symphony
“Hand me the shovel,” Enid said, legs dangling down the four-foot hole.
“I can handle it, Enid,” Wednesday scoffed. “You’re still healing.”
“You already dug two of the graves,” she whined. “Let me at least dig the last few feet.”
“Fine,” Wednesday sighed, wiping sweat from her brow as she leaned on the pole of the shovel.
Enid’s eyes lit up, and she jumped downwards, landing on her good foot before gently setting down the other. She took the shovel from Wednesday’s hands gently, spinning it in her hand before she slammed it into the ground. The blade slid into the hard earth as easily as a warm knife to soft butter. Enid’s shoulders flexed, but she threw the dirt behind her with ease.
Enid had gotten the reprimanding of a lifetime when they returned at dawn. Her mother had escorted Wednesday to the guest room to rest before letting out all her frustration on Enid, who remained silent amidst the growls and shrieks. Wednesday assaulted her typewriter keys a little harder that night to avoid her itching fingers reaching for her knives.
Enid didn’t deserve it, and Wednesday told her as much. Enid just chuckled sheepishly, looking on.
“It doesn’t matter,” she’d said. Wednesday didn’t know how to respond. “All that does is that they’re safe.”
“I’m surprised you’re able to stomach this,” Wednesday quipped. “You didn’t even need the smelling salts.”
“It’s taken practice,” Enid grunted, shoveling another mound of dirt. “The first time I injured one of them, I nearly passed out.”
“Sounds about right,” the black haired girl deadpanned.
“This is easy,” Enid remarked about the digging, snickering at Wednesday’s off put expression. “You want to sit down?”
Wednesday shook her head, but accepted the boost Enid gave her to sit at the edge of the final grave that they dug, careful to avoid the specks of dirt that flew by her head.
“Anything on Morning Song?” Wednesday asked. The message that the final assailant spoke before she died was an unsettling and cryptic one, one of puzzling mystery.
The dawn brings sacrifice, and in sacrifice we find enlightenment. As the sun rises, so too does our devotion to Morning Song. May this final act bring us closer to eternal glory.
“All I saw was that Morning Song was a self help app,” Enid said, rolling her sore shoulder. “Founded by a man called Gideon Reaber.”
“I’m unfamiliar with the name,” Wednesday said. “Gideon Reaber. Perhaps an anagram or fake?”
“All the people I’ve fought have been sirens,” Enid recollected. “They’ve all tried to use their song on me, trying to get me to back away. Maybe Gideon’s a siren, too.”
“Perhaps,” Wednesday speculated. “Or perhaps Morning Song is something else entirely. The application might be just a coincidence. However…”
“—You don’t believe in coincidences,” Enid finished her sentence, her voice monotone in a mockery of Wednesday’s own intonation. “Blah, blah, knives and death.”
“Enid,” Wednesday admonished, praying that the girl wouldn’t turn from her digging to see the heat that was manifesting itself on Wednesday’s cheeks. “Don’t push it.”
“Sorry!”
--
They’d given all of the people a proper burial before they’d left, Wednesday had made sure of that.
Enid still felt immensely guilty after the night prior. Her survival instincts mixed with adrenaline had done well to mask her morals last evening, but with a clear head… Enid knew what she had done.
And it wasn’t a great feeling.
Even Wednesday dealt with them respectfully, a reverence to her every action. She’d inspected their wounds, murmuring in Italian even to their lifeless forms. Only as an Addams would, she supposed. It didn’t stop her from feeling horrible.
Her muscles ached from overuse, sore from the leaping and running and fighting, and Enid had to be dragged out of bed that morning. The exhaustion was good for something, however; it had allowed her a brief reprieve from the inevitable sleepless, remorse-ridden nights that would follow.
Once they were finished, Enid walked slowly to each grave, dirt still freshly unearthed. She knelt to place her forehead at the foot of the grave, deferent.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered under her breath. She held back the sob. This was her fault. It didn’t matter that it was in self defense; she could have prevented death if she’d just been more careful.
Enid didn’t even know their names, for crying out loud. She didn’t know if they had children, a family, people who cared about them and would wonder where they’d gone.
