eastbound | un: starburst, toward the end of this arc.

( Our own Hell.

It seems preposterous to her now that she should've ever forgotten. She was a wicked creature long before Samael learned of sin; long before he fell and she rose to meet him. As Fury, she made countless men scream like Haiva did. Without the heart and soul she now possesses, she'd meted out her punishments coldly and precisely, an impersonal vengeance. It had felt like justice then, the very thing she was created for: to avenge on behalf of others. At least it makes sense to her now, why she's never been able to leave well enough alone.

Why she sought so tirelessly to right what she'd believed to be a wrong back in Palermo. Why she felt consumed the moment she learned of Massarir's fate here in Alem. Why Sursea — no. She cannot think of that, not yet.

The sound of Wrath's voice draws her gaze back up to meet his. She nods, just the once, neither bowed nor contrite. Not without tension, either. ) I'm ready when you are. ( She's seen enough, and stands satisfied.

When she walks past Yadid, he's already devoured his spoils. )

( Wrath's gaze follows her while she stands before this other Hell, while she surveys the fissures closing, and senses the realm beneath their feet. He wonders what she remembers and what she wrestles with. Her memories have returned in such small pieces, and she has a mortal heart within her, which must struggle to grapple the realities of it all.

When she meets his gaze, he lingers on her own, sees her nod, watches her step through the doors like the ancient, powerful being she is. None would dare to move against her. His expression reveals little - uncertain of what she knows now through what she has lived and what the curse will allow him to share.

His wife, Queen of the Underworld, violent, furious, beautiful.

In this moment, as with Haiva's demise in the gardens, she is The Goddess of Fury, created below before he had been created above. They were both different, more terrible, wicked creatures before they found one another.

There is no time for it now (and there has been no time for the entirety of the Siege), but they must speak about all that happened in Alem when there is the opportunity and privacy to do so. Wrath speaks a quiet command to Yadid who hops up to follow her, swallowing the remnants of Haiva's eyes, and Wrath follows after, shutting the door to the Room of Seals behind him. )

( The beacon is depleted as Emilia suspected it would be.

By the time they reach Hassir it's almost time to leave, and it's just as well. Alem has crumbled, and its people will rebuild and move on elsewhere. Deimar will surely not miss them as they go, and the feeling is very much mutual.

She felt Wrath's gaze on her in the Room of Seals, as surely as she feels it now that they wander into the train station. He mentions something about securing tickets, and leaves Emilia before one of the stalls featuring an assortment of accessories.

Too exhausted to argue otherwise, she does stay put and studies the fashions available. They're going to have to blend in, as they've had to every other place before this one. Some of these statement pieces are new, and she briefly wonders what Wrathion thinks of them.

Hm.

When Wrath returns, he'll find Emilia trying on a cloche hat before a mirror, expression a tad skeptical. For all that she has learned the ways of refinement, for all the dresses he has gifted her, the simpler garments she wore in Palermo remain the most familiar. )

( Wrath returns with the tickets to the train in his pocket - first class tickets so they will have a private room. He stops though as he catches sight of her, watching her place a hat upon her head, surveying herself in the mirror. She looks beautiful in anything she wears, but he is struck by the sight of her then in front of that mirror.

She looks gorgeous as always even as she questions this particular fashion statement.

A soft smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He steps closer to her. )

...you seem uncertain of your choice, Emilia.

( His voice is soft, and he lifts his hand toward the hat to pull it off her head. He does love her hair as it is.)

( Emilia.

He never calls her anything else, in spite of the fact she's begun to remember a vastly different life. It's oddly comforting to her, and it is indeed Emilia that looks back to him, long hair freed from the cloche he pulls off of her head.

She's bit self-aware, if not sheepish. )

It's different. Here I thought you'd have more opinions yourself.

( In spite of the tiredness she wrestles with, Emilia does smile to herself as she looks over the rest of her options. She can't help but think back to the tawny monstrosity she'd tried to make him wear... what feels like so very long ago. )

( Wrath clutches the hat within his hand, dropping it off at the stall that she got it from. His head tilts to the side, and his gaze narrows as he looks over her again - his wife. She is beautiful always regardless of what she wears, but she clearly does not have as good an idea of what she should wear. )

My opinion is you should not wear that garment.

