Solo Log: Matters of Power

**Early Winter, 501 AOV**

Someday, Cleone thinks, she wants to do something that feels good again.

Intellectually, she knows she's making an impact. Her steamsuit is complete now, and one of the first orders of business had been to help plug the hole in Cauldron Hill for at least a little while. The politicians are using the remnants of the Romana estate to help clean up Flint, which is bittersweet to see (Queen Caroline had been kind to a young and humble jeweler, she remembers with a pang of gratitude that may not be all her own) but undeniably a benefit to the city. These are all things that she would have considered good work a year and a half ago, freshly arrived in Flint and hoping to represent the best of Danoran practices.

But the costs and losses in all their work feel staggeringly heavy. Cleone had been the one to break the news to Nathan about the loss of his other cousin, and in the days after tried to help him with his grief. Alongside that is her own mounting guilt, not just for Luc Jierre's death but for--

For knowing Nicodemus was up to something, but realizing what too late and being helpless to stop him.

For freezing up when people were dying and she was too stuck in her own panic to act, just like at Isla dola Focas.

For all the other times she and her team have been forced to let injustice slip by, for need of secrecy or simple lack of power.

Her heart aches to talk to Florette, but Cleone's long tapered off contact with any of her Danoran friends since mid-fall with the vague implication through letters that she's buried in work. They're all safer than way. (And it hurts, to orchestrate her own covert exile, but better to break her own heart than to expose herself and put her friends in danger.)

She still spends time with Nathan, more than ever as they both work through their respective grief in quiet companionship on her off days. But even when he hesitantly offers his ear, Cleone can't untangle the words to explain at first. They collide against each other and fall to pieces in her mouth, and all she can do is shake her head in exhaustion.

Cleone goes home early that day, and although she and Nathan have enough of an understanding that they both know it’s not meant as offense the hunch of his shoulders and his muted goodbye give away his feelings.

She spends much of that evening in front of the tiny shrine to Srasama’s memory she’d constructed in her room the past summer. It’s not a comforting activity, nor is it meant to be. Rather, it’s a reminder: that she has a duty to make up for past wrongs, but also that some wrongs are larger than herself or her capacity to fix alone. That self-flagellation solves nothing, when there are usually more constructive ways to take responsibility for the consequences of her past and present.

The next day her words still don’t come easily, but she’s able to straighten them out enough to apologize to Nathan. “If I’d known what I was getting into when I was first recommended for this job I might not have wanted to come after all,” she admits to him. “Not just because of the sheer scale of what we’re dealing with, or the politics, or how many times I haven’t been able to do the right thing even if I wanted to…but also because of all those things, at once. Then again” - she lets out a tired laugh  - “if I’d known, I don’t think I could have in good conscience refused.”

Nathan nods, more than a hint of resignation in his smile. “It took me six months to come to that conclusion when I first went into hiding. It took me years more to stop regretting going to the Duchess, anyway.”

That’s an oversimplification, Cleone knows, because his remaining regret fuels his decision to stay in hiding. But she understands his point, and doesn’t belabor it. “I’ll regret it if I don’t stay on this job,” she says instead. “But it sure would be easier if I could have a sign that there’s one thing I couldn’t have done better.”

——————————————————————

She gets her sign a week later, just as her team is gearing up to leave again.

Alexander is back and looking after his sons now, and their location in the Cloudwood makes it easy to stop by and check in before another visit to Nathan and Madame Andromeda. Alexander is currently breaking up an argument between Colin and Hunting while trying not to get Diana involved, and Cleone is taking the opportunity to inspect Floyd again.

She’s always taken care to keep Floyd in good condition, but the construction of the steamsuit has made his internal mechanics three times as complicated as before and his maintenance is that much more crucial. Caught up in a dense and intricate system of gears and interlocking pistons, she doesn’t even realize how much time has passed until she looks up at some point to realize Alexander has returned and is staring at her in fascination.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She hurries to finish Floyd’s reassembly, satisfied that everything is in order, and gives him a pat on the spine once she’s done.

Alexander says nothing as he watches her, and continues staring at Floyd even after he’s all back together again. A moment passes.

“Miss Weld,” he says finally, with a weighty pause. “Are you aware that your simulacrum is alive?”

It takes her a second to wrap her mind around that statement to process. “Excuse me?”

“You know my abilities,” he reminds her. “I’ve been watching you at work for some twenty minutes now. Your simulacrum undeniably has a mind and soul of its own - small and simple, like a newborn kitten, but as real as a mind can be.”

“How…” Cleone picks Floyd up in her hands, the morning light reflecting off his polished exterior. Her thoughts race and loop around. A mind. A soul.

“He’s something precious to you, isn’t it?” Alexander smiles kindly at her. “I remember watching you work on him when I was still inhabiting that broken golem body. You gave him a name and your love…that’s part of how my sons were made, you know.”

“I’m not you.” It’s not an accusation, or any sort of derogatory statement. It’s simple fact: Alexander has magical abilities that make him the Mindmaker. Cleone does not. That was the entire reason they’d had a mechanical body for Xambria sitting around for a time, with no ability to transfer her into it. Making or moving souls were just things she couldn’t do, and never expected to.

Alexander, for his part, looks thoughtful. “No, you aren’t. But you don’t have to be, Miss Weld. The fey use names as a measure of power over a person’s self. They can’t do what I do of course, nobody can, but - I don’t think it’s impossible that names could be used to *bestow* a self, as well. And I suspect that the proof is right here.”

Cleone looks at Alexander in astonishment. Then back down to Floyd.

Floyd. Alive.

Her most beloved creation, her constant companion since university. A mind and soul of his own.

Cleone excuses herself from Alexander’s company and then Maeve’s farm after that, functioning more on routine and etiquette than any conscious effort. She doesn’t head for Madame Andromeda’s immediately, instead finds an isolated area to stop and slowly turn Floyd over in her hands.

Alive.

She hugs Floyd to herself, tiny body housing a tiny soul that she helped bring into the world.

If it’s true, then Floyd is one thing she’s added to the world without making the rest of it worse. A small victory, but it’s the one she’s been wishing for. And it feels like the start of something.

Cleone hugs Floyd again, then tucks him carefully into her pocket and makes her way for Madame Andromeda’s.