Before she had time to wallow in her own self hatred some more, Enid felt a soft hand on her shoulder.
“It’s not your fault,” Wednesday said. But the way she said it wasn’t comforting. Not to tell a white lie to make her feel better, Wednesday was too honest for that. It was spoken as true, unaltered fact; one that was said with the kind of conviction that made Enid believe her completely, if only for a moment.
It’s not your fault. The words echoed in Enid‘s mind. She looked at the three graves once more. She knew that their lives had to be lost to protect her family. But at what cost?
She rose. There wasn’t much more that could be done. She turned to Wednesday, leaning forward so that her head leaned on the crook of Wednesday’s neck, expecting the girl to back away, but she didn’t.
Wednesday’s hand found its way into Enid’s hair, tentative but meant to comfort. Enid sighed.
“Let’s get out of here,” she murmured. She felt Wednesday nod.
—
{enid and xavier}
enid: hey xavs
xavier: ya
enid: can i get biancas contact info
enid: i need it for something importaaanttt
xavier: lmao what is it
enid: idk there’s something siren related and i wanted to ask her abt it
xavier: ya sure just don’t annoy her too much cuz then she’ll be mad at me
—
{bianca barclay and enid sinclair}
enid sinclair: HI BIANCAAAA ITS ENID xavier gave me ur number
enid sinclair: hope ur still not too mad about the poe cup :)
bianca barclay: wdyw sinclair
bianca barclay: this better be important
enid sinclair: have you ever heard of morning song
bianca barclay: …no.
bianca barclay: why?
enid sinclair: welll if you must know i was attacked by a siren yesterday and they mentioned it
enid sinclair: you sure you have no info?
bianca barclay: woah. you okay?
bianca barclay: and wow, not all sirens know each other. that’s an outcast-ist assumption.
enid sinclair: little bit banged up but doing fine!!
enid sinclair: sorry for bothering you :(
bianca barclay: morning song is dangerous
bianca barclay: that’s all i can tell you. keep away from it if you know what’s good for you.
enid sinclair: bianca??
read by bianca barclay at 11:45 am.
--
“I got a weird text from Bianca,” Enid said, looking up from her phone on Wednesday’s bed. Wednesday hummed acknowledgement from her typewriter, turning in kind as Enid held the phone up for her to see the text.
“She certainly seems to know something,” Wednesday replied. “I’ll interrogate her properly later.”
“Yoko told me what you did the last time you interrogated someone,” Enid accused, and Wednesday stiffened slightly. Rat. “Tasers? Really?”
“Well—” Wednesday spoke in her defense, completely unprepared for Enid’s next words.
“I would have used my bare hands,” Enid said casually, flipping over onto her back, scrolling through her social media feed. “Tyler deserved worse.”
“I… que?” Wednesday gaped like a fish before composing herself, coughing slightly. She turned away. “Yes. He did.”
Wednesday typed a little more rapidly on her typewriter and hoped that Enid hadn’t noticed. They sat in silence, save for the nauseating music playing from Enid’s phone and the comforting click of Wednesday’s typewriter. The mechanisms sounded just like the guillotine she’d fashioned as a child, and she took solace in that fact.
“What do you think they’re gonna do about Weems?” Enid questioned.
“New headmaster, I suppose,” Wednesday didn’t look at her. “New botanics teacher as well.”
“Still can’t believe Thornhill was evil. She was so nice to me,” Enid sighed. “Even though I couldn’t wolf out.” A silence. “You too, obviously.”
“She wasn’t my first suspect, either,” Wednesday admitted.
“You think you’ll forgive Tyler?” Enid asked, a little quieter. “He was a puppet. Manipulated into blindly following someone else’s orders to further their own goals.”
“Never,” Wednesday said. “An Addams doesn’t forgive. And they certainly don’t forget, either. Thing was stabbed. Xavier was put in jail. Countless people died. You were hurt.” A pause. “What he did to our relationship is irreparable.”
Wednesday’s phone buzzed.
—
{unknown sender and wednesday addams}
unknown sender: that stings a little.