( He has tossed it away at this point - back to the storefront she has pulled it from. )

...less is more in general especially when you look as beautiful as you do, Emilia, but give me a moment.

( His finger trails over a curl of her hair from up close as the gold of his gaze razes over her face, and then Wrath turns to the other vendors - intent on clothing his wife properly. There is a jacket among the rest - a marigold jacket that would suit her. )

Less is more, says the least subtle man alive.

( Emilia rolls her eyes, though not without some fondness. Wrath has always enjoyed providing clothing for her, even when they were on far more hostile terms. In truth, she's yet to dislike any of his findings. He has taste and knows her well.

Case in point: the jacket he holds out to her is truly lovely, all gold and luxurious. It's almost irritating to admit it, though she looks to him knowingly as her fingertips graze the silken fabric. He likes it when she wears their house colors. )

And for yourself?

( She picks up a men's cap with interest. Most people seem to be wearing one. )

( Wrath does not respond to the statement if only because she is correct. He has little desire to be subtle at all. He prefers to be open when he can be, and he is limited on that ability here, but still. He sees there's fondness there too in her expression, and it is striking to him. It affects him - her fond affection through it all.

He watches her take the jacket in hand, knowing how beautiful it will look on her.

He only pauses at her question, making a comical face as she lifts the hat in his direction. )

....no.

This is almost as bad as your... shirt. ( Can it be called that ? )

( Her smile threatens to tug wider, both at the face he makes and satisfaction she was right: he was also thinking of that day. She sets the cap where it belongs and moves to the next stall. Day dresses, evening dresses, and more.

There's one nightgown in particular she has half the mind to buy when he isn't looking. That'll show him. )

Technically, it was Salvatore's. And it wasn't so terrible.

( It was. It truly was. Wrinkled tawny suede, elbows worn thin, crisscrossing drawstrings at the chest. And the smell... Haggling with vendors at the marketplace had been an art form all its own. The glint fades in her eye, just a bit, to think of the rest.

How it doesn't quite feel like home anymore, if it ever was.

She busies herself with choosing some pieces in earnest, and toiletries, as well. )

( There is another nearly human expression of disgust when she insists it was not so terrible. He realizes she's making fun of him now, and he falls into it with ease. He has always enjoyed their banter even from a time that she does not remember - how they would spar. His eyebrow raises, and he insists: )

...it was a rag.

( But he watches her still as if he can sense that her enjoyment of the moment has waned somewhat, as if he can feel the ache within her chest of a home that is lost whether or not they ever permanently return through the beacon. His gaze remains on her, knowingly.

This is what he struggled with: the reality of her learning the truth she has sought so keenly. Her home is so important to her. Her parents love her, and she loves them. Her Nonna who has betrayed her as well and is more her warden than anything for a crime she did not commit. As much as he hated what was kept from her, as much as he wants her to know and to remember, doing so means she grieves more, suffers more. It means she loses this part of herself, and he does love this part too - damned as it makes him.

Her mortal heart, her cooking, her kindness, her capacity to love and to grieve and to understand where he cannot. )

What is it you most hope to find at market? You are the expert.

( A smile twitches at the corners of her mouth upon his insistence, subtle enough that it fades entirely when the next question comes. Most of her haggling was for spices, for ingredients they would need at their restaurant, not the latest fashions and accessories.

She and Vittoria would share clothing to make their meager closet appear larger than it was, and Emilia could get creative with the right sewing materials. She still aches for those simpler times, even as they weren't without hardship.

It was just a different sort. )

Whatever will make us believable.

( ... is the practical answer, and not necessarily what he meant. There's a small stand offering bath oils however, one of the bottles featuring orange blossoms among its base notes. It's been far too long since they had a proper shower. )

( It is not what Wrath meant at all, but he can tell she is lost in her own thoughts. He can sense the ache within her, and he can imagine too what she must be thinking about: the times when she did have to haggle before, the trading she had to do for her family. His gaze falls to the nearby stand with the bath oils, and he picks up one of those bottles, including the orange blossoms, purposefully choosing what she would like over simply what might make them believable. )

Why settle for only that?

