comment that’s boldly thrown his way, both in passing conversations and from his fellow Vice President and student aide. He cannot believe the school assumes he would even think of asking you—Noble Bell’s most notorious troublemaker—out! And during the holidays, too! He’d much rather burn to death than do something like that. He can’t stand you. How anyone thinks he’d like you enough to want to pursue romance with you is absolutely ridiculous. 

But then the idea suddenly becomes less ridiculous and more advantageous when his Vice President suggests he go on an actual date (or friendly outing; Rollo’s expression is sharp enough to kill when he hears the word ‘date’) in order to learn about what it is you like. Word of mouth isn’t as reliable as hearing it from the source. Rollo, after much consideration, supposes it isn’t terrible, but (once again) he’d rather do anything else than punish himself with a date with you, of all students. He’s so stubborn when he claims he’ll find another way, and his Vice President can only utter a soft sigh. 

As the deadline for Secret Santa approaches and Rollo overhears how the others around him have all found perfect presents, he begins to fear that he won’t ever find a gift that’s good enough for you. But why is he even trying so hard? It’s not as if he looks forward to seeing your bright smile when you unwrap it. It’s not as if he’s doing this to make you happy. This is just common courtesy. An act of goodwill from student to student, if you will. Or, in less sweet terms, an obligation he must fulfill due to the misfortune of a lottery draw. 

So he thinks nothing of it when his Vice President and student aide invite him to a café off campus as a final outing before everyone goes home for the holidays. When he walks through the door, the bell welcoming him with a cheery jingle, and he sees you sitting there he promptly turns and is ready to walk out. But you call out to him, wave with that pretty hand of yours, and he can’t stop himself from sighing. His peers lied to him; this is not an outing to celebrate the end of the semester. It’s the date he was dreading. He only stays because it’s the polite thing to do—because you’re whining about how he lacks manners and has the gall to leave a dear friend all alone after he had invited them out. 

Rollo really can’t stand you, but he must for the time being. So he slides into the chair across from you, where you’ve already ordered his favorites (he’s certain his troublesome Vice President arranged this, too). If he has to stomach an entire afternoon with you, he might as well get something out of it, so he uses the time he spends with you to learn about your preferences in hopes of getting inspiration for a gift.

Things are awkward in the beginning. Both of you are so accustomed to bickering over rules and Noble Bell’s student code of conduct that civil conversation is actually much harder to fall into. You broach the subject of that rumor that’s been going around and that’s what gets him talking. Rollo scoffs around a bite of croissant, muttering about how it’s nonsensical rubbish and that people will believe anything nowadays so long as it’s interesting. When you laugh out of relief and tell him you’re glad he doesn’t like you because that would’ve made things awkward, he feels an odd sting. Your feelings have never mattered to him, so why does he hate those words?

And why, while he talks of holiday plans with you, does he find himself smiling? Thankfully he’s brought his handkerchief along to hide his pleased expression. He’s not sure what he’d say if you were to make note of his obvious enjoyment, for even he wouldn’t be able to explain it. 

By the end of it, Rollo feels as though he’s gleaned a better understanding of you. When you aren’t actively causing a ruckus, you’re actually quite pleasant to be around. Who would have thought? Despite this, he’s still ready to head back to campus with you after a draining afternoon. But you point to a sweets shop on the way and ask if he’s ever had their winter-themed treats before. He narrows his eyes at you, as if to say, “What are you playing at?” You’re seizing his wrist and dragging him in the direction of the confectionery before he can say anything.

It feels like he’s in a cheesy holiday film, what with how you energetically peer into the jars of candies and sweets, all arranged neatly on the shelves, and the soundtrack in the shop plays festive tunes on repeat. Rollo tries to hurry you along; if anyone from school sees him with you, they’ll think the rumors are true and it’ll cause even more trouble. You yank on his scarf to keep him close, and he’s so tempted to yank you in return. But he finds that you don’t have a scarf for him to tug, and so he has to fester in his displeasure with a scowl. 