—
Wednesday leapt from her chair, throwing the window open. Freezing wind buffeted her face as she squinted into the woods. Enid scrambled off of Wednesday’s bed, confusedly looking out after her. Wednesday snuck a look above her as well, hearing scrambling to only realize it was a very cold squirrel scrabbling on the roof tile. She cursed under her breath.
“What’s going on?” Enid asked, concerned.
Wednesday took a moment to steel herself. This mysterious stalker and his ability to elude Wednesday’s highly trained senses was starting to get to her, and this very reaction had proven it. She prided herself on her ability to judge situations quickly and act with calm bordering on apathy. This was none of those things; messy and crude and frustrated.
She took a quick, indiscernible breath and crossed the room to her phone, tossing it to Enid as she sat, pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose.
“Who is this?” Enid pressed, moving closer.
“A stalker,” Wednesday grit. “One I’ve suspected to be Tyler for quite some time. This just proved it.”
Wednesday didn’t expect the deep, rumbling growl that emanated from Enid’s throat. She turned to the blonde, a little more than confused as Enid raised a hand to touch her larynx.
“Sorry, reflex,” she said, noticing Wednesday’s eyes on her. “He’s definitely spying on you somehow, but I doubt he’d be here. He’s probably bugged one of your things or hacked into your phone’s mic.”
Wednesday paused.
“Bugged,” she tilted her head, an obvious question yet one Wednesday didn’t really want to ask out loud. “…Mic.”
“Oh my god, Wednesday,” Enid dragged a hand through her hair. She took a deep breath, seeming to wire her brain to clarify for Wednesday. “He’s placed a device that records your location on one of your things, and your phone has a microphone that he can use through… tech stuff.”
“I see,” Wednesday said, her brain rifling through possible belongings that Tyler could have had access to at her time in Jericho. “I’ll check my luggage to see if any of it has been… bugged. Do you have any advice on… destroying mics?”
“We can cover it up,” Enid said. “Even the huge social media CEOs cover up their mics, so it should work just fine keeping that…” Enid fumbled for the word. “Him… out.”
Wednesday nodded, handing Enid her phone as she went through each piece of luggage she’d brought with her. She watched Enid put a small piece of tape near the bottom of her phone and handed it back.
“This should be fine, for now. Need help looking?”
“I don’t exactly know what I’m searching for, Enid,” Wednesday replied, and Enid registered her answer immediately. She knelt next to the black-haired girl, handling each of her belongings with care while inspecting them carefully.
They spent the afternoon searching. Enid suggested Wednesday take apart her typewriter so that they could see within, which was met with slightly more resistance than Wednesday let on. But she did, and they found nothing.
They finally found something when they checked Wednesday’s cello, leaning neatly against the wall. The device, smaller than a nut but still terrifyingly hidden, was tucked right underneath the f-holes of the instrument and Enid dug it out carefully with one of her claws before throwing it to the ground.
Wednesday destroyed it in mere moments after it it the floor, drawing a hammer that she’d kept with her and slamming it into the device. It crackled and fizzled on the floor for a few moments. Nothing a few swift bangs of the hammer couldn’t handle.
“I can’t believe he’d put it in your cello,” Enid put a hand to her chest, offended on Wednesday’s behalf. It just added to the list of things Tyler would have to pay for if their paths ever crossed again.
--
{unknown sender and wednesday addams}
unknown sender: you’re going to regret doing that, wednesday.
{unknown sender sent a gif.}
wednesday addams: Fuck you.
--
Enid left Wednesday alone for the remainder of the afternoon. Her mother more than disapproved of their time alone, so the glares through the crack of her door made Enid decide to go to her own room next door to Wednesday’s.
She spent most of her time lying in her bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as she thought about Tyler the stalker, the three dead sirens in the woods, how wonderfully Wednesday was playing the cello. Enid languished in Wednesday’s music at their time in Nevermore, and it was a pleasant surprise to Enid when Wednesday had decided to bring the dark instrument along with her to their meetup.
Enid had an instrument of her own, as well. An upright piano; a gift from her father as a child that she’d never really had the opportunity to use thanks to her mother.
