#émilie de clair ( muses )

[mercysought]

what sins could you possibly have? /gatt to émilieeeee

what moves the dead // accepting // @skyheld

If it were any other person she might have blown them off. A soft smile and chuckle and something along the lines of the healer has the bloodiest hands. But Gatt was not only Inquisitor but he was also, well Gatt. And to blow him off with such a reply seemed wrong somehow.

Émilie glances up to him through the elfroot that she had been preparing. A brief thing before returning to the bottles. It felt wrong but it didn't mean that she wanted to talk about it. She was happy to hear him talk, about his worries as Inqusitor, about his past, about his hard with the nobles, she was glad to listen and be a firm shoulder that wouldn't flinch. She could only imagine the pressures that he was under, but she understood the glimpses at his past. The hurt, she could feel it oozing from him more than she likely understood it from his words.

Picking at scarred skin did not lend itself to the most clear and concise conversations.

She would know.

Half of her face was disfigured from the fire during her escape. It had healed better than she expected, more than she anticipated. But she doubted she would ever return to her normal. Part of her scalp was the same, only able to grow small clumps of hair. Émilie tended to keep it shaved as best as she could. The other side she kept the long braid that she had kept during her time in the circle - more and more she grew tempted to fully cut it off but she hadn't had the strength and courage to do it quite yet.

Pushing it aside, Émilie cleans her hands with a rag to the side of the now filled up jars, finally looking at Gatt directly.

   “I have killed more people than I have healed, Gatt. I have lost count." it doesn't sound like her voice, not really? It is flat and distant; it is not a competition, it is a matter of fact. Her mouth moved. It was her voice that came forth and yet it wasn't her. Pulling air in, she pushes herself off the table, turning to the side to grab a box where the potions would go in "And I know that perhaps for a lot of folks in the Inquisition that is simply the norm, but I" placing the box down with a louder thud than she had anticipated she pauses, turning to the potions. Inhaling sharply once more, keeping her mind focused on keeping the lids closed and correctly in the box "I have a tough time living with that knowledge."

The Maker was not wrong when He perceived magic and their wielders as dangerous.

Placing the bottles, she falls into a rhythm. The clinking of the glass brings her some peace for the moment.

How could she tell him? That she had been one of thirteen that had planned a similar take down to what had happened in Kirkwall, that she was the only one that had survived of the thirteen? Only barely? That she had sacrificed everything, including her ideals to make sure that she could crawl out of there and almost, nearly didn't? She could not explain to him what it felt like burning in her lungs, when screaming only allowed more water in and how the fatigue burned as sharply in her eyes as the cold water did. The comfort of the darkness in the depths of the waters and the robes that only aided the Templars' hands and how hard she had to fight against it. How could she ever explain to him how nice it felt to have such cold water against her burns even when knowing it was killing her?

In the end she had chosen to turn to her blood, to allow her a chance to live. Destroying any semblance of humanity, of morals that she once had held up to herself. She had escaped, and she had killed more since. She didn't regret it.

Mages were only now just being able to gather any amount of sympathy, what good would it do to paint herself as a monster?

Pausing the motion, she puts both hands against the wooden table looking at the too-long nails caked with dirt and dried blood and the soggy corners of the sleeves.

   “I want to live." she says, meeker than she'd like but her strength remained only in keeping herself from shaking. It had been long enough and yet it was hard to forget that these sort of injuries took many years to fix. She hoped she could one day think about it without such a reaction. Some day she would be able to look people in the eyes as she spoke about it, but not today "So I will keep living. But I will not kid myself, every mage that has managed to survive a Circle has blood on their hands, Gatt. From the youngest babe to the oldest, someone had to die to get them out."

[immobiliter]

@mercysought​ sent a meme: ❝ I know that any appearance of civility from you is but a glimpse of the person you once were. A ghost that shows itself only while the darker things that now govern your soul lay dormant. ❞ from émilie to flint ((:

In all his time serving alongside De Clair as a comrade, back in another life, he’d never met the man’s sister -- but that was hardly unusual. It had been strange enough for England and France to be fighting on the same side to begin with, and perhaps in an attempt to make such a difficult alliance palatable, it was simply assumed by the officers of both nations that nobody would associate with each other beyond what was considered professional. None of that mattered here, of course: pirates were men of no nation, no country or border save their own. The land they came from was of no consequence; the land they occupied now and how much they would give in the fight to keep it was.

He’d yet to utter a word to her, but he’d seen her watching him from several paces away -- a safe distance, if he didn’t know any better. How she could gleam so much about a man from merely looking, Flint couldn’t say --- all he could presume was that she’d talked enough to her brother in the days since her arrival here and that he was a better judge of character than Flint had initially given him credit for. Nothing about her words were accusatory, but the uncomfortably straightforward tone that accompanied them was unsettling. As was the lingering truth hidden behind them.

The hard glare he matched her with lasted for a long few minutes before he finally spoke. “ Your brother’s over there. ” A jerk of his head at where Abel sat a few tables away, and Flint was already walking away.

[praeludio]

mercysought asked:🎰

satin & loane shatterspine.

i do have a dragon age verse for satin that i mean to write one day — but basically he’s a city elf rogue who recently joined the wardens via right of conscription — so, you know, warden pals? warden pals.

feyren tabris & manala.

local warden has known child for a day and a half and if anything happens to the child she would kill anyone in the room.

philip jennings & maxima aurum.

russian spy gets close to daughter of diplomat to try get valuable info, possibly recruits her? 

yusuf al-kaysani & émilie de clair.

immortal mercenary meets french noblewoman. maybe he and the rest of the group save her from something? maybe she’s one of them as well and she died and came back very confused on what’s going on?

declan amell & himsulem.

hero of ferelden and warden sacrifices himself to save hawke and the inquisitor gets stuck in the fade and meets a spirit; at least he won’t be alone.

send me 🎰 and i’ll randomise our muse list and give the first five as possible connections | accepting | @mercysought

[mercysought]

you look the way you look when you're happy. éowyn to emilie

the story of a new name // @middener // accepting

   "As opposed to not looking like me when I'm not happy?" she asks over her shoulder to Éowyn who held the small and extremely sharp blade in her hand.

Cutting Émilie's hair was still a particular and hard task to get through. She still made sure to keep the right side of her head shaved, the scars had long since healed over - but the skin was still extremely sensitive, itchy at times. While she loved her hair when it was long, she also knew with the times that were coming... well, keeping her hair longer than chin length wasn't going to be wise. And on the scarred side, it just felt better to have as close to nothing as possible.

It was a task that she often did alone, that is, until she asked Éowyn to do it. It had been a very long day and a longer night; the smell of blood etched into her nostrils and the redness of it caked under her nails and arms. They had only lost two on that day, and for that she was thankful, but the fight to keep the others alive had been - had felt - endless.

She had fallen asleep mid-way through it and had apologised to Éowyn profusely in the mist of sleep until falling into her bed roll.

Émilie smiled, looking forward and down to her hands, picking at the skins. To be seen, to be seen happy. She could count the number of times in the past ten years where she felt this way: calm in the breeze of the cold morning sun, content upon smelling the rain from the grass around them.

It was a small moment and it was hers

   "I've been contacted by the Inquisitor." she blurts out, waiting to feel anything - the breeze cut through interrupted action perhaps, a catch of her breath, the curiosity in the quirk of a brow that she could not see. The letter hadn't said much, nothing that had made her jump and immediately depart that's for certain.

