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it takes days for you to settle into yourself again, for your nerves to stop vibrating with every racing heartbeat ( your own or not-your-own ), for your breathing and thoughts to become in tandem again. for the panic to subside. you keep your guard up, up, always up, because that’s what you do is guard, but she’s here now. she’s here. emily is here, with you, and safe, or at least-- no. don’t finish that thought. she’s safe. she’s safe. she’s with you. she’s safe.
you know some of the others would argue otherwise. samuel does. you knew he would. you saw the way he looked at you on your way back from the cat, all leery and condescending. she sat on your lap, her small frame curled against your chest, protected by your arms and your sword and your heart ( both of them ). he stroked his lips like he wanted a smoke. he didn’t light one.
‘you know,’ he said, after too long a pause, too telling a silence. ‘you’re going to get your clothes dirty, huddled all close to him like that.’
emily peered up over your arm. she knew. her clothes were already dirty. stained with things that will wash. with things that will not. with grime and sweat and tears and bad memories. bad bad memories. and blood, your blood, blood you shed for her, blood you shed for Her. she did not seem to care when she saw you, when she clung to your chest, when you knew she wanted to cry but she couldn’t, couldn’t, because she will be empress soon and, She said, empresses must be strong leaders.
she did not care at the cat, and she did not care on the amaranth.
‘i know,’ she said, and pressed herself closer to you. you held her tighter.
samuel’s eyes were deadly. but not as deadly as you.
-
‘she’s too young for this,’ he says.
you look at him. you want to laugh, or sob, or scream, or all three, or maybe gut him for his trouble. you don’t. the anger that rises in your chest is slow and boiling and tendril-like, curling and weaving around your heart, Her heart, suffocating. you try to breathe. you try to breathe.
you rise from the bar seat and in one, two strides you’re inches away. he’s smaller, much smaller, but not intimidated. he doesn’t frighten easily. you almost wish he did.
‘you think.’ your words are sharp and precise, like your blade. you can only hope they cut as deeply. ‘she was too young to see her Mother die, too?’
‘you think she was too young to be trapped in a brothel for months, too?’
your breaths are so hot, so heavy, you could be sobbing. you might be. samuel is steel, and does not waver. it’s infuriating. your left hand twitches.
‘you think this is suddenly the breaking point?’
no regrets. no remorse. no turning back.
samuel doesn’t confront you directly again after that.
-
‘emily,’ you say, with all the tenderness you can muster. you have so little left in you. the past few months have left you raw and broken and tired, so tired. what little there is remaining in your marrow is reserved for emily. little emily. because she needs it. because of Her.
she’s sitting on the edge of your bed and you’re kneeling, eye-level, and you take her small hands in yours and they’re soft, but not as soft as before. it strikes you, then, hard and physical and right in your heart( s ), that you are not the only one who has changed.
‘you know,’ you start, and wet your lips. you squeeze her hands and look into her eyes; brown, like yours. her jaw strong, like yours. but her nose is Hers.
‘you know what i’m doing out there, right? you know that i’m--,’
you consider, for a brief moment, lying. you consider, for half a second, beating around the bush. hiding the truth. shielding her eyes from all the violence and pain and rot in the world. you consider wrapping your arms around her and protecting her from the storm, forever, from the void’s gaping maw, forever.
but she is stained with things that will not wash.
‘--killing people?’
slow and small, she nods. her gaze does not break.
you shift. the truth hurts. the truth cuts. the truth rips your heart right out of your body and does not even destroy it. the truth is not so kind.
‘i wanted you to know... that i can stop. that-- if you don’t want me killing people, i won’t. for you. okay?’
you don’t think you’ve spoken so softly since you sang her lullabies.
‘you need only ask.’
there is silence, but not the tense kind. not like with samuel. soft silence. thinking silence. her eyes shift to her lap and you move to sit next to her on the worn mattress. you wrap an arm around her frame and you close your eyes and breathe. breathe. this gentle silence. this sweet silence. this you can pretend, for just a moment, none of this is happening silence.
‘no.’
her voice is quiet but not unheard. you turn to face her.
‘i don’t-- i want, want you. to keep.’ she breathes, shaky, and you squeeze her shoulder but say nothing.
‘i don’t... want them. to. to hurt us. anymore.’ she swallows, and lifts her head with sudden pride, and determination, and resolve, an empress’ resolve, and you think: She would be so proud. so, so proud.
she looks at you, her jaw-- like yours-- set.
‘i want them to die.’
you hold her close, and she sleeps in your room that night. she never takes it back.