( It's asked (his voice sounding too much like the temptation he is) as he holds the bottle out in her direction with a softness in his expression that is reserved solely for her.

His hand rests at her arm, and he leads her further into the market, intent on picking out clothing for her as well with his own expertise on the finer articles of clothing in life. He will pick out items for himself as well as they make their way through the market. In addition, he picks out fine wines, fine jewelry, the best that the money he saved in Taravast can buy without going overboard - they never know what might await them.

Eventually they make their way to the bathroom to change into something more appropriate for first class. )

( What he says is less important than the way he says it, a reminder he is the serpent forever winding through her bed of wildflowers. Emilia sneaks a glance at him, finding that his demeanor does not betray him. One would not think he is tempting her with honeyed words as he moves through the station with swift purpose, using what limited time they have to gather this piece and that one.

She lingers on him in spite of herself, surprised by the ache that seizes her chest at the sight. It's been too long since she had a proper bath, yes, but it's been far longer since she had real privacy with her husband.

When she steps out of the bathroom, Emilia looks more the part of a graceful traveler indeed. The cape that drapes over her form conceals most of her outfit, but the fabric and trimming alone suggests splendor. She's slipping on her leather gloves when she catches sight of Wrath once more, more appealing than he has any right to be. The damned demon knows it, too.

She's saved from worsening his ego by the arrival of their train, one of the most magnificent things she's ever seen. )

( Wrath's tone of voice may have been all that revealed him previously, but as his wife steps out of the bathroom dressed in splendor, dressed more similarly to the queen she is, he makes no effort in hiding the way his gold gaze drinks her in openly. His head tilts slightly to the side like he is attempting to determine the best way to sink into her entirely.

He flashes her a wicked smile like he might be able to convey with his expression alone all the activities he anticipates doing with her once they have the privacy they have not been afforded.

His gaze lifts up to the train, large as it is, with all the trimmings - Have they ever traveled in such style before? The first train they took here was quite the... event - filled with nightmares as they stowed away. This is already promising to be a different experience.

It took Wrath far less time to change, and so he leans over toward his wife to say in a low voice: )

This bodes well for our accommodations. ( As it should, he spent the most money on their first class tickets, and then he offers her his elbow to take should she wish. )

( An understatement, Wrath! )

It's magnificent.

( Emilia finds it difficult to tear her gaze away from this new wonder, but not impossible. Not when Wrath stands so close, offering his elbow the way he did when they arrived to Serthica, and the villages that circled the Ke-Sanwon volcano before that.

He's remained at her side through it all.

She turns her face to him ever so slightly, his mouth brushing her cheek where it had been poised at the shell of her ear to speak. The wicked smile he gave her only moments ago stays at the forefront of her mind, anticipation so wretched a thing. She vows not to let her exhaustion get the best of her, that they might actually see their mutual desires come to fruition.

Tucking her hand into his elbow, she moves with him to board the train at last.

... Spoiler: she will fall asleep no sooner they reach their cabin. )

Edited 2023-04-17 22:10 (UTC)

( Wrath is unsurprised when Emilia falls asleep as soon as they have made it to the safety and privacy of their own room. He could sense the exhaustion inside of her body especially after that final fight in Hell. In the end, she still has her mortal heart, and it means she is susceptible to exhaustion in a way he is not. However, even he is not immune in this world, exhaustion is felt by him as well though he stays awake for longer. He lies beside her with her body pressed up against his own, watching the peacefulness on her face as she falls into that deep sleep. His fingers slip through her hair. His hand traces the shared tattoo on her arm, gold gaze drinking in the sight of her: safe, here, his.

She looks beautiful. Hell is closed. Alem is being left far behind. And she was so like Fury against Haiva, in Hell - in ways he doesn't know he has ever seen before. Does it feel like hers still? Does she wish to reject it entirely? Do pieces of memory come with those moments? The curse is infuriating in its uncertainties.

Wrath falls asleep shortly after these questions weigh on him, while he marvels at the fact that regardless of the curse, he has found her again and she chooses him without the memory. She chooses him even with her mortal heart.

