Emily found it funny. She was a girl with no name and yet, at the same time, she had so many. Sometimes she was Emily-with-a-Y (as opposed to the rarer spelling of "Emilie", which was a name that often haunted her dreams, as though she were peering into the future, looking through the eyes of another woman in another world in another time, yet still very much in the same position as she was in today). Sometimes she was Emily-with-No-Last-Name because she had no family to speak of (and no family who would speak for her). Sometimes she was Em, when playful old Veronica was flirting with her. Sometimes she was "My Queen" or "My Lady" when she was being addressed by the very formal leader of the Plague Rats, Sir Edward. Sometimes she was "ma'am" or "missy" when sarcastically addressed by the monsters in charge of this Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls. Sometimes, she was "slut" or "harlot" or "whore", when being degraded and defined by the cruel society which had cast her out and away into the Asylum in the first place. Sometimes she was Just Emily, when no other name could be given, or when nobody could be bothered to call her by anything other than her uncreative first name. But to one, and only one, she was Valentine.
To Captain Jolie Rogue, the unofficial leader of the Asylum Inmates, Emily was not Emily, but Valentine.
"For the heart-shaped scar on your cheek," she had muttered once, when Emily asked about it. "And for your bright red hair..." though the Captain had sounded a bit more envious when she mentioned Emily's hair. Emily took note and wondered why. The Captain had gorgeous flowing locks of her own, long, thick and dark. Her locks managed to remain luscious and luxurious despite the Hell in which all of them lived. They flowed down her back like a dark river. But for some reason, although Jolie did very much prize her own hair, it was Emily's that fascinated her the most.
"I have never seen such color before," she breathed and marveled softly, taking handfuls of Emily's scarlet hair and curling and dropping it over and over again, playing with it and reveling in the feeling of it on her skin. It was light and soft. And it was so-
"Red. So, so red," Jolie even tilted her head and offered up a smile. Emily had been in this nightmare for nearly five years and she was certain that this was the first time she'd ever seen Jolie do that. And from the look on the faces of several other inmates, it was the first time they had seen Jolie smile too. Already, just getting to hear her talk was to startling and new, because the girl had practically taken a vow of silence, often going long periods of time without ever uttering a sound. Only when it was absolutely necessary did she speak, but now here she was, indulging in that long-forgotten luxury, and using some of her rare and precious words to compliment Emily, and her bright, blinding red hair.
Then she turned the little redhead around to face her, unreadable eyes raking over every inch of her.
"The heart, the scar," she mumbled, shyly reaching out to touch it. But for a second, in a look that only Emily could see, there was fear and concern and vulnerability in Jolie's normally-stoic gray eyes. A silent request for consent. Could she touch Emily's scar? Emily was almost taken aback by such a question. She never allowed anyone else to touch the scar. In fact, she scarcely even touched it herself! But to see Jolie asking, waiting, so very patient and polite, Emily found it impossible to deny. So she turned her cheek slightly, offering it up to her Captain.
"Red, so red," she murmured as she traced it, tilting her head again as she inspected it. "So perfect..." and it was. Though it was a scar, it was such a perfect shape that some inmates originally thought Emily had done it to herself, as some sort of act of defiance or madness (they were both the same though, weren't they?). They had considered it a tattoo, at least until Emily had been able to explain.
No. This heart-shaped scar was not a tattoo, but a war wound gained in a fight where she attempted first to regain her life, then to take it. She had lost both battles, but she still wore the scar with pride. Even though she gained it in two failures, she considered it a symbol not of defeat, but of spirit. She had fought long and hard and even though she had lost, the scar stood more as a testament to her attempt at fighting and her subsequent survival than it did to the direct outcome of the two battles (first against the sick, twisted Count de Rothsberg, then against herself, both terrible and hideous enemies who had beaten her soundly, but not before she managed to get a few good blows in herself).