The two of you walk out with snowflake-shaped marshmallows, bell-shaped cookies, and candy canes of all flavors and colors. Rollo supposes he’s earned a sweet after dealing with your spontaneity, but then you insist on getting hot chocolate to go along with the marshmallows and now he’s being dragged to a little shop nearby. On the way there, the two of you pass a craft store and something catches his eye. He tells you to go ahead while he steps inside. You raise your brow at him but continue along, and when the two of you meet up he’s holding a bag. You question it, and he tells you to stop being so nosy. Your curiosity is quickly snuffed when you spy another storefront with windows decorated so adorably. 

At some point, in the midst of popping in and out of stores—where he continues to remind you that the both of you ought to be getting back—it begins to snow. Tiny flakes flutter to the ground, and you stick your tongue out to catch a few. They melt immediately upon contact. Rollo doesn’t realize he’s not hiding his expression until you’re gaping at him.

“What?” he asks slowly, dubiously, his eyes narrowing once more. 

“You’re smiling,” you say in awe. “I’ve never seen you smile before...”

“This smile is not for you,” he assures you with a scoff. “Stop ogling. It’s rude.”

“But you look so nice and approachable when you smile like that.”

He glares at you and the smile vanishes behind an irritated countenance and that trademark handkerchief of his. 

“I suppose,” he admits after a moment of awkward silence, “you aren’t so terrible to be around when you aren’t acting like a menace to the entirety of the student body.”

“Why, thank you, President Flamm! That’s high praise coming from you.” You lower into a dramatic bow. He rolls his eyes, but his heart skips a beat. “And you aren’t so bad either. To be honest, I thought I was done for when your VP told me you wanted to meet at the café. I thought you’d chew me out or hex me or...something.”

The mere notion that he’d do such things to you is irksome. He isn’t entirely bad or frightening. You just seem to bring those sides out when you run through the halls, pick fights, and cause disorder amongst the students. 

“Is that right?” He lowers the handkerchief, smirking. His fingers find your chin and he tilts your head to meet his stare. “Maybe you should try being less of a pain. I might show you some mercy the next time we cross paths.”

He pulls away, leaving you stunned, and turns on his heel. “Now then, we should return to campus. It’s getting late and cold, and I’d rather not get stuck in the snow.” 

Rollo doesn’t realize what he did until hours later, when he’s sitting at his desk knitting snowflake patterns into a scarf from the yarn he purchased at the craft shop. The memory has his face gradually heating up, so red and hot you could mistake it for a wavering flame. 

He can’t stand you, or so he once thought.

The gift bag sits innocently in front of your dorm door. There’s a card attached, but the sender’s true name isn’t written. Rather, a lovely message has been penned in curling script: Happy holidays. Do take care to bundle up. It gets rather cold around this time of year. I would hate to see you frostbitten and ill the next time we meet. Sincerely, your Secret Santa. Inside the bag are a scarf, a bag of assorted candies from a confectionery in the city, hot chocolate mix, and a mug with moon and star patterns. It’s a very comfortable gift, and you can’t help but admire the handmade scarf’s quality. 

You have your suspicions, but there’s no way such a kind gift could come from Rollo. He’s made it quite clear that he dislikes you, and you feel the same way. It’s probably from his VP, right? He did ask you a few questions about gift preferences, so it’s quite plausible that he’s your Secret Santa.

Rollo is in the middle of penning his thoughts in his diary when there’s a sharp knock at his door. And then frantic footsteps echo down the hall. He opens the door in hopes of catching the culprit, but he finds emptiness instead. His gaze travels down to the gift box that rests at his feet. It’s been wrapped in blue and white paper and has been taped rather sloppily. With raised brows, he gathers the gift in his arms and shuts the door, curiosity mounting. 

The card taped to it is the first thing he opens. It reads: I really don’t know you that well and I have no idea what you like or what you do in your free time, so if you ever learn my identity please don’t give me another detention for this gift. I tried my best! In any case, happy holidays, Rollo. You deserve a break. See you next year! From, your super cool and super secretive secret santa!!! When he unwraps the gift and peels the lid back, an amused smile pulls at his lips. Inside the box is a croissant plush with beady, little eyes and a cute smile. There’s also a sugar cookie-scented candle and an astronomy-themed stationery kit.  

Rollo sets the gifts on his desk, lowers into his chair, and flips to a new page in his diary. His heart feels oddly light as he scribbles a fresh entry.