But still, there had been something that she couldn't quite touch on that made it impossible for its contents to leave her mind "Not sure why but I felt..." she pauses, breath catching and her teeth sinking into her lower lip "Like he knew me? Of me? Maybe heard my name somewhere?" which was ridiculous. And now that she had said it out loud she just glanced over her shoulder apologetically. A request to ignore it, it wasn't like she could really explain it "Not quite sure what to think about it."

[mercysought]

Mobile muse list

MAIN MUSES:

Most of these muses have varied and different verses available to them (from Modern to Medieval and Sci-Fi). Not all of them are written down but if you are interested in them either you’ll be able to find them on their page OR you can ask me.

The priestess (OC):

Born in Elvhennan, her name was shed when she gave her life in service to Falon'din. She leads part of the army of the faithful during the war between the Gods in the Ancient Age. She’s a blood and force mage. Her vallaslin spreads from her face to her whole body and is black, she also has countless scars. She has dark, rich skin and always has bags under her eyes due to lack of sleep.

Maxima Aurum (OC):

Maxima is the eldest of her seven half brothers and sisters, born from an elven slave and magister Aurum. Maxima is the face of the Aurum working as a diplomat and the business point of contact with the family. Having her freedom bought as a child and brought to Orlais, her childhood was a flash of places and of rejections: from the alienage, to the circle to the Orlesian court, singing to Noblemen and women alike. Returning only when her father’s letter finds her way to her.

An expert diplomat, always using her easy smile, and sharp wit to maneuver the battlefiels that the Orlesian and Tevinter politics are.

Anora Theirin (Dragon Age Canon):

Anora is a canon character from the Dragon Age Universe, appearing in Dragon Age Origins and Dragon Age Inquisition (dependent).

Abel de Clair (OC):

Oldest son of a family of minor nobility in Orlais. The first in a very long time to gain the title of Chevalier. Joined the side of Grand-Duke Gaspard de Chalons during the Civil War of Orlais (or, The War of the Lions) and died in the Exalted Plains. It is said that his father died from grief upon hearing of Abel’s death.

I usually write him as having survived with a lot of injury. His main mission being to find where his sister is.

Émilie de Clair (OC):

Youngest daughter of a family of minor nobility in Orlais. Was sent to the White Spire in the beginning of her teen years. When the war between templars and mages erupted she was punished for an escape attempt. The objective was to break the phylacteries, but it failed. Émilie had to rely on blood magic for the explosion. The templars that survived dragged her to the lower dungeons where they drowned her.

Usually write her as having survived the drowning attempt. Her main mission is to keep the mage group she is with safe and find her brother.

Moe (OC):

She was meant to start her own career in the Imperial Machine ( or what she calls it ) when she started tinkering with ships and droids. Instead, Moe left the Empire in her teenage years to become a full blown pirate stealing both from the Republic (resistence) and the Empire.

Vivian “V.” Hinomoto (Cyberpunk PC):

v. is the main character of the game cyberpunk 2077 (streetkid origin). She is an easy going, smart mouth, stealth specialist. My default canon has Val and Vince in her background.

ASK ONLY:

THE FOLLOWING MUSES ARE HIGHLY SELECTIVE AND ASK ONLY (it is unlikely I’ll want to start threads with them)

The gentleman (OC):

Part of my original canon. He is a spirit, a ghost, a man that appears when people seemingly need guidance the most. Has visions of what is to come, what has passed. 

Elgar'nan (Dragon Age Canon):

the All-Father, Elvhen God of Vengeance, Sun, fatherhood. Leader of the Evanuris. Wielder of the skies.

I will keep my interactions based on ancient Elvhenan. It might happen that I interact with others with him as a spirit. I’m working on an idea on what sort of host Elgar'nan would have sought (much like Mythal did with Flemeth), but I’m still working on it.

Mythal (Dragon Age Canon):

the All-Mother, Elvhen Goddess of love, the sea, justice and motherhood. Leader of the Evanuris. 

I will keep my interactions based on ancient Elvhenan. It might happen that I interact with others with her as a spirit after Solas, but not as a Flemeth.

[mercysought]

It had become a sort of a ritual. A list of to dos before she can finally feel comfortable finding her way out of her house. Decorating each wooden slate to know which ones creaked under her weight and the ones that didn’t. Her first time leaving the house to sneak out and simply disappear into the city for a few hours had been almost a fever dream. But this wasn’t the first time, and her methods had improved. Her clothes while far more subdued fit her far better than her first attempts. Pants, which was sure to make her mother gasp if she was to see her, and a large coat that swallowed her frame completely. Long hair braided and either kept on her back or covered by a larger masculine hat.

It had been with those same clothes that she had snuck out of her house. Avoiding the careful eyes of any of her family and of servants and found her way to the house of estate that Margo was staying at. She cut her path through the gardens, through the path of roses and the bushes so carefully tended for. Waiting and hoping that no one would see her. She had seen pamphlets and heard through her family’s home’s corridors that there would be a singer down by a tavern in a smaller nook that they surely should not miss. She hadn’t had time yet to tell Margo, but she was sure that the other would love it equally.

When the other’s figure is seen walking in her direction, furtively, Émilie herself waves and starts walking once more. No time to doddle. Her arm quickly wraps around the other’s, looping so that they should form a thin chain “Ready? Nervous?“

@simulcrae starter // émilie de clair

[mercysought]

@middener​​​ . also 8 from éowyn for émilie and i’m adding that it’s in public because i can . 50 types of kisses . accepting

8. Laying a gentle kiss to the back of the other’s hand.

   “I must thank you.” Émilie hummed, her voice only barely louder than the crackling of the fire. Everyone was focused on their own conversation, on their own tasks. Some slept, but not herself and Éowyn who were focused where the darkness met the edge of their fire. Éowyn, a strange figure in an already strange group of people “For keeping me, and them“ she nods towards the figures “safe.“

In a way that not many of them could. In a way that was hard to put into words but not when it came to naming and shaping her gratitude. As a mage, a group of mages, destruction could easily be accessible upon one’s fingertips. The fires that Émilie had made rage on that scorched road they walked to find safety could hardly be compared to the roaring forest blaze that she still heard roaring in her ears. It was in moderation and in stealth and they found themselves struggling. To fight templars was one step into the grave, either by their swords and red taint or by falling prey to demons that were far too familiar with their desperation. And many of them were young, too young to have been able to be taught to use magic outside of the confines of the tower in safety. They would. They would learn.

But she would not deny that the temptation to scorch this earth and these people that carried the symbols of her pain wasn’t always just one snap of the finger away.

Éowyn kept them safe because by sheer force of charisma she had managed to lie or help them in ways that they themselves would not have been able. Or would have been much harder to do so. 

Émilie’s hair had finally started to grow. In patches and extremely light on the right side of her face, but enough. It felt good when the soft and cold breeze brushed her hair, even if it remained unable to do so with the braid on the opposite side. The physical scars would remain, but Émilie was fine with those, even if she knew that her left side of her face - healing magic or no - would never be the same. 

Nothing would ever be the same, why should her body not do the same?

   “Thank you, really.” her hand holds Éowyn’s, a small smile on her lips. The feel rough, rougher than her own despite the scars. She feels her hand be lifted and yet does not register it truly until her eyes are focused on Éowyn’s and a small, soft kiss is placed atop the long healed scars. A beat of silence and the crackling of the figure and soft conversation continue on even as Émilie’s mouth hangs open for a moment. One could have blamed the flames for the hotness at her cheeks or the redder tone that tinged them, but were she to be asked Émilie would not lie.

