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

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un: starburst, toward the end of this arc.

( Emilia di Carlo has seen better days, by the look of her. Her battle leathers are torn, soot and cuts still on her face — but she doesn't give in to the exhaustion just yet, nor the bile in her throat. First, she addresses the people of Alem, dignified and resolute. )

Prince Haiva sacrificed himself and leaves his sister, the young Cle-Florens, spared.

I was witness.

( A pause, then, as she allows that to sink in. )

Hell is sealed.

You fought with valor so others might live. I'm glad to have fought beside you, and will remember your fallen just the same.

If you've yet to evacuate, the time is now. Hassir awaits.

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( 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)

( Despite the pain in his expression, there is a soft smile on his face at the question, which should be answer enough. He recognized her. Despite the curse, despite everything that attempted to come between them, some part of him did recognize her, and he was terrified when he sensed her dying. He rushed to her side, rushed to save her - realized before he had fully remembered that some part of him would be destroyed if he lost her (again).

She is right.

He knew her. Wrath is now under the belief that he would know her absolutely anywhere in the universe, in any state. He would recognize his wife. His gaze drops again if only to watch the path her finger takes over his own tattoo, the soft loving nature of her touch. How he had feared they would never be able to get back to this place together, to one where she didn't hate him, fear him like mortals are taught to do.

When he lifts his gold gaze again, it is in time to see her tear that falls, his thumb slips over to catch it, to look at it. In this revealing moment, there is love in his face at the sight of her tear, her emotion, who she is now. )

I would not want an apology for either. I want your memories and power returned in full.

I do not need you to be who you were before. I certainly am not. ( He loves the person she is including the mortal parts. ) ...I did not realize how fond I would be of many of those mortal aspects of who you are now.

Edited 2023-05-05 01:10 (UTC)

( Emilia'd anticipated his acceptance of her caveat.

Many of the decisions he has made, ruthless and generous alike, have been in the hopes of preserving her ability to make choices freely. He understands better than most the need to cherish that, to fight for it at whatever cost.

His fondness, however, does manage to surprise her.

She eyes him with a bit of skepticism, though she's not entirely sure it's earned. She once thought he despised mortals, but she once thought a lot of things, having grown up hearing all sorts of twisted tales about him.

If they were true, his closest friend and right-hand man would not be Anir. He would not devour every cannoli in sight. Assumptions are the death of truth, he once told her, and she would do well to remember that in the pursuit of her own. )

You are?

( Wrath sees her skepticism. If he had been told this earlier, he would not have believed it himself, but it is true. Granted he has never hated mortals like many believe, like many are told. The stories of him have been so twisted over the years like the story of his horns - wings and not horns at all.

There is a softness to his expression in this rare openness, but she is his wife, and she does remember more - bits and pieces that he knows she is wrestling with, how they fit with who she once was, who that makes her now. )

I am.

( There is confirmation in the spoken word given without hesitation, with a strength to his tone of voice. His hand remains against her face but falls to find hers, linking their fingers together. )

Before the spell-lock, you weren’t interested in cooking. You seem relaxed when you’re creating, peaceful. Your mortal family did a lot wrong, but I feel like murdering them a little less when I see you looking at roasted garlic like it’s the most wondrous thing in our universe.

( ~~Direct, shameless quote from the book above.~~ )

( Emilia had assumed as much, even before Wrath confirmed it: what use would Fury have for something as nurturing as cooking? She'd been driven almost exclusively by her reason for being, to mete out punishment as the avenging goddess she was.

She recalls now it was a cold and lonely existence, with only her twin for company. Despite what she just told Wrath, Emilia does know that part of her is still very much alive and inside of her. The fire, the rage, the brutality. It was Fury Haiva last saw before he died. )

Roasted garlic is rather wondrous.

( A smile fights its way through, past any exhaustion and worries.

She looks down at their linked fingers, and uses that hold to tug him lightly toward the bed. The sky is as starless and dark as it was when he first stepped through, and she's getting nowhere just staring, expecting something to change. )

You cannot simply murder people when they upset me, you realize. ( She says it fondly though, barbarian that he is. )

Edited 2023-05-05 04:07 (UTC)

( Wrath follows Emilia easily into the bed, away from the door, away from the window, away from the rest of the world. He was certain to do a spell over their room so sounds could not leave it (and also dampened outside noise) like they are truly the only two individuals on the entire train - as if such a thing could be possible. In this moment, it nearly feels it.

Like so much can be shared in a moment. )

I cannot? I make no promises.

( He frowns, and given Wrath rarely reveals an emotion or expression, it is likely an amusing sight. There is a fondness in the gold of his eyes that is reserved solely for his wife though. )

What about maiming, torture? I should hope that is not out of the question.

( This is spoken against her lips before his mouth covers her own as they settle back on to the mattress. Naturally, the king and queen of the Underworld would truly have the most beautiful sentiment toward one another - full of violence and bite and fire and ice. )

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un: starburst, toward the end of this arc.

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