( Emilia stirs as a storm begins to ravage the Cradle.
Just as well.
Her sleep was restful until it was not, and she wakes with a tightness in her chest and the knowledge she has lost something once more. She tries to gather the pieces of her dream, the pieces that keep falling through the cracks she and Wrath made that night at the snowy inn. The cracks that were left once he was able to spear into her mind and shake something loose in her mind. At long last.
She was born on the night of a terrible storm, the worst Palermo had seen in years. An ill omen, her Nonna would have said, except that she has loved her granddaughters well, and — and she would not have said it, for all that she has said many things.
Most of them Emilia knows to be lies now, but not the why. Not entirely. She circles this truth every now and then, but something within, self-preservation or otherwise, does not allow her to lean in. She focuses on the rest instead.
The endlessness of Fury. A different birth and a different existence; a lonely one, filled by reveling in the fear she would inspire and the retribution she would exact. Statues and flowers and fire, her temple. A woman with midnight eyes and a curse on her lips.
When Wrath returns to the room, Emilia is standing by the window, staring at the starless sky. His note is wedged between two of her fingers, and she does not turn to him, does not think she can bear it at the moment. )
[action]
Just as well.
Her sleep was restful until it was not, and she wakes with a tightness in her chest and the knowledge she has lost something once more. She tries to gather the pieces of her dream, the pieces that keep falling through the cracks she and Wrath made that night at the snowy inn. The cracks that were left once he was able to spear into her mind and shake something loose in her mind. At long last.
She was born on the night of a terrible storm, the worst Palermo had seen in years. An ill omen, her Nonna would have said, except that she has loved her granddaughters well, and — and she would not have said it, for all that she has said many things.
Most of them Emilia knows to be lies now, but not the why. Not entirely. She circles this truth every now and then, but something within, self-preservation or otherwise, does not allow her to lean in. She focuses on the rest instead.
The endlessness of Fury. A different birth and a different existence; a lonely one, filled by reveling in the fear she would inspire and the retribution she would exact. Statues and flowers and fire, her temple. A woman with midnight eyes and a curse on her lips.
When Wrath returns to the room, Emilia is standing by the window, staring at the starless sky. His note is wedged between two of her fingers, and she does not turn to him, does not think she can bear it at the moment. )
You were my mission.