Her smile curls, lips stretched as the mage attempts to regain composure and not show how surprised she found herself to be on the receiving end of such a sweet thing. Squeezing the other’s hand, she inhales sharply, clearing her throat in the process. Keeping her mind and temptation from wandering and wondering. Stark blue eyes hold hers, heavy and grey “It does mean a lot.”

[mercysought]

@simulcrae​ . " next time i have an idea like that, punch me in the face. " to em from maggie  . from one of these memes // dark tower . accepting  

   “God that would be a full time job, Maggie.” Émilie sighs, looking over from her bool to look at Maggie who was, in turn, looking still towards the end of the room where Abel was busy reading some old-looking letters. Whatever it was, they were too far away from him being able to hear anything other than whispering from the two. He looked tired but he always did look tired these days, if he was in the open, common room of their family house then it meant that he didn’t want to rest so why were they whispering?! “Your mouth literally knows no filter,” Émilie continues, whispering, leaning now in Maggie’s direction with a half smile, lifting her right hand and fist “What hope can my flimsy fist do against that?“

She snorts, leaning back into her books sparing her brother and Maggie but a small moment. It was almost hilarious the way that what Émilie had thought to be a long dead childhood crush seemed to have returned with a vengeance. Truthfully, Émilie didn’t want to get involved, or at least get as little involved, if nothing else she hoped that Maggie could fully understand that talking about death in any capacity in their home for right now was not going to be a good idea. Glancing up again, Émilie narrows her eyes at her friend.

   “Look at me.” her hand snatches Maggie’s face, turning it from the other side of the room to have her look at Émilie in the eyes. Émilie who was squinting deep into the other’s doe eyes like she was about to carve into them “I can almost see those tiny devilish cogs working on another stupid idea. Don’t-“

[mercysought]

@simulcrae​​​ . ❝ Sometimes, I see so much beauty I don’t think that I can cope. ❞ [ margo to emilie ] . florence + the machine, dance fever . accepting

   “Is your eye sight failing you?” the answer was no. It was not the physical coping that Margo was likely talking about as she eyed the street. Émilie eyes those same streets though she can’t see this beauty in it. She could feel it since it crashed like waves from Margo to all around them. She is surprised, astonished really, that no one in that street feels it, at all. Brighter, Émilie would say, like the colours had been pulled straight from a tube of pain and no water had been used to make differing tones. No variation, no spectrum, just a straight beam of the brightest version of colours.

It felt like an intense way being. Émilie half admired it and half feared for what the come down might look like because there was always a come down. She just never had witnessed it which only added to the edge. But the day is warm and they are both resting against the rail watching the carriages go beneath the many flowers that hang from open windows. From beneath her wide hat, Émilie steals a glance before looking down the street once more “Is the world’s beauty perhaps acting like the sun? Or a magnifying glass in a warm afternoon against grass?“ 

Or is it because she had spent some time with Roland earlier on the day? Émilie grins widely and wickedly, she supposed the world would truly never know. Especially since technically, Margo had spent the whole day with her shopping around “Try taking a deep breath, closing your eyes and opening them again.“

[mercysought]

   “You got used to this remarkably fast.” Billy whispers, leaning only softly to her side. His shoulder brushing against hers with a small grin. Émilie, who despite the heat could never truly feel it in her own skin in the same way that all around her seemed to, held onto the same jacket that she had found in the house where the rest of this Nassau Rebellion had found itself in.

It was large, large enough to cover her frame and some despite the adjustments that she had made to them. And yet, it seemed like whatever work that she had put into it had come to a close and that was simply the result.

Émilie glanced up to Billy, brushing her shoulder against his too. A small snort as loose strands of her hair are pulled to the back of her ear, from which they had escaped “This?“

   “Yeah, this.” he replies, brows crooked. It pained her to see how tired and tense he seemed, especially given the news that had poured from the beach, the news about John Silver. The sliver of hope was a hard one to keep alive, but she could see it still in his eyes as he glanced back to the house. Her own large eyes follow it briefly, returning to Billy’s face before his return to hers “Helping me, us, in a cause that is not even yours.”

   “Spying, you mean.” she grins. It had never been a job that she thought she would do, but then again there had been many of such surprises since she had fully left home. He smiles and it feels like a confirmation, though one that he is not fully pleased with admitting either. An unspoken one then. It had given her no pleasure doing such things, invading Eleanor Guthrie’s privacy in such a manner especially after all the kindness that she had shown her. All of the security that she had provided her. Eleanor was a good person and seeing her in that house had harmed her as much as what she knew that she should do. Knowing whatever end was to come would not be a happy one.

   “What I mean is,” his voice lowers and he adjusts to look at her in the eyes “it’s a sacrifice of a life which you’ve always known for people that you don’t.”

And now it was her own turn to cock her brow and tilt her head. A silence that could be taken as agreement, though not one without its own set of “not quites”. She had not spoken about where she had come from, apart from the obvious: She was French. It had been clear by her clothing and manners (and Abel’s, perhaps, she was not sure how much he had told them) that she was, perhaps, of a higher birth. Which was not worth much beyond a bounty in these shores. Perhaps not quite if the interior was to be involved, but even now she didn’t believe the alternative would have been necessarily better.

I mean, you have made a choice, and with this choice you probably won’t be able to return home. Or live a life at all, depending on how things were to fall in the coming days.

   “I’ve been to Paris a few times, I wasn’t allowed out much, in account of...“ her hand waves around her face as if that meant something, but she felt that Billy could likely understand what he meant. Her sickness was often the word that she reached for most often but it felt more and more ill-fitting the more she spoke it. Clearing her throat, Émilie continued “And not once, despite all the misery, pain and discontent, did I feel what I felt when I stepped in Nassau for the first time.“

   “I thought that it was... the pirates, perhaps, the people by the shore and their— their awful crimes.” her words roll speaking of such things so plainly, glancing up to Billy and then back down to her hands. Embarrassed, yes, that it had been so simply to paint them all in the same shade with the same broad brush. They were all sinners with differing weights of sin but sinners nonetheless. And she was no different. There were awful people yes, but nothing was quite so simple “But spending enough time in it, I—“

Inhaling sharply her eyes move in the direction that she feels the closest to calling to her. The Underhil plantation.

   “There is an undeniable darkness that screams, Billy, in the plantations. I cannot...” stop myself. Her teeth sink into lower lip, the sound of air escaping as she pulled on them sinking into the night air. Turning once more, her attention falls to her hands and the picked skin on the sides of her thumbs. She adjusts herself and folds her arms under the coat that she had gotten for herself. The warmth of the rough fabric was little comfort.

Sleeping especially under miss Guthrie’s roof, Émilie had been sure that she would be driven mad. When awake, overwhelming thoughts and, and God knew what else in ways that made her stomach churn and its contents vacate her body. When asleep, nightmares that still chilled her to the bone and lingered long after the sun burnt through her eyelids. To will herself from not leaning into such things was to keep her whole mind occupied, her whole focus solely pulled to that point. Glancing to Billy, he looks at her with a levelled gaze; eyes falling to his own hands “It is hard to explain.”

She finds herself mirroring the same movement, leaning one shoulder into him as she did. Harder to find words that would explain such things without making her sound crazy. Or ashamed. Ashamed of what, however, she didn’t quite know, couldn’t quite name it.