A werewolf doesn’t have time for dainty things like piano, Enid. Do a sport, instead. Maybe it’ll finally get you in touch with your inner lupine.
So sports she did. But whenever her mother left for groceries or meetings or… well, got out of the house, Enid played. She played more at Nevermore, too, with access to the music rooms during full moons, though sometimes she was interrupted by a pushy siren who tried to song her out of it.
Enid turned her head, still lying on her back, to face the neglected instrument. Wednesday’s cello stilled as Enid got up, the sound of flipping pages signifying the change to a new song. When she started to play, it wasn’t the aggression of a classical piece but something soft, starting low.
Iris, Enid realized, noticing that she was suddenly sitting in front of her piano, fingers poised to match the song Wednesday was playing. She paused, staring at keys she hadn’t touched in months before deciding she didn’t care and started playing along.
Enid noticed Wednesday stall, most probably in surprise before she picked the song back up more intensely, and Enid let out a soft chuckle as they played in tandem, even with a wall dividing them. There were sections she paused and let Wednesday take the melody, and Wednesday did the same with hers. It was exhilarating and sweet, and Enid found herself grinning even if she fumbled a few notes. Wednesday was generous that way, in a cold, harsh, forgiving torrent of notes so she wouldn’t hear her own mistakes over the melody.
As the song finished, there was a silence between the both of them. Enid heard Wednesday’s muffled voice from the other side of the wall.
“It’s your turn next, Sinclair,” she said, a challenge in her tone. Enid grinned.
“Try to keep up with this!”
--
So much for their itinerary.
Enid and Wednesday played until sunset, Enid’s hands aching from overuse and Wednesday’s cello slowing just slightly.
Enid skipped out of the door, rolling her wrists and shoulders as she walked towards Wednesday's bedroom, knocked once, then let herself in. Wednesday was setting the case of her cello neatly on the side, brushing obviously disheveled bangs out of her face as she looked up to see Enid in the doorway. Thing, settled on the velvet pillow, waved a hand.
“I wasn’t aware you played an instrument so proficiently,” she commented, though there was a slight increase in her heart rate; it was more noticeable than usual.
“Always have to have a few tricks up my sleeve,” Enid chuckled. “Plus, its not as noticeable when you can’t drag a piano up to the top floor of Ophelia Hall.”
“Just have Lurch do it for you,” Wednesday replied, and Enid was sure she was serious. “He won’t refuse.”
“I’ll consider it,” Enid quipped. “It’d interfere with your brooding time, though.”
“Don’t you already?”
Enid rolled her eyes. “Do you wanna go do something?”
“Haven’t we already been… doing something?” Wednesday pulled out the Nightshade Society Journal, sitting on the side of her bed. Enid had seen it only once prior; the day she’d broken up with Ajax, so her interest was piqued as she paid more attention to it.
“What’s that?” Enid joined Wednesday on the black duvet. She brushed Wednesday’s shoulder with hers in trepidation before pressing them together with the dark-eyed-girl’s allowance. Thing joined them, crawling onto Wednesday’s shoulder to look (somehow?) at the handwritten pages.
“A journal,” Wednesday said. She flipped the notebook over to show a signature. B. Ruvernale. “He was an explorer when he wasn’t in Nevermore. Took extensive notes on Sirens and their power… and he traveled with two psychics.”
“You want to see if one of them can help with your visions?” Enid asked, catching on. Wednesday dipped her head in a nod. “Are you still having them?”
“Nothing of interest,” Wednesday answered, seeming bored. “Spilled coffee, a broken vase; a potential mugging, on a good day. My visions seem to have waned since Goody’s disappearance and the lack of a good serial killer in town.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Enid leaned forward to look at Wednesday’s face.
“Of course you’d say that,” Wednesday rolled her eyes, turning the page. Suddenly, Wednesday gasped, a sound Enid heard that prefaced the inevitable collapse of her best friend.
Wednesday straightened, a sharp intake of breath before dropping the book and falling forwards. Her heartbeat was through the roof, pumping with an intensity that made Enid very, very afraid. Enid gripped Wednesday’s collar, dragging her back as she twitched through into another vision.