When he wakes a few hours later, e looks through the missives sent within their group, including the frustrating reminder Hatisse remains with them. Wrath does smile briefly thinking of what Emilia would have to say should she see that particular conversation. He does love her anger.

It takes time, but he can sense the moment when things start to shift and her sleep becomes lighter like she might wake up soon. It is the only reason that might pull him away from her: when she wakes, she will be hungry, thirsty, and that certainly will not do. Wrath steps away to find food - aware the staff would serve it to them in their room, but he favors taking it himself so they can keep their privacy. It's become precious in its rarity.

And so that is the reason he is not there when she wakes up, having left a note behind: Bringing a proper meal - S. )

Edited 2023-04-20 02:24 (UTC)

( 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. )

You were my mission.

( Wrath pulls away from the cart that he has brought as soon as he enters the room, sees her standing by the window to look out at the endless sky, understands she is grappling with it all (what she remembers, what she doesn't). She must have remembered more at some point, and it's unclear when it happened, when she remembered this little bit of their history. They only met in the first place because Wrath was cursed, because Sursea had a plan in mind-

It's the reason he cannot regret the curse (along with loving those parts of her that are mortal, that love, that care, that understand, that- that know).

He walks around the cart to bring himself closer to her, but he doesn't quite bridge the distance yet. He is within arm reach, but she continues to stare through the window without looking back, and he continues to stay where he is.

For now. )

...I was. ( A pause follows - he is so limited on his words due to that curse. A sharp pain grips his heart, grips his chest, and he swallows thick through that emotion: sudden, abrupt, enough to shake him. ) You... remember?

Bits and pieces.

( Emilia does not turn to face him just yet, does not feel ready to welcome his acceptance. Instead, she thinks of everything else that now makes perfect and brutal sense. The reaction of his court. Anir's comments after the Sin Corridor. The way his brothers behaved — she sees it now for the test it must have been. All along she was taught the Malvagi were the villains of this story. All along. )

I remember Sursea coming to House Vengeance. How much she hated you for denying her.

( Him above all, somehow.

These memories have teeth, and Emilia feels the bite of them. A sharp breath lands in her chest wounded as she does finally turn, with the understanding she has betrayed him now in two lifetimes. Beyond the bruised nature of the desolation, confusion.

Sickness. She feels sick at recalling such a cruel game. Her hand in it. )

... How?

( Wrath knows what she must mean with that How? It does not sound like any story of love ever told in books, does it? Then again they were never the heroes of any story - only two immortal beings in Hell who found love together against every impossible odd set against them, including her very purpose in meeting him to be a betrayal.

It is strange and beautiful she knows the truth now - painful too. He can hear the pain in her voice, feel it more starkly through their connection. )

We were both different then.

( When they met, they were both crueler, more terrible beings who had not truly known love before - not in the way they found it with one another. He knows it is even more difficult for her to understand with so many of her mortal memories still at the forefront.

How could two terrible beings fall in love with one another? Wrath did not believe himself capable of love when they met. He takes a step closer to her, but does not ask her to turn before she is ready to. )

Emilia.

We changed one another. ( Now that she remembers this much, the curse does not lock his voice from speaking of this. ) You told me the truth the same evening we professed our true feelings. ( His jaw locks, working through that moment again now that his memory has not been so twisted. It was the same evening she disappeared right in front of him after those words were out. His hand flexes at his side. )

( Emilia is already shaking her head, half-certain whatever reasoning he gives will not absolve her of this terrible deed. But she brings herself to stillness once more as those words stir something in her memory, and she has to strain to reach it.

The effort is forceful enough that she can almost feel a sharp sensation at her temples, but once it comes, it's a flood. She calls back to the first vision she ever had, the two of them stealing a moment at a party. The vision had been hazy then where it is clear-cut now, as sharp as the pain that rings in her head: the witching hour, the night-blooming flowers, the crescent moon.

His vows before — before nothing. She was gone.

She looks to him again with more clarity than before, even as that wounding feeling persists. )

I asked you to meet me in the midnight garden.

( To confess everything. To refuse Sursea.