   “It has shaken me,” she speaks but her throat feels dry. His hand feels warm against her palm and when it settles, Émilie does not motion to remove it. She had never been to any of them, the plantations or met any of their owners but she had heard of them from Miss Guthrie. Not that it had meant much, the feelings of helplessness and feeling like she was slowly losing grasp on reality did nothing to ease her mind and concerns “It has shaken me so much that I can barely recognise myself from that life you speak of.“

She could still recognise herself, it would always be her, but felt no desire to return to it. For reasons now beyond the single selfish line that she no longer wished to live in a home that would keep her as sickly until she was to die of old age. She had loved her parents dearly, and they had loved her dearly. She had been safe, fed, kept protected despite how intensely that had been. It had been out of love. The people of Paris and France and all the love and pain that she had felt for them too, all of the ideas and wants. It rang hollow when she stood so close to something so intense as this.

She felt like a small ant standing beneath a massive wave; having stood there seeing the sea pull further and further back.

Émilie holds Billy’s hand, feeling it clammy in his warm and firm grip. Her eyes find his and she smiles apologetically. She would not deny that she had feared every moment that she had worked to given them the information she could. She would not deny that she feared the thought of fighting, of dying. To deny such things would be foolish and a bold faced lie. She was afraid, in some nights she shook in her bones just thinking that the next day might be her last. Or worse might be her brother’s. Or Billy’s; whose mind seemed so far away now, his eyes down cast and lost in thought over their locked hands.

So she lifts them, softly up to have the back of his hand to her lips in a small kiss. When his eyes lift in half surprise to her, she takes a moment, a gulp, and a dose of courage and leans until their lips touch. The beard tickles at parts in her face, scratching at others, but the motion is so swift and the moment so ephemeral that she does not register such things. Just the bright burning in the pit and mouth of her stomach and her tongue which feels needs to find words quickly. Words whose language he would likely not understand and, in english, sound hollow.

And as the silence hangs and the space between them still remains small, even with the kiss parted, she feels her cheeks burn with the same intensity. Her ears too beneath the straw hair.

The hand in his holds on tighter, as tightly as the words that come out of her mouth seem to be “I have no desire to leave.”

[mercysought]

@imbricare​​ . ‘cut me a fucking break. i’ve been fleeing for my life.’ / eleanor for émilie or abel! . the burning god . accepting

Émilie’s hands are folded over her long coat, that same long coat that made her figure almost shapeless. Her fingers digging into the rough fabric. She felt like she was going to faint at any given moment, from the large headache that kept biting at her forehead and the sudden heatwave that seemed to have fallen on the island. In that small house. In that small room in which Eleanor and Madi had been discussing things that she had tried her best to block; both from listening and from honing in. It had been easy, easier than she had expected. After coming inside to the shade Émilie had taken out the large coat. After feeling so cold for so long she had always expected that it should be the same, but on that moment? 

As the two women spoke and she entered deeper into the house she felt herself burn; sweat running down her face and hugging her hair into clumps in her scalp.

The world around her closed; darker and darker with each second and the sound drowning like the walls were folding around her. For one of the first few times, as she felt that familiar sense of fever cling to her body, she could hear no one but her own heartbeat in her ears. The rapid and shallow breaths from her lips. 

Abel could die. Abel was out there, after all of the shots that she had heard. After killing all those men, leaving them there and deeper into the beaches. Billy was out there somewhere. Though her mind moves from him quickly, returning when her hand holds one of the darker corridor walls. They could all die.

Now, with the coat off, she felt cold once more. Like her whole body, thin and wiry was going to be engulfed completely by this large and empty house. When Émilie stares down the corridor she sees a woman dressed in light creams and greens. Blood encrusted on her neck. A hole in her temple. She looks intently down the corridor, holding onto a book and staring beyond the door, beyond the beach. A stare that could go on forever.

Émilie swallows, eyes locked on the apparition as she turns down once more to the living space. The sun is bright and she feels herself so cold when the coat comes once more over her shoulders, over her frame. 

   “Cut me a fucking break. I’ve been fleeing for my life.”

Fleeing, yes. And as she stood there, feeling the ground shake (or was it her body?) Émilie thought that none of them were done fleeing. Though, looking at Eleanor now, having lived in the same house as her and her husband, their servants, she wondered what that could mean. Could entail beyond the above layer. The only thing Émilie knew for certain, what she had always known: was the unmasked, naked and raw hurt in her face.

   “I know.” she says simply, sitting herself in one of the chairs by the table, sinking into her own frame and restraining the shivering.

She had brought a single book with her on the trip to Nassau. It had been of a new novel, a new story: Histoires ou contes du temps passe. In it there had been a single passage that had reminded her of this image of Eleanor that she saw now: In order to earn the love of a prince that was not looking for them, the stepsisters cut their feet until their bloody and mangled bodies could fit into a perfect glass slipper which would determine who the he would marry.

Émilie holds the other woman’s gaze, hearing behind her the floorboards creak as if steps came closer. She stops herself from looking, choosing instead to look away, look to Madi and then down to her own hands. The hair at her neck and arms rise and she gets up once more, around the table always keeping her eyes away from the deeper interior of the house.

   “No one can cut you a break. Not even God has the power to stop what has been started.” looking outside of the window, Émilie holds herself tighter. Holding onto hope, she felt it burn against her skin, like rope slipping between her fingers. There would still be much fleeing still needed to be done if they were to continue with their lives.

[mercysought]

   “I’m still not convinced that she won’t throw us out as soon as she sees us here.” Émilie looks at her, turning around from the large wall filled up to the ceiling with demure and sharp faces. Some only of men, and others of women. Some children. And yet the motif that remained was the same: Neutral to frowning expressions, dark settings, beautifully woven clothes from light burnt umbar to dark browns “Or worse.“

Asharen remains stanging in front of the desk; oddly empty of any papers that one would often expect to find there. Not even an pot of ink and quill. She could only go by what she remembered her desk to have looked like while in Skyhold: A pile of books on many different subjects (from the fade, to history to politics), and many open and unopened letters. Some gifts. Not too unlike what her set up in Antiva was, though, with far less mail and gifts.

Which she appreciated greatly.

   “I don’t think she’ll do anything to us.” the elvhen woman speaks simply, looking at Émilie who now looked at the only portrait in the room that seemed to stand out from the rest. The orlesian woman shakes her hair, the frown on her face deepening but saying nothing. Asharen takes a deep breath “Just trust me,“ she smiles, tilting her hair to the side “please.“

Émilie holds her stare, and perhaps she felt the anxiety growing in the pit of her chest or the unease that refused to settle; she dropped it. The long red hair was held up by a single and messy pony tail; both of their garbs were not what one would have worn to meet with anyone of import, much less a magister, but this was not a social visit.

Asharen looks to the portrait, following the gaze of her companion. It was not finished yet and that was likely the reason why it wasn’t hung too. Two figures stood side by side, one of them, a small boy, his features somewhat already defined but not like the woman. The woman, clad in white and whose face was fully done. Or, to an untrained eye like Asharen, it looked done. The white roses on top of her hair contrasted starkly with the darker background. A familiar one to the rest of the portraits in their room.

Except she smiled; with a corner of her mouth. A knowing grin.

Slowly breathing out, Émilie took it as a opening to continue the topic in a shorter tone, lower. The same tone of voice that she had whenever something had been eating at her for long.

And the travel had been long “I do trust you, I wouldn’t be here otherwise. But I don’t trust her. Maker only knows what she’ll ask of you — ”

   “ — What, indeed...?”

Both Asharen and Émilie turn towards the large door. Neither of them had heard it open, and given the weight and how much effort they had gone through opening it, Asharen knew that it was not something that was fast, or without effort. And yet, there she stood, Maxima Aurum, one hand holding the golden handle of the dark door with a smile of someone that was looking into the eyes of an old friend.

Surprise, if the magister could even feel it, was no where to be read on her face.

