Tangled Regrets – Chapter 9 – A Suspicious Knight (Patreon)

“Why?” I ask my childhood friend, the girl I’ve known all of my life.

The one I thought I knew.

“Sayaka...” she hesitates, a hand half-raised toward me.

“Hey, no need to get so intense, newbie. Let her explain.”

I look at Kyouko, at the worry hidden behind her nonchalant pose, with her head tilted back against the hands laced behind her nape.

And then at Homura subtly angling herself to get between Madoka and me.

And I sigh.

“Sorry, it’s just… how did it end? I never lived to see it.”

Madoka flinches, and Kyouko grabs my hand right before pretending it’s not a big deal.

… And she wonders why I don’t give her my tomatoes without having her work for it.

“It’s not Madoka’s fault,” the girl we just confirmed is behind all of this tells us.

“I could… show you?” my childhood friend finally says, her timidity temporarily overcome.

I raise an eyebrow, because I haven’t got the foggiest idea what she means.

***

“It’s been… quite a while since our last sleepover,” I tell nobody in particular, even though the line only makes sense for a single person in our shared bedroom.

I admit to being a bit disappointed after learning Kyouko and I wouldn’t have a room to ourselves, because we’ve gotten too used to having that space, now that my parents have resigned themselves to living with what amounts to an old-time couple who are also newlyweds and teenagers.

…

I… Should remember doing something special for Mother’s and Father’s Day.

And to soundproof the room.

And to bury my head in my pillow till I suffocate and my eternal shame no longer threatens to make my cheeks burst into flame—ah, wait, I don’t need to wait to do that!

“What are you even doing?” Kyouko’s exasperated voice comes from the bed beside my own.

“Atoning,” I answer with what I dearly hope will be my last lungful.

Madoka giggles. She knows.

“If you could stop being overly dramatic for a minute, maybe we could get on with this,” Homura… Homuraes.

“Hey! Only I get to tease her about her Sailor Moon speeches!” Kyouko traitorously proclaims.

“Her what?” No, Homura. Don’t. That way lies madness.

“You haven’t read that? Oh, it was an old manga about magical girls—” the girl who spent half her time fighting eldritch monsters and the other half loitering around arcades and convenience stores begins.

Begins what, you ask? My doom, most likely.

There’s only so much mortification a human body that still holds a non-egg-shaped soul can withstand.

“Moving on! What did you have in mind, Madoka?” I not at all yell in mid-panic as I raise my head off my pillow.

Kyouko, either you stop sniggering, or you’ll keep mysteriously falling off the bed in the middle of the night. For no reason at all.

“Right! It’s… You remember the sensation from when you projected into the curse today, right? Just do the same, and I’ll guide you.”

I turn over and look at the opposite corner of the room, where a pinkette is clutching her bedcovers while far too intense eyes keep being nailed on her from the bed at her side.

… They’ll be fucking in no time at all, won’t they?

Agh! Gross! She’s like a sister!

… And now I’m going to shelve that revelation for later perusing. Also, for when Kyouko isn’t in range of mockery.

So, maybe I should ask the question I had before my train of thought utterly derailed.

“I thought you couldn’t do magic. It’s been this whole thing for years.”

“That’s… not accurate. I have almost no power, but things that just require technique are not an issue. Sorry, it just felt easier not to clarify. Not that it makes much of a difference, seeing as I need to hide that I actually am more skilled than I should be…” she trails off.

And Homura lays a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

And Madoka flushes as a giddy smile flits over her lips for just a second while she keeps looking at her hands.

… We may need to implant a sock protocol before this trip’s over. Ah, my Madoka’s purity is about to be stolen!

Or given. Enthusiastically.

Which one’s worse for my mental health? Only the future can tell. Hopefully, with not too much detail.

“Why, though? Everybody knows that Homura imprinted on you, so they know you have parallel lives to draw on. It would be weirder if you weren’t more skilled than other people,” Kyouko remarks in one of her rare pondering moments.

And she brings up a good enough point that I should not react at all and hopefully let it pass without her noticing I hadn’t thought about it because I’m too busy repressing the part of my brain that keeps trying to picture Homura doing a kabedon to a very pleasantly blushing Madoka.

… This is sheer torture. Why couldn’t she be a regular friend I could be happy for instead of an almost sibling who is objectively attractive due to my own recently explored Sapphic tendencies? The ickiness is only compounded.