I think I’m falling in love, are the first words that stain the page. And it isn’t a terrible feeling.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hiii I’ve been following the Malleus talk for some time now and wanted to ask what things you do like about him or good traits you think he has. I ask because when you explained that why you don’t like Vil you also said what you liked about him. That he works hard and is confident. So I’m wondering if you have some of those for Malleus!

[Referencing this post and this post!]

Aaaaaah, I tried my best to come up with things I like about Malleus but fair warning that it’s not a lot and I had to pick really specific instances rather than general characteristics 💦 I hope that’s okay!!

His mom is hot--

There are times when he acts appropriately neutral, wise, and dignified, as a crown prince and future king should be. I like these moments and want more of them over him being pouty or lashing out. A few examples of this include Fairy Gala (he knows there are tensions between nocturnal and diurnal fae and rightfully stays out of it), Ghost Marriage (he cannot thoughtlessly propose to Eliza but does support Riddle and Lilia in their preparations), and Vargas Camp (when he instructs Sebek to apologize to Leona, who still counts as a fellow prince).

His patience with Sebek. Early on in the fandom I think there was this expectation that Malleus would find Sebek annoying? But it’s refreshing to see that he isn’t usually bothered by Sebek’s presence and handles interactions in a level-headed and blunt manner. He doesn’t discourage Sebek and his special interests either; Malleus tends to entertain them (like the time he sat still and had the royal painter do a portrait of Malleus for Sebek’s birthday gift) or is otherwise pretty indifferent about it, though of course he still corrects Sebek when he steps out of line or intrudes on others. For example, Malleus still speaks up when Sebek is rude to other nobles or is disturbing the peace with his loudness.

Malleus’s love and care for the gargoyles of the City of Flowers/Fleur City. His friendship with that one gargoyle was just so adorable!! Short it may have been, but it was still very genuine.

His parallels with Leona. A crown prince with few close friends or family… versus a prince who will never have the crown but is surrounded by loving people… They want what the other has so badly, and I think there’s such a tragic irony about that.

The one time Malleus truly felt fear (thanks to Rollo). Listen, LISTEN 😭 This was legitimately so cool????? To think that it would be Rollo lighting a fire under Malleus’s tail, forcing this overpowered fairy to experience that same feeling others may have when he unleashes his power on them… Oh, how the tables turn. It’s interesting that Malleus reacts as if he’s amused by the sensation of fear and welcomes the challenge; it sort of implies he was growing bored of the same old routine and is actually showing some strange respect to Rollo by deeming him a worthy opponent. This being one of the few times Malleus shows vulnerability instead of dominating the battle, of course I’d love it 😂

But most importantly…. Malleus’s best trait is—

***Late book 7 spoilers below the cut!!!***

He was once a cute lil’ baby dragon that makes silly lizard sounds 🐉 (alas, he is no longer one… 😔) And again, he has a hot mom—

[pomefioredove]

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!”

“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.”

tag list!! :]

@darling-5yndrome @moonyasnow

[ryuichirou]

I think you said before that you don't know much of Malleus so this question is for a later time lol. What are your thoughts on him?

Btw I'd like to go by 💌 Anon, if that's ok ;;

Hi 💌 Anon! Thank you so much for your ask and patience.

We still don’t know too much about Malleus, and to be honest I feel like I won’t be confident in my knowledge of him up until the end of his book, but in case we’re still active in the fandom when it happens, I’ll just write another post to reflect on the new things that we learnt about him.

The majority of things that we know about Malleus (aside from his appearances in ch1-6 so far) are from the Glorious Masquerade event, and I feel like it’s quite a good one to get familiar with him, his motivations, his quirks, etc. He is pretty much the star of that event lol poor little Rollo.

We love Malleus, he is funny and pretty cute. The omnipotent being and stupid sitcom-like situations with the running gag being “oops we forgot to invite him” is a good combo. I love that he got himself a stupid cute nickname and is simply way too amused to say something about it. His helplessness in social situations and his moodiness are such good additions to his character, plus, the gargoyles… The gargoyles scene from the event... The boy really allowed them to call him Mal and started talking about himself in 3rd person. That’s a gap moe if I’ve ever seen one. In general, I love how nerdy and otaku-like he is about things that he loves. Like gargoyles.