   “I must apologise for the lack of presentation,” she continued, walking into the room. Behind her, Asharen could see the large shape of one of her guards, simply giving her a glare before closing the door. The magister slid slowly into the room “but given the circumstances, it’ll have to do.” Asharen glanced to Émilie whose hands were still tightly around the handle of her staff. Only starting to cool off the tension as the magister crossed the large room, reaching her desk.

In the half shadows of the room, the only source being the small slit in the space between the heavy curtains that covered the large windows,Maxima looked back to them both, bowing her head. Long fingers with golden rings coming to rest at her exposed neck “Lady Inquisitor,” lifting her chin, her hand falls to the side of her robes. A nod is given with the same smile “Lady de Clair.“

   “Magister Aurum.” Asharen turns from the painting, allowing it to fall into the shadows as she herself approached the desk. The elven woman bows her head. It would be fascinating at how fast she forgot what would be the best way to demonstrate respect towards a magister, if it wasn’t something that she sorely needed on that very moment. The moment pauses and the magister circles her desk, sitting in her single chair and gesturing towards the two empty, smaller, chairs.

Asharen sits, with her hand falling to her knee. Behind her, she can hear Émilie approach, her steps engolfed by the thick carpet “I see you were informed we were waiting?“

How? If they had been seen in the estate by anyone then she would surely not be there. She and Émilie would likely be in that very moment receiving the treatement that those that tried to infiltrate a Magister’s home did. The elven woman didn’t spend too much time trying to conjure up ideas of what that treatment might be.

She wasn’t fully convinced that they would not end tasting that end quite yet.

   “Yes, well...” the clicking of the lighter cuts the sentence. Asharen cannot see it but she can tell by the way that her eyes wrinkle that she is smiling. Émilie reaches her right side. She does not sit “I am not one to leave guests unattended after such a long and harduous journey... Antiva, right?...” she leans and the shadows that frame her face grow darker. There is no motion to open the curtains, and Asharen does not ask for them. Above the magister’s head, the smoke sways gently “The sun has been doing wonders to your complexion.”

Asharen keeps a small, simple smile. One that Josephine had taught her to keep even as she felt the nerves eat up at her. To call what she was feeling nerves however, was to be generous. Not many knew that she had retreated to Antiva. Sera had helped her get a safe, somewhat remote (but close enough) to the city. She guessed that, given where her clan often travelled and settled, it wasn’t a large leap to think she would have returned to them.

These words were not about her skin, not about Antiva or the weather there.

   “As always, spectacularly informed.” Asharen inhales sharply before continuing talking without giving space for the other to interject “That is actually why we are here. We are not here to waste your time, Magister Au —”

   “ — Maxima is fine.” she interrupts, waving the hand that held the cigarette to the side.

The mixture of cherry and tobacco was as intoxicating as it was heavy.

   “... Lady Maxima.” she continues, clearing her throat “We... I need your help. I am sure you have heard about what happened during the Exalted Council. With the return of the dread wolf.“ upon feeling her voice shake, Asharen stops. Inhaling sharply from her nose, couting to two, and proceeding “He intends to bring down the Veil, his network is wide and I need help to stop him.“

She had not brought this subject with many outside of the close knit group that had survived beyond what had happened in the Exalted Council. The questions at her injury having died down, the concerns, the pity. They were still there, but more from people that didn’t know who she was; she could deal with that just fine.

It had taken her a long time to adjust to life without one of her forearms, one of her hands. She was fortunate, she knew, that as a mage she could still defend herself. Casting was harder now, it took effort, it hurt sometimes, but it was fine. It was the betrayal that had lingered. The anger had been a good enough fuel to keep her alive, to give her the courage to continue living and to claw her way back into a semblance… a semblance of something. Not unlike what had happened post attack from Haven.

That seemed like more than a life time ago.

   “One day will come when a world ending event will not threaten to shake the pillars of the world as we know it,” the human sighs exageratively, a heavy sigh leaving through her nostrils. For all the amusement at the beginning of the sentence, it drops off as she restarts “at this rate, however, it seems it won’t be during my lifetime.“

Asharen remains quiet; as does Émilie who still remained standing in the dark blue travel cloak. She could feel Maxima’s eyes on her face, the long fingers with red nails tapping absentely against equally scarlet lips.

When she closed her eyes at night she could still remember the last moment that she and Solas had shared. She could still feel the pain in her arm. After having spoken about it for so long, after having tried to put it into words, after the rage had subsided, the pain from the betrayal still lingered. Not unlike a good poison. A disease, in a way, that learns how to adapt when the body learns how to fight against it.

Asharen was sure that she would never forget it, but she would beat it and she would live through it.

   “The Inquisitor travels from her self imposed exile to the north, and instead of travelling directly to her ally’s home... She seeks me.” the Magister pauses, sparing a glance to Émilie without so much as moving her face “It does beg the question why not seek Dorian Pavus and his Lucerni? I am sure that all these secret meetings and travels are bound to hurt some feelings.“

There was little time for this sort of cat and mouse game. How she wished that she could have Josephine there with her, helping her (or navigating it herself). She would know how to cut to the chase without feeling rude, to get to the root of the problem and what was needed without seeming harsh. Asharen wished she had the patience, the opportunity to learn.

But time was swiftly running out, and more dangerously, quietly.

   “You are exceptionally well informed, no need to beat around the bush or play coy, Lady Maxima.” her tone is soft, though far harsher than she would have wished. A small smile forms over Asharen’s features; she sits softly against the padded back of her chair “It is also likely the same reason why the Lurceni have tried to recruit you into their ranks more than once.”

   “With no sucess, last I heard.”

Maxima hums, chuckling softly and lowering the cigarette to a spot on the desk that was hidden behind one of the few bobbles there “Not yet, no.”

Not yet.

   “Not the right price?” Émilie cuts with a cold and sharp tone, enough to eradicate any warmth that had been slowly building before then. Asharen glances up to Émilie wishing that she had not said anything. The orlesian mage, for her part, remained staring into Maxima Aurum’s eyes. Looking down to the magister with a crooked eyebrow.

It was known, nothing came for free least of all in Tevinter (or Antiva for that matter).

Maxima moves her ashtray to her left side, leaving her cigarette hanging for a moment. Her body shifts completely to face them, both hands folded in front of her; the sunlight that peered from the curtains behind her now forming a full halo on the neatly brushed hair, on the petals of the flowers that composed her crown.

   “As I’m sure you have noticed and heard, Lady de Clair, my nation is dealing with one of the worst times when it comes to the Qunari war in recent memory.” the shift of tones surprises Asharen but does not seem to affect Émilie who now held the full attention of the other. Maxima continued, left hand raising and folding for emphasis “The Lucerni, for all their good intentions, are a polarising group. And as with any polarising group, it can be hard to reach a comprimise with.“

   “Which is, I imagine, in part the reason why you have come to me and not to Lord Pavus, first.”

Asharen’s eyes are still on Émilie, though they lower again to look at Maxima’s, feeling their weight on her.

   “So you understand the importance of your aid in this.“ Émilie takes a single step forwad, now remaining side by side and in front of the Magister. Asharen looks at the magister.

They would not be asking for this help, have gone for all this trouble if it wasn’t something they sorely needed. She wouldn’t be asking for this if she didn’t sorely need it. Maxima knew this, there was no way that she wouldn’t. No one from the Exalted Council had taken her seriously, her warnings of Solas, seriously. Neither did she expect them to. Without the Inquisition’s forces she was just that: an elf, now without an arm and without the army that she had amassed.