Now Jolie sat here, gently touching and tracing it. She knew what it meant to her precious little Valentine. She knew that the scar was no ordinary scar, but a symbol of courage and survival. She knew it because she, too, had seen battle. And she had seen scars, and loss, and pain, and defeat. And she too had culled up a symbol from the ashes, a burning reminder not of her loss, but of her will to live. It was not a scar like Emily's, but she still had it. It was why she so intuitively and instinctively understood what that heart-shaped mark on Valentine' face meant to Valentine. She too bore a wound from a war, which she used not to brand her shame, but to decorate and laud her courage and strength in battle.
And Emily knew that Jolie knew. It was why she was allowing the Captain to touch the scar. Because although every girl in this hellhole Asylum knew what war and battle and death and hatred looked like, only she and the Captain truly understood the symbolism behind a scar gained in battle, especially if it was a lost battle. It was a bond they shared that no one else in the entire madhouse had. It was what set them apart.
"You are just like me," Jolie had mused in one of the few times she ever spoke. "A scarred and broken fighter and survivor. You even bear the mark!" and from that first cryptic sentence onward, the two had been like kindred spirits, bonded by something even deeper than love or romance or desire. They were bonded by life, death and the delicate and changing balance between the two. They were bonded though suffering and humanity, the only things on par with love. But even if it was hatred and war that bonded them, it was love that sustained them.
"Red, my Valentine is red," Jolie whispered as she held Emily close that night. Even though Jolie never slept, eternally honor-bound to be wakeful during the resting hours so that she could watch over her sleeping fellow inmates, she still cradled Emily to sleep every single night.
"She is red like the sun in the morning and evening, red like the blood shed on the battlefield, red like the heart beating in my chest, just for her," the Captain hummed absentmindedly as she rocked the younger girl to sleep. "Your face and your hair and your heart and your very soul are red. They are strong and bright and powerful and stained. You are red..." and Emily was lulled to sleep by the Captain's gentle touch. For one as prickly and distant as she, there was a lot of protectiveness, care and sacrifice within her. She was a beautiful soul in a broken body, Emily just wished that the outside could've matched the inside, for if it did, she was certain that Jolie would be the most beautiful woman in the universe.
And the very next day, after breakfast, Emily slipped something into the Captain's hand. A tiny scrap of paper. To a normal, sane, person, it would've been a rather pathetic gift, but because Jolie knew how much paper meant to Emily (for paper could be used for writing and drawing, a luxury none of them could afford anymore, yet indulged in whenever possible anyway, just to retain some of their old humanity) she accepted the paper with great grace and care. She would value it forever, because she knew how much sacrifice lay within it, puny though it was.
What lay inside was even more precious than the paper itself. It was a red crayon, one of her Valentine's most prized possessions. And it was fairly new, meaning that Valentine must've loved her an awful lot to part with such a precious and fresh trinket. And on the paper, written in red, read, "Oh Captain, my Captain, how dearly do I love thee. Were it within my power, I would take you and me, off to sail all seven seas..."
Jolie's heart melted as she read that little poem, admiring the poorly-drawn boat under it. She slipped the paper into her paper pirate hat and it remained there for all the rest of her days. Even after the paper and message had faded away, one thing always remained the same: Red.
"My Valentine, my red. You are so red, so very red, and so very beautiful... I love you so..." and it was the only time Jolie ever confessed her love for anyone. Valentine returned it in full. Her sweet, precious, lovely, loving, little, red Valentine.
AN: The one problem I have with Emilie Autumn's amazing book "The Asylum For Wayward Victorian Girls" is that I legit cannot choose a ship, because every possible ship is pure gold and everyone is so shippable. I hate her for making it impossible for me to choose just one ship. That being said, this is one out of several more EA ships I'll be writing about this month (seriously, I ship Emily with everyone, and I cannot decide who she fits best with). Hope you enjoyed this first ship! (Legit, I recommend the book. It's on Amazon and you can listen to EA's musical accompaniments on YouTube. She is amazing and the story is worth every penny and every song)