At the same time, despite how much I want to woobify Malleus, I am aware that he is in fact quite scary, uncanny and detached from others in the worst way possible: because of his position and circumstances he doesn’t have a proper grasp of other’s mortality, vulnerability or ethics. And he doesn’t really seem to care much about it. Not only that, he is a huge ticking bomb, because he is simply way too powerful and at the same time quite sensitive and sometimes even childish. Not because of immaturity, but because of how difficult it is for him to navigate himself in the world where there is no one he could really relate to, I feel like there is not a single person who could build a connection to him based on relatability. So, it’s pretty difficult for him to have a strong bond with someone, and because of that, when that bond is compromised, he freaks the fuck out. Like, in the event, when he learnt that he wasn’t actually invited because of the Noble Bell Academy wanting him here, but simply because Rollo had a beef with him, he got hysterical and pretty much ready to destroy the entire city. He didn’t care that he could’ve easily hurt his schoolmates and innocent people and sabotage their situation even further: he got upset and that was it, he couldn’t think about anything else.

Malleus is stuck in an interesting inner conflict, where he really enjoys his solitude and doesn’t really need other people to have a good time watching over gargoyles and such, but at the same time, I feel like he does feel lonely and does want to relate to someone and be a part of the group, but doesn’t know how to make himself more approachable. Or doesn’t want to, or doesn’t care to, it’s hard to tell.

I’m very excited that we’ll get to see more of him, it’s about time.

[fire-darkfire]

What if Briar Valley had unorthodox courting traditions (à la kyou kara maou)? Like one day, Rollo shows up to Diasomnia dorm, proud and confident "I challenge you, Malleus Draconia!"

And there's a quite deafening silent. What would they fight with, asks Lillia and of course? Their fire magic. Rollo doesn't hesitate. Sebek and Silver begs their master to refuse it because it's a terrible idea and that human is not worthy, and maybe for a second Rollo thinks this concern means Malleus grew weaker. But he accepts, only if the gargoyles are present. Loud gasps. Rollo shrugs, if he wants talking stones to witness his defeat so be it.

"Then you both agree?" When Lillia asks (with a smirk) and they both nod, there's cheers and only Sebek and Silver are still objecting.

A confused Rollo learns that challenging a member of the Draconia family to a duel where both parts choose the same weapon is a proposal. A custom not really known to humans because only a fool would think to challenge a fae, especially the royal family. (NBC student council: don't underestimate OUR fool!)

Lillia pats Malleus on the back, happy to have been the one to see him get "challenged", Sebek and Silver cry, and Rollo has to show up the next day with his luggage and the gargoyles.

[pianostarinwonderland]

Thoughts on Rollo's Backstory

By now everyone's very confident in the theory that Rollo has a younger brother whom he lost to magic, which fuels his desire to rid the world of magic.

There are strong implications to this. First one is that Yana Toboso herself recommended via a tweet to watch the Hunchback of Notre Dame play. The play follows the original novel more closely, in that (a) Esmeralda dies, and (b) Frollo actually has a younger brother named Jehan whom he saw as "corrupt". In the play version of Bells of Notre Dame, Jehan "grew more wild and defied and defiled all the laws of Notre Dame". Frollo even tried to bring him back and say that he'll "heal" his brother.

On the subject of corruption, we know by now that Overblot is a manifestation of this. Mages who overblot from what we've seen used up too much of their magic and succumbed to their negative feelings. The black ink also kind of seals in the corruption imagery too. 😅

What also adds to this theory is Idia's reaction after reading Rollo's diary. While Azul and Malleus weren't as shaken, Idia is silent. Azul even had to remind Idia that Rollo is their enemy no matter what, and since this event seems to assume chapter 6 had passed (based on Epel's UM), Azul already knows about Idia's traumas with Ortho's death.

Finally, when it cuts to Rollo saying, "All of Twisted Wonderland will be rid of magic. No one will have to go through what 'that person' did.", he refers to 'that person' as 'aitsu'. Aitsu is a very informal way of referring to someone, and it can be rude. It makes sense to refer to a sibling as aitsu due to its casual nature.