There were days when she wondered if she should have refused to disband the Inquisition. Those days were fewer now than in the beginning. Solas’ spies would find (did find) their way into that organization, the Qun. Tevinter. Perhaps even Maxima’s. Asharen needed help, but she needed people to have skin in the game, something to lose and something to win beyond (and she could not believe she was thinking this) just savin the world.

   “I cannot afford to use my resources for this.”

Maxima finally says and it comes like a cut. Unsurprising and yet, the disappointment heavy in her chest. In her gut. Her shoulders slump against the back of the chair for a second. Asharen does not hear Émilie’s angered sigh; she simply stares at the woman trying to think of what to do.

It had been a long shot, she knew. But they were there.

Asharen leans in, one hand on the desk and her voice falling to a whisper.

   “If Sol— “ she stops herself and on that moment she feels like sinking her teeth into her lower lip; If it had been in the beginning, when she got herself into this whole mess, perhaps she would have. Now she swallowed the embarrassement and the (foolish) hope that Maxima wouldn’t have noticed and instead proceeds. If she had learnt anything during her time as Inquisitor, her struggles then was to do just that: Compartmentalise, and continue. Compartmentalise, and do what must be done.

Asharen lifts her eyes to Maxima’s; watching her eyes as closely as the other watched hers. In the darkness from the curtains, they looked fully black and so intense. She felt the weight of them on her, and returned them all the same. Light brows furrow; she knew what she was asking and that it was one big ask given Tevinter’s circumstances. She knew, but much like Corypheus this would consume everyone.

And she doubted that Solas would do the same mistake that Corypheus (who, in this story almost came akin to his herald, a thought that gives her shivers) had done. There would be no one to ring as a warning. There would be no stopping him “If the Dread Wolf is successful, no one will be safe. Tearing down the Veill will eclipse the death and suffering that the war of the Qun brings.“

   With luck, they will return to Tevinter. That should give you a few years of relative peace.

One cannot feed themselves only of illusions. Solas knew this, as did Asharen. There would be no relative peace for them. No relative peace for her.

She had made him a promise then, and it took perserverance to keep it. To keep hope. And his words... His words had only made things worse. I will treasure the chance to be wrong once again.

The silence that settled was heavy and had fallen easily, so easily that Asharen had not noticed. Maxima remained looking at the elvhen woman, and to her right she could feel Émilie’s eyes burning on the back of her head. Asharen did not move; her eyes holding the heavy gaze of the magister who shifted in her seat, leaning forward with both hands folding over the dark wooden table.

Sunlight cuts the Magister’s frame harshly, a sharp highlight over copper neatly brushed hair; her face partly hidden by the shadows, partly hidden by the smoke of the cigarette that had been lit in the meantime. As the elven woman’s eyes adjust to the bright light that spills from outside, through the curtains, she can tell her plea will not be heard.

   “My people are dying now, miss Lavellan.” her voice felt neutral and harsh much like the mid-day sun; the only strong source of light within this small office. Asharen pulled back into her chair, her eyes unwavering still, until she could see Émilie’s frame in the periphery of her vision “Some captured by the Qun, others given a treatement worse than Tranquility.” her dark eyes glance briefly to the mage next to her, who does not move. Asharen glances up to Émilie and the frown on her face is as dark as the shadows in the portraits that sorround them. That look down at them.

For all the white walls and marble in this room; the soft fabric of the chair, it is their stare that Asharen would remember once she returned home “I am not in a position to put a potential threat over the current dangers that my nation faces.”

The magister continued, pulling the chair back over the heavy carpet. The stands like a beacon of light in that room, her white and gold robes glittering in the sharp light. She too looking down to her.

   “I am sorry.“

Émilie would tell her that wasn’t a lie, and for that single moment, Asharen felt relieved for what was to follow. There would be no peaceful life until Solas was stopped, and loosing her as an ally was a blow, but one that she could survive. Asharen clenched her arm, her hand which she only sees in dreams, clinging to her breath and looking down to the neatly crafted (single) leather glove.

The orlesian mage’s hands and feels warm on her shoulder, and it is the only thing that truly grounds Asharen to place. Her mind travelling to the reflective surface back in her home in Antiva, not anywhere that any visitor would be able to find her, not even close to her living quarters. She knew enough; she would never keep such an artifact close enough to her living quarters. Not if she wanted to wake up to a knife in her gut from a Qun agent, from a Fen’harel agent, from anyone with a vendetta.

The hand squeezes her shoulder, a prompt to get up surely, and yet the stark blue eyes lift to face the Magister once again. She had found and kept one eluvian, she herself using and learning, gathering those that she could trust to study it and the way it altered in the fade. If it was interest that had knit the conversations with Solas it was now a sharp, and pointed need for survival.

   “I can help you.”

Asharen had once (many times) read the way that the Magister’s (at the time, diplomat) lip quirked alongside with her brow as a way of disaplying plain amusement, interest. As she stood sat in one of her two chairs, however, it felt sharper, pointed. It felt calculated, and while it doesn’t come as a surprise, it makes her as uncomfortable now as dealing with any nobles during her time as Inquisitor did.

She was more experienced now, though still way out of her depth; and if she had to guess it was the fact that they had worked together in the past that had got her through the door without issue. The fact that she had been the Inquisitor. But she was Inquisitor no longer.

   “I have an artifact, from my people, that I can help you use. But only,” she pauses, feeling her throat dry as the Magister shifted in her position, her body becoming a single dark line against the light outside with the smoke gently floating around the crown of white roses. And yet, even in the shadow, she feels her eyes on her “only, if you help me.“

Émilie’s hand is still on her shoulder and she doesn’t need to say anything, doesn’t need to look over to know. The tension in her fingers was enough. She was no longer Inquisitor, and while there were many friends, she would need as much help as she could get. The Red Jennies, The Lucerni, the Chargers... She would need any and all help she could get; and while it pained her to have to share such a thing, such an artifact with a shem’len, one from Tevinter at that, she knew that this was bigger than her.

And yet the parallels with Corypheus and Solas rang in the back of her mind like distant drums.

   “Well...” her voice is a whisper; amused too which ground Asharen’s gears. The magister’s face turns, enough that the sunlight could touch part of her features as dark eyes glanced from her companion to Asharen. Maxima Aurum falls back once again into her large chair with a smile, both hands folding over the desk “I’m listening.“

[mercysought]

@dullahaunt​​​​ . ❝ But you… without you, there is no me. ❞ (Jon to Émilie) . black sails season 3 . selectively accepting

She knows they are there before she really sees them. 

Their steps, closer to where she sat by the window overseeing the gardens in her family home, are the same tempo as the soft tapping of her hand on her knee in a rhythm that she does not know but was familiar with all the same. Comforting, in a way, like passing her fingers over the small beads of a rosary. She does not have it there with her but the motion is smooth and simply and she falls into it as easily as she breathes.

Surrounded by the deep teal walls, against the silver and translucid curtains that barely soak in the overcast light from the outside, his figure is akin to that of a ghost. A phantom that crawls from the many books that she had read. He could fit the figures that she had seen from the corner of her vision one way or another, the soft breezes in corridors where all windows remained shut.

Émilie looks at them, blinking once and offering them a soft smile “I don’t know if that is true.”

Oh but the fit her parents would do if they saw someone like him within her room in the estate. She barely shifts where she is sitting, surrounded by so many books that if her skirts were to sway in the wrong direction with the wrong intensity they might collapse. Many loose parchments are left loose too; some of them ripped from books, scribbled with dark ink from lines to spilt dots. Others written by her own hand.