For the first time in years, she has arrived to some piece of the real truth. Her hand moves to her neck, an old habit she's failed to indulge in for some time, but her cornicello isn't there to grasp. Her fingers settle on her collarbone instead. )

We both denied her. ( And when Sursea learned it was the goddess of fury the king of demons fell for, she decided she did not want the retribution that would come when all was said and done. It — she sees it now. )

( When Emilia does look to him, he reaches for her. His hand drifts over her arm to turn her gently. His fingertip traces over where their shared tattoo spans across her skin, matching his own, signaling their connection even when she could not remember any of this. He sees the moment this memory returns to her too, and he cannot quite hold in his reaction to remembering it. The pain, anger, grief shifts across his expression all at once.

It should have been the night they walked away from together. It should have been the night she became his queen, but instead she was taken from him and he destroyed everything in his path because of it. He nearly killed several of his own brothers, killed many of their Houses.

He should have known. He should have remembered the curse given to him so long ago - Sursea who promised to take whatever he loved, but he was so blinded by his namesake sin, so overcome with it.

It was Sursea who deserved all of his violence, and he will seek retribution at the next opportunity. )

We did. And then you were... gone. ( The word is difficult to say. ) My memory was eventually taken too until you summoned me, and even then, it had been twisted.

( Wrong. )

( Emilia grows quiet as another question goes answered. Wrath is masterful at making himself unreadable and concealing his true intentions. But the day she summoned him to her circle, his hatred — hatred that was once so shared — felt so potent.

Real.

It had been. The memory of her had been twisted beyond recognition, their love for each other warped. And she — she'd grown up. She'd had a mortal family. Every memory of that life as real as their hate. She still can't fathom a spell that would erase centuries of existence. But then, Sursea isn't only a witch. She is the very first one, the direct descendant of a goddess. )

The marble statue in the garden.

( The woman with a crown of stars on her head and two daggers in hand, a goddess symbol etched at the bottom of her spine. That statue was not present in her former life, in that garden they'd sneak off to. She's certain of that much.

Her throat tightens as another realization comes to her, so tight her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks. )

It was so you wouldn't forget. ( Forget her. )

( Wrath's gaze remains on the tattoo where his finger traces the serpent as it spans up over the dagger, surrounded by flowers, by the moon. It is beautiful. He did not appreciate it at first with his twisted memories, thinking he had been bound permanently to someone he hated and someone who hated him in turn.

When he remembered after saving her, he feared how much she would grow to hate him further when she realized what the bond was - to be tied to someone she does not remember against her will. He knows what that is like. He gave up everything. He fell to avoid that fate for himself.

And unwittingly, he was part of providing her with that same fate without any guarantee that she would remember or even if she would love him still if she ever did. It is his curse she got wrapped up in, and look at all it has put her through, the powerful goddess of Fury.

It is only when she speaks that he lifts his gaze from her tattoo to her face, and his hand lifts, cups the side of her face, slipping into her dark hair. His answer is a nod, solemn and pained. )

It did not work.

( But it was his own way of fighting against the curse, against the inevitability. )

Didn't it?

( Her voice remains whisper-light, eyes closing as the warmth of his palm settles over her face. She leans into that warmth, her own hand lifting to settle near his forearm. Her turn, now, to trace the ink that she unwittingly gave them.

It does not escape her notice she would've never had the means to summon him without Vittoria. And something inside of Wrath must have remembered her enough for him to decide to save her life in the first place, that night the viperidae attacked.

Love has its own brand of magic, as curses have their loopholes.

She shakes her head, the motion brushing against his touch. She thinks of Nonna Maria and her secrets. The tightness gathers in her throat further, cinching it with rue. A betrayal that deep would have been unimaginable to her once, certainly from the woman who taught her duty and kindness and ferocity. The rock in her world when her twin died, except that wasn't true, either.

There is so little that she can trust at the moment, including herself, and she finds that so frightening. An emotion she did not think she could feel anymore, after learning she was once the most feared. For good reason.

A tear slides down her cheek. Her mortal heart aches. ) I want to restore my memories in full. I want all of my power, and I will make no apology for that. But I don't know if I can go back to being who I was.

( The person he first fell in love with. ) Not exactly.

Edited 2023-05-05 00:04 (UTC)

un: starburst, toward the end of this arc.

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