Also adding here that with that, there is no specific gender that Rollo alluded to here. No, it's not confirmed that whoever he is referring to is a boy yet.

Now with all that being said, I want to challenge this theory for a bit. 😋

What if the person Rollo is referring to is not a younger brother, but someone else who cared for him?

Rollo is not just ctrl c + v Frollo. He has similarities to Quasimodo, one of them being that he's the one who takes care of the gargoyles in the school (as mentioned by the talking gargoyle in the latest update).

With that being said, Esmeralda was the first person to ever be kind to Quasimodo. She saved him from being mocked in the Festival of Fools, and she touched his face without being disgusted by him. He started being fond of her because of that.

Esmeralda is also from a people who was scorned. Like Jehan, Frollo perceived her as "corrupt". But an additional thing is that Esmeralda was accused of witchcraft and sorcery (she did do the handkerchief trick).

Now in the play, aside from Frollo having a younger brother, another big difference between the movie and the play is that Esmeralda dies. Jehan was only expelled from Notre Dame, but Esmeralda perishes at the end.

Even the evidences that support Rollo having a younger brother can also support this idea.

Idia did go silent from reading Rollo's diary, yes. But it can be argued that he sympathizes greatly with the tragedy of losing a loved one to Overblot in general. His sympathy would be much greater if it's a younger brother, that's true. Still, I think he can relate to the scenario of losing someone he cared about to overblot regardless.

As for the aitsu part, it's possible that 'that person' Rollo is referring to is someone he's just very close to that isn't necessarily a sibling. After all, Azul has referred to the twins as 'aitsura'.

I think that Rollo having a younger brother that he lost makes a lot of sense and I wouldn't be surprised if that's the direction the story is going to. But I think there's also a possibility that it could be someone else that he was close to.

Regardless of whoever he lost, I do think that Rollo had been excluded and isolated at some point in his life. Maybe he was scorned for being a mage. That person whom he lost was probably the one person in his life that cared for him, and when they left, that definitely shook him horribly. Solidified his belief that magic is bad because it took away the person he cared.

[merakiui]

Rollo confides to the gargoyles while Malleus is jealous, hahaha! The idea is super cute, though! Do you think we’ll see more Rollo in the future of the game?

Aaaaa I really hope so!!! Twst should capitalize on Rollo with more events involving him!! It would be really neat if they gave us a card of masquerade Rollo and of other characters like the RSA boys! 👀 I would summon those cards so fast.

[heartstabyuldaisuki]

Lmao😂😂😂

Rollo Flamme in his Riddle Rosehearts Era 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Though, to be honest, I did feel the Deja Vu when Rollo was breaking down🤔🤔

⚠️Major Spoilers of Masquerade event below (coz mention of Rollo's backstory)

SIMILARITIES AND DIFFERENCE(S) OF THE DEJA VU I SEE IN RIDDLE AND ROLLO

Personally, I think Riddle and Rollo shared a few surfaced similarities.

1)Both had(Riddle)/still having (Rollo) an obsession with their belief

2)Technically, the two suffer (mentally+psychologically) coz of what they believe in

3)Both had been/has been isolating themselves (albeit for different reasons of coz)

4)The cause of their eventual breakdown is denial (refusing to believe they are in the wrong)

Whereas, I think the difference are

Drilled belief (+realised his wrongdoings and change for better) vs self-formed belief (+internalized turmoil)

Riddle's belief in rules are drilled by his own mother, to which he deep down had second thoughts of it

👇🏻

"But Mom...Why? Why does my heart hurt so much?...(skipped context)...Tell me, Mom, please...What rule do I need to follow to make this pain go away?"

[Monologue taken in Twst ENG]

The pain is because of him subconsciously thinking the overconstrictive rules as suffocating. After the events of book 1, Riddle realized what he did wrong and apologized. Although the boy still values the importance of rules, he becomes more lenient in terms of enforcing them. An example would be him turning a blind eye to Adeuce's fight with Jack (NRC School rules #6:No fighting in school grounds) because of the info they got regarding to the Magishift/Spelldrive consequential inccidents in the exchange.