   “You should not be here.” she hums with the same smile, looking to the large two dark wood doors that would lead to the rest of the house; and then back to them “Though I presume that no one walking in would see you.”

[mercysought]

@imbricare​​​ . ❝ I never forget a promise. ❞ / eleanor for émilie . cp2077 prompts . accepting

Émilie glances towards Eleanor Guthrie and there is no doubt shadowing her light eyes. The woman, who one might even call the Queen of Nassau, doesn’t look up from her papers to reply and Émilie feels that’s a good sign. The french woman remains quietly seated on the chair to the corner, both hands folded over her legs, tracing patterns on the dark blue fabric of her dress; and she simply nods, looking outside to the bright and full streets of Nassau.

Somewhere in one of her pockets she still keeps a rosary which felt such an odd thing to have in a place like this. In a weird turn of events, she finds it grounds her. Not for the faith and prayers that she had been taught to repeat when everything became so loud, but it reminded her that she had a home. Even if she didn’t want to return to it. In a odd turn, it felt an anchor, safe and secure.

She believed fully that Eleanor Guthrie never forgot a promise. But to not forget and to keep a promise was two very different things. Émilie was sure that the distinction was also very loud in her own thoughts, without needing to pry, without needing to focus in on it. She believed Eleanor: She never forgot a promise. Émilie could not know (would not ask) what agreement her brother had somehow arranged, only that she did not like it. Even if she hadn’t found the right words to express it. In English, that is. In French she would have had the words, just no true want to expose them. Not right now.

It was obvious that Émilie had a space. Had a use.

Émilie looks to the large frame of Mr. Scott who stands just on one of the steps towards the outside of the street. His eyes are somewhere to the left, some place where her eyes could not follow. Perhaps she would join him later.

  “May ask a question, miss Guthrie?” Émilie’s eyes move from the outside back to the other blonde woman. Her hands still on each of her legs, softly closing into fists as she pulls them closer to her chest, folding her arms. 

Her eyes look on  the woman’s face as she hums in reply. A quick glance is spared but that too doesn’t stay for long. Émilie feels the question burn at the base of her throat as she finds the right words, but the intent? The intent scares her for what questions might be thrown her way instead “Would you say that Captain Flint abides by the same rules?”

Eleanor’s head turns and her gaze now focuses on Émilie fully. Silence settles for that span. Émilie’s back rests against the comfortable chair. Do not answer me, not truthfully. Not with what I know. Perhaps it would be kinder to answer truthfully, so that she would know where she stood with Eleanor but whichever answer or path the other chose, she would know.

Émilie feared him. As many on the island did. But not many on the island would feel the ground shake beneath their feet, their ears ringing; the anger and sadness filling their lungs like water. A sinking ship.

No one on that island had her brother as part of their crew.  Abel as part of a pirate crew. How strange of a thought that was still.

[mercysought]

@valorcorrupt​​ . ( STARE ) longingly staring at mine from across the room. ((also for your self-indulgent needs)) . seduction prompts . selectively accepting

billy & émilie

With a strangled breath, Billy takes in a sharp and full breath. The air is heavy with humidity and it feels painful but he doubted it had anything to do with that. To be seated was in itself a form o pain. After lying down for what felt like years he preferred this. The light beyond the hut might feel sharp and just its existence made his blistered skin hurt; but this strange peace was something that he allowed himself to drink in fully. It wasn’t that there wasn’t plenty for him to consider, there was. Not first one the fact that Silver had both bound him into this hut and then proceeded to free him later.

Just that thought made his head hurt; his eyes close tighter and his incredibly sun-burnt face follows suit with the searing pain. Billy had lost track of the days, but he knew for some certainty that it was not normal to still feel like he held half a lung filled with water.

And after speaking with the rest of the Walrus after so long had left him fully sapped. Perhaps it is out of habit or simply fatigue, but as soon as the tip of his fingers touch his closed lids he feels the taste of regret in his mouth. It is when his burst eyes open that he sees her. 

At first he almost believes it is an odd mirage. Feels almost stunned that he hadn’t felt any eyes on him. Both of his hands fall on his lap and eyes narrow on the figure that he had first thought had been looking in his direction, only to be proven wrong. Speaking with non other than  Dufresne, Émilie stands surprisingly fitting in the middle of the sands. Not in a dress as the last time he had seen her but in an attire that he could easily see any helping hand with a long coat that covered most of her body.

Long blonde hair tied into a braid and catching the sun fully.

He had not been aware that he had been continuously staring until she looks to him directly and forces his own eyes down to his hands. Glancing up only a moment after and ignoring the uncomfortable way the sweat accumulated at his neck, the swollen skin on his face, noticing only that she is now walking in his direction, holding his eyes.

When she enters the shade, he can finally see how her skin is far more freckled and burnt. Billy’s mouth opens briefly taking her figure and feeling his eyes return to his hands before once again returning to her and starting to get up.

   “Miss d — ” her hand lifts from where it was folded in front of her stomach, stopping him mid motion as she motions for him to sit down. He doesn’t, not immediately, instead feeling his eyes stuck on hers.

   “Émilie. Émilie is fine.” she says softly and her hand falls to the side of her body as she moves closer. Billy sits once more, now looking (only barely) up to the other. Surprise furrows his brows. She definitely looked more confident; sounded more confident in the english despite the accent that was still prominent. 

He does not mind. He liked it, the soft rolls on her voice. When his eyes return to hers, she is staring at him in silence, brows furrowed and seemingly chewing on her lip. It was an endearing expression one that he cannot stop himself from faintly smiling at. Noticing the large stretch of silence, Émilie shifts her weight, one thumb making circles on the back of the other before inhaling the humid salty air.

   “How... How are you feeling?“

[mercysought]

She hated that place. But not in the same way that she hated home.

Her home was all that she had known for a very long time, the glimpses of the outside world only visible through small and short visits to the city. Unrecognisable, dressed in men’s clothing with her hair kept in the same style as her brother’s would if he let it grow. 

Her home was beautiful, comfortable, exactly all that she could want. Carefully curated books from her mother and father, only sensible ones for a Lady’s mind (despite her mother’s complaints). Tutors that could keep boredom away. Physicians that would try to keep her nightmares subdued. Her mother keeping her within the home, with fear hanging like a heavy curtain over a large window: the fear that one day those same physicians would take her baby away.

This place? This place taunted her.

She had traded her skirts for a pair of trousers much like what she had in the past. Her heavy coat having been discarded once they had reached warmer climates. Still, she wore a corset above the looser and lighter blouse. A lighter coat hid most of her small frame. 

Émilie stared at the lively beach, feeling the weight of the sword that rested horizontally on her lap. The weight of the barrel of a small firearm swaddled against the palm of her hand. Thin fingers drew circles over the metal as she watched people go. Short dirty nails scratch it absently as the warm breeze brushes aside light blonde hair. 

   “You should not have come. Do you understand how dangerous these people are, Émilie?! What could have happened to you?!” 

She didn’t know what she had expected. A hug, perhaps. A flash of a smile and surprise when she turned around to see Abel walk into this small tavern on the island of Nassau. Shock had certainly crossed her brother’s face, a rare sight, but that had not remained for long. Instead she still felt the burning on her upper arm as he had grabbed her towards a more isolated corner, room, of the house. 

Abel did not know how to scream, or shout, to anyone. Émilie had learnt this first when they were still children and she had cut his knee with his own training weapon. Nor was he the type to scold. She had not expected the strength with which he had grabbed her arm. She had not expected the scolding. Émilie’s bright eyes still hold his confusion, the same deepening frown when they come to a stop.