“That… makes sense?” Madoka finally says.

And Homura chuckles.

All right, that’s weird.

Maybe not ‘hit the deck and start scrambling for an improvised weapon’ weird, but not that far off, either.

“What the Hell?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Three girls turn to stare at me, and in only one of their faces can I see my horror and shock reflected.

Ah, Kyouko’s still sane. Good to know.

Well, saneish.

“What’s the matter, Sayaka?” the girl who kept alternatively trying to get me to avoid throwing my life away or kill me says.

The one I’m not having sex with, I mean.

… I need to have a good, long think after this trip’s over.

“You… You chuckled,” I say, perhaps a tad impolitely.

“It freaks me the fuck out,” Kyouko further elaborates.

“That’s not nice!” Madoka… Madokaes.

Seriously, she’s too pure to be defiled. Restrain yourself, Homura!

And don’t facepalm. It’s rude.

“I… I already accomplished what I set out to do. I’m trying to… relax. A bit. It’s been kind of a struggle,” she offers me a rueful smile, and Madoka clenches her girlfriend’s hand over the cover of her bed.

… Two to one they end up in the same bed before morning. Ugh.

“Right. Sorry, I’m just… It hasn’t been long since I started remembering you, and it’s hard to fit all the pieces together. I remember the inexperienced, enthusiastic you, the frantic you, the resigned you… But it’s like all of them fade away the moment I look at your straight hair and remember… well, you.”

Homura’s eyes almost glow in the dark of this bedroom, everything rendered in shades of grey by the dim light filtering through the closed shutters. Her eyes are open, not lidded or narrowed in disgust, but still as unnerving as whenever she weighed me before drawing a weapon.

Any weapon. She may like her gun, but she was versatile enough not to rely on it.

“I do apologize,” she finally says.

“Don’t,” Madoka forcefully answers.

And we all stare at her, Homura in shocked silence, and my best friend doesn’t fidget under the attention.

“You still don’t know, Sayaka, and I understand from what you remember Homura did things she should apologize for… But never do it in my presence. I can’t stand the thought of it.”

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before laying back down.

“Now close your eyes and let your soul reach out. I’ll guide you,” she all but orders us.

Not knowing why, I follow her instruction without protest nor argument.

And the last thing I see before I close my eyes is that Madoka never let Homura’s hand go.

***

There’s a reason Kyouko and I haven’t yet enacted our fantasies about projected space.

When I let my soul drift, the roots of it still entangled in my body even as the branches of consciousness drift out, my natural inclination is to fall asleep. To dream.

Because that’s what dreaming is: the soul reaching out beyond, drifting through clouds of meaning and memory and emotion. And projection is the same, though layered with intent.

Intent isn’t power, but what guides it. It’s focused will, and the process to develop it, hone it, is very different from the process to train both power and technique. Some have enough raw potential that the weakest intent still manages results, but for many mages, it’s not even an option. You need to be able to direct your magic, to bind it to your desire and not let it stray.

To not falter into curse.

There’s… other ways. Other methods. Junko already’s taught us about following the path of the world, letting our goals align with something greater that never deviates, never strays, never curses.

It is at the same time far easier and impossibly hard to do. Most of us can only rely on our will.

Which means that the moment my soul starts drifting, and I feel the open possibilities of worlds beyond this one in my grasp, and I start to feel the drowsiness of the disconnect, my will is shattered. Because I haven’t trained my intent to remain as my mind fades.

Madoka… doesn’t seem to have the same issues.

I feel a light hand reaching out to mine, grasping it with tender strength, and my eyes open.

Except they aren’t the eyes of my body, and I’m not laying on a bed at an old inn.

No, I am standing. And the sky opens up above me.

It’s so full of stars, I can almost hear silver tingling. It’s a subtle melody, a lullaby that lures me not into dream, but greater wakefulness, and the moon is surrounded by these flickering lights—a moon bigger than I’ve ever seen, casting rays of…

It’s Homura.

The moon is raining argent motes on Homura, the gently swirling petals of a flower that could never exist tenderly caressing her cheek before fading into her.

Like they did when she fought the curse and she drew on magic she never had before.

I stare, mesmerized by the spectacle, the serene beauty of someone I knew to always be steady rather than calm.

Kyouko grasps my hand at my side, also silent, and our fingers interlace.