On the other hand, Rollo formed his own belief after witnessing (albeit helplessly) his little brother's unfortunate death. Such traumatic experince obviously would've affected his belief system😭😭😭

Trauma can affect our belief system and affect the way that we look at ourselves. We may feel unsafe or even feel that we cannot trust ourselves. We may blame ourselves for the past and deny ourselves from feeling any sense of happiness. Sometimes, those suffering from trauma may feel guilty about being happy, which can stunt them in their growth. (copied from Trauma Can Affect Our Belief Systems - The Guest House Ocala)

We don't know how Rollo deals with the loss🥲🥲 Though judging by his interactions with the NBC mobs and the gargoyles, he most likely has been closing his heart and never truly opens up to anyone ever since then😭😭

His internalized self-blame and self-hatred so strong, no wonder Rollo has to blame the existence of magic, mages and the world😢😢😢 It's always easier to blame others than yourself, especially when that's probably the only way Rollo unloads his emotions since for god sake he wouldn't voice these feelings aloud, so how is he going to deal with whatever burdening his mind other than that😭😭😭😭😭

(Do keep in mind, I am NOT justifing Rollo's behavior, his actions are understandable, but definitely unhealthy😬😬😬 If anyone has a traumatized experience or whatever troubling negative thoughts, they should confide in someone no matter it's a family member, a friend or a person you feels trustworthy enough to open up to, or to professionals with expertised knowledge in that aspect, like councilors, for guidance)

Off topic, now back on track hehe🙈🙈

Near the end of event story, we know Malleus gave Rollo the choice to come clean with his crimes or to keep it buried (+suffering over the turmoil, by Malleus's words) , to which Rollo chooses the latter👀👀

At this point, the extent of guilt Rollo feels is pretty much up to speculation🤔🤔 (except of the obvious "he doesn't seem to hold guilty towards the NRC bois"😂😂)

Personally, I'd interpret him feeling at least slight guilt towards the NBC mobs (Rollo intended to tell them the truth only to be interrupted by firstly Malleus, then Azul and Idia😬 whether the reason is for responsibility or guilt, he did initially chose to tell the truth), even seemed a bit shocked/touched by their concern of his safety.

Imagine you have been following the footsteps of the great role model of justice, you view all bads as evil+a thing to be perished(?), people admire for your dedication for just, and now you're forced to comply with a lie (most likely a bad in his eyes) for the sake of covering your sins and holding up with the admirable image those around you have in their mind🙉🙉

Although, by Rollo's words, "Then all I have to do is to keep my mouth shut, and I'll be free of my sin!" with his evil-looking smirk😂, I want to believe there's a part of him feeling complicated about this😭😭😭 That would be fitting to Malleus's so-called punishment for him😢😢😢

👇🏻

Malleus:Well, that too is fine.

Malleus:You can mask yourself this way, perhaps fool others too.

Malleus:However, you cannot deceive this Bell of Salvation, that has been watching over you at Noble Bell College.

Rollo:*sweatdropped shocked look*...The Bell......of Salvation......

Malleus:Yes. You value the bell dearly, no? About how you tired exploiting it......

Malleus:To reflect or not, it's up to you.

Rollo:......*frowned*

Malleus:Either you confess everything or keep silent, do regret

Malleus:Whichever you choose, you are going to suffer, your heart will continue to flare with remorse.

(Rollo still sweatdropping)

Malleus:There is no punishment that torments Flamme more than this. Right?

Rollo:*Closes eyes*.......I see...huh...

Rollo: Indeed...you scoundrels seem to know the way of making people suffer...... *sweatdrop+seemingly a bitter smile*

👆🏻Translation by myself, which may contains inaccuracies coz I'm not a professional translator🙈🙈🙈

I want to believe the last line there is a genuine statement🥺🥺🥺🥺, that he has an ardent sense of belonging to Noble Bell College, and by extention, his homeland--- the City of Flowers, that he truly would feel bad about exploiting the Bell of Salvation for his self justified reasons own sake😭😭😭😭

This whole thing most likely would end up being internalized again....Rollo sorta deserve this but I can't help but feel bad for him😭😭😭😭😭

GOD I AM NOT YOUR STRONGEST WARRIOR/j

***Glorious Masquerade spoilers beneath the cut!!***

ROLLO LORE ROLLO LORE ROLLO LORE 👀

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