Everything is loud in this place and Abel had always been small, softer. Even now in the middle of this, standing so close where she could see how much longer his hair had grown and how the sun had burnt his eyebrows. He is still soft. So soft she can barely hear him regardless of how much she focused in, how much she tried. His hand dives into the light brown hair, pulling it back as his back turns to her. She can see the bright freckles around his neck, the same ones that had dashed across his cheeks. The same ones that splash hers.

   “You stopped sending letters!” her voice shakes, her hand still wrapped around her arm. She had heard stories from the pirates that had taken her here of this place: the single piece of the free world. A free world. This place that had taken her brother hostage. These people that lived a life according to their own rules. How Émiliie both loathed and envied them. Half the thoughts pulling at her to come closer and the other disgusted at the violence that was offered so freely “I knew something was wrong, and I knew you were still alive! I had to help! I had to come!” 

His brother turns to face her and in her face he finds a challenge: if it was the other way around; deny it. Deny that you wouldn’t have done the same way. A bait. Émilie watches him, mirroring much of his stance. Straightened shoulders, tense jaw. In a place filled to the brim with expert fishermen and large sharks, it seemed Abel had only set himself deeper into his ways: and so her bait remains untouched.

   “You are going to wait for me to find you safe passage back to France.” he says simply and matter of fact.

Abel starts walking, walking past her and with his hand pushing aside the curtains that make out for a poor divider. Her mind does not run so much as it sprints, swirling around. She could feel it. This place. It is a poor excuse and yet it does nothing but embolden her in the volume with which her words come out, in the loud French that starts to fill the space over the cups.

   “What?!“ Émilie’s shock could only be compared to the anger that erupts from her mouth, to the speed with which she turns and grabs his arm, preventing him from leaving. Her hair, loose into long and pale strips, so unlike what she would have worn at any other time, sways over her coat. Grey eyes find his “I’m NOT leaving without you! I’m not going back to our parents to tell them that you became a pirate and chose to stay to pay an imaginary debt instead of returning!“

   “Because our parents know that you’re here?” he shoots back, softly. And how that only made her angrier. Not that he knew that she had found a way of leaving their home and that they were likely more concerned over her than him. The fact that Abel never raised his voice. It drove her mad “I cannot leave. Not yet.”

His hand covers hers over his arm, as they do they release of the curtain. His fingers curl around hers and start to pull away. Her nails dig deeper.

   “Why?! Because of your STUPID sense of HONOUR?” his brows shoot up. And there is hurt lingering in grey eyes that stare back at hers and she cannot stop herself from feeling glad. Glad that he seems to be showing something, anything. That her words seem to have finally reached him “They are PIRATES, Abel!” she points out, out towards the tavern. Her eyes do not leave her brother’s “Thieves, murderers! That they didn’t kill you outright is a miracle! You would lay down your life for them because you think they spared you, when they would not think twice before leaving you to ROT after you stop being useful!”

He holds his breath and she feels like she just ran across the whole beach full sprint. Her teeth sink into her lower lip and her free hand falls beside her body. Small hand closing into a fist. The silence holds, hangs in the air while Abel holds his sister’s hand that had found purchase on his arm.

   “Émilie.” 

— Don’t start.  — Don’t ask this of me. — I know you don’t mean it. But this changes nothing.

Any one of those options could have been what followed and yet nothing did. Only his stare and the silence. The gentle hold of his hand. Émilie lip quivers and her hold tightens around his arm “I can’t protect you and you don — ”

   “Then you better be ready to tie me up and drag me to the boat back to France.” she hears herself say, pulling her hand from his arm. It jolts down to the side of her body. Her jaw could snap. Between gritted teeth she warns: “I’m not leaving.” 

Émilie brushes past her older brother, dodging the hold on her arm. Her hand pulls the curtain aside, her boots heavy against the old wood floor and she walks past the row of murdering thieves out into the bright sun of Nassau. Not sure where to, it didn’t matter.

She still didn’t know where she was. Not too far from the tavern. Close enough to the sea that she could see the same ship that had brought her in but no familiar face. 

   “I heard the fight.” 

With a jump, her hold on the pistol tightens but it does not move it towards the source of the voice. She did not recognise the man that had walked into the small shack that she had found herself in, hidden away from the sun and the searing heat. He was speaking English, and while her knowledge of the language had certainly improved in the few months that she had travelled to reach Nassau, it was not good. Still, she understood one word at least: fight. 

The hold loosens as she watches him approach. Both hands raised briefly and he sits next to her against some crates. Émilie’s weight shifts, moving only slightly further from where he was.

   “You’re Abel’s…?” her eyes remain on the beach, on the men picking up crates and the way they brought them to the shade of rickety constructs such as this one. She breathes in slowly, her eyes lower to her hands before they once again move to the beach. He didn’t pose a danger, not yet at least. But could she even trust her gut feeling in this island? 

Émilie glances in the man’s direction. She recognised him, or at least his features were somewhat familiar. One of the men that Abel had arrived with. With a deep breath she looks again at the beach, considering his question. Abel’s name sounded wrong when spoken in that accent. 

Still, if it was a question and her brother’s name was mentioned she was almost certain she knew what he was asking, seeking confirmation of “Sister.”

   “Sister…”

He repeats, nodding, looking out to the same spot that Émilie was once again staring at the men and the many ships docked by the beach. While the noise from them was loud, the man sitting beside her grew louder. Not him, not himself per se, but an anxiety that grew louder every second that he spent there. The warm breeze brushed against them both as the silence continued, growing heavier by the second until a soft breeze came and seemed to brush it away. His anxiety, however, grew louder.

How she wished he would just leave her alone.

Émilie looks to the other for another moment. An empty paper. Something about an empty paper, about the safety of his crew. Captain Flint. Her breathing grows heavier and when she feels his eyes turn to her she quickly looks to the sea, turning her face completely from him. She had heard of him. Heard some. Enough.

   “I don’t know how to speak English well. And you won’t understand me speaking French.” she turns to face him once again, speaking in French because it was easier. Easier and because she wanted him to be gone, to understand that she didn’t want him there. Her sentence comes to a close with an exasperated sight and her lips held into a thin line.

The pure confused expression on his face would have been endearing if she hadn’t been in such a sour mood. Instead he simply looks at her for a solid second, much like her also likely attempting to pierce together what she had just said.

The crates creak under his weight as he gets up. Only now that she can have a good look at him does she realise how tall he was. He nods once again, her attention turns to the beach when she thinks he starts to turn to leave. And yet, he remains, standing, his hand pointing towards the weapons at her lap.

   “Do you know how to use those?” her eyes immediately follow where he pointed, down to the pistol and sword.

The sword she had brought from home. It was hers. The same way that Abel had been given one when he was younger. And this one? This one was old, old and small but what she had considered serviceable. Easy to hold and to use, if she needed. The pistol had been given to her from the Captain of the ship that had taken her there.

   You’re good at sniffing out trouble, and that’s good, but that can lead to a lot of shit being thrown your way so...

Good at sniffing (the same as smelling he had come to realise, but what a dog would do) out trouble. Good at understanding when the mood of the ship was turning dour, when it was turning dangerous. 

She brings them closer to her. Her cheeks and ears burn with each second that passed in the silence after his question was asked. Light grey eyes lift to look at his eyes, finally. He didn’t seem to speak as if to show off how defenceless she was, a threat. There was concern, plain and simple.

Small and thin hands hold the weapons tighter as the frown on her face grows deeper. No. She didn’t know how to use it.

   “What’s your name?” 

   “Émilie.”