And, finally, after a blinking eternity, Homura closes her eyes and smiles a small, frail, blissful thing.

And, for some reason, I feel like crying.

“She remembers you,” Madoka says, stepping into the clearing she had always been in, because this is a dream and not a dream, and things like these will happen.

“She does?” Homura asks her, her eyes opening, her head looking away from the moon and to the girl at her side.

Madoka cups her cheek, leaning up, her lips almost brushing hers.

“Of course she does. She always will.”

I look at them, at the undisguised love, yearning, and desperation in their shared gaze.

And the forest, the moon, and the stars fall away until there’s only that look between two people tied by time and destiny.

***

“I’m sorry I lied, Homura,” Madoka says, a smile on her face that is not apologetic at all as she presses a grief seed on her friend’s hand right before Madoka’s soul gem darkens.

And Homura screams in desperation, at the unfairness of it all happening yet again even as her own gem is purified.

***

“You have to live, Homura. Please. For me,” Madoka’s blood-stained hand falls down, Homura’s cheek stained in red.

She shakes. Shivers. Tries not to cry.

A clock ticks.

***

“Next time… You’ll get it right next time, Homura. I trust you,” Madoka smiles as Homura lies on the ground, her body broken by the gigantic witch’s last attack even as Madoka steps in front of her to protect her, her bow and arrows thrumming with power as she prepares to throw her life away so her friend can escape.

Homura grits her teeth.

Gears shift.

***

“Homura, I… I am sorry…”

Madoka’s body warps, and what comes out is not my friend, not my almost sister. It is horror wrapped up in false hope, and it would devour the world.

Homura nods, only her hand trembling.

The hand of a clock unwinds.

***

“Don’t. Please, don’t. I know you don’t know me, don’t trust me, don’t know anything about me, but please, please, don’t do this, Madoka. Let it all burn. Everything. I don’t care, not anymore. Just save yourself, please.”

Homura begs.

Madoka smiles.

And hugs her.

“I trust you, Homura. But I still have to do this.”

Homura cries.

Gears grind.

***

“I’ll do everything in your name. Kill every witch. Keep everyone safe. Just… just stay away from it all. Please.”

Homura tries not to buckle, to remain standing and steadfast.

Madoka turns away and walks to the witch looming over the horizon.

“If there’s something I can do, I’ll do it. If there’s somebody whose hand I can grasp, I’ll take it. And I’ll take your hand, Homura. After this fight’s over.”

Homura screams.

The ticking of a clock beats frantically.

***

“You must think I’m so gross, Madoka…” Homura breaks down, hugging the girl who just learned the truth about uncountable lives that never happened.

And something in Madoka’s eyes sparks, the shock burning away as she decides what she needs to do.

Junko is there, helping guide her through the whole thing, through the last battle not against Walpurgis Nacht, but fate itself.

Kyuubey looks at her in his detached disinterest, head tilted as he ponders what the amusing girl will do.

And then her lips part and speaks:

“I wish for a world where hope doesn’t mean regret.”

And I come undone.

And a clock shatters.

***

I’m kneeling on soft, dew-covered grass, Kyouko panting by my side.

The birth of the world keeps playing over and over in my mind. The gentle smile of a Madoka who split away, who’s no longer my childhood friend and almost sister, flittering between images of moonlight weaving between worlds, tying them all together until they became a tapestry that gave birth to this one.

I can feel the gleaming silver threads going through my chest, tying Sayaka Miki to Sayaka Miki, memories pulling taut until they all merged and one of the foundations of this whole reality was born.

Kyouko also feels it. Also feels each and every life of hers having been used to create, to bind, to guide.

I want to speak, to yell, to question. I want the girl who refused to become a goddess to tell me why, to tell me why she’s one of the least powerful people in the world, why she’s still my friend after everything I did, everything that went wrong, everything I failed at.

I want her to tell me why she chose a fate that reminded her of the blue-haired idiot making inappropriate jokes until she fell apart. Always did, always lost.

I want her to tell me why she allowed me this. Why she made me happy, why she let Kyouko and I meet again and gave us a last chance at getting things right.

And then I raise my head, and I look not at moonlight and starlight glancing off dewdrops carried by rustling grass.

And I see the girl who refused godhood gently kissing the girl who refused to give up.

I close my eyes, a frustrated, grateful smile on my lips.

Because I know why.

And so, I allow my soul to drift and sleep to take me away.