- Run and Run and Run -
The dreams change, after a time. She does not have visions of her father shifting into stone, his body trapped, hand outreaching for his only daughter. She no longer places her hand in his, the stone-cold touch making her wince.
She dreams of Jessamine occasionally, of when she was a child and her mother would comb her hair with her fingers. He frowns at those memories, Emily awakening with tears streaming down her eyes - where her mother is beside her once again, her touch soft on her cheeks.
She then dreams of Delilah for a time. The witch stalks about the void, tempered and ill, and she in turn watches and calculates, waiting for her chance to strike. Her eyes grow hard, pinpricks behind the cloth of her mask, moving in the shadows, as if she is part of the void. There is strength hidden beneath her form, tall, face soft. She is an enigma, intriguing and fascinating. He finds the more she traipses Karnaca the more she opens to him, the less he knows.
And Delilah calls to her mind, feeds her sickening whispers of family, her blood tantalizing, and yet she listens. Her heart craves her mother, her father, yet her mind clouds, swirling in confused circles, trying to understand.
Her hand smooths down his arm in these moments, eyes far and searching, for once, something he cannot provide. So he waits for her to return, turns her face towards him, and she blinks away the mist from her eyes. He pillows her in the comfort of the void, the smoke that calls for secrets surrounding her in peace. Kisses her eyes so that they may see and unsee.
And they shift again, the dreams, as the mark pulsates against her hand and she kills without spilling blood. Emily Attano is an interesting being, not quite human, not meant to be a part of the void.
She dreams of a throne. But it is not one made out of charcoal stone and whispered pleas. The one that Veray Moray and others have built for him, over years of carving bones. The throne of Dunwall sits in her mind, and she, on occasion, occupies it. Others she walks around it, her mind calm and cool as she traces its high back with her fingers. Imperial Majesty.
"Ah," he says, and she turns to him.
"I've spent all my time waiting for court to be over, so I could escape into the night," her voice is wispy, far away, long buried regrets tinging her words.
He does not reply, watches her, the way she sits, regal back straight, hands clasped tightly over her knees. The blood of the Empress runs through her veins.
"I must do better," she is the one watching him carefully now, "I wish to."
He grinds his jaw. The nights in Gristol are long, the air fresh from the roof of Dunwall Tower, shadows slinking over the shingles of the roofs there.
Her lips part to say something more, but she stops, stands, lean and tall and agile. Her mind sharper than the blade gifted from the scarred hands of her father. Her hand smooths over his shoulder, his arms tightened against his chest. Unseeing eyes see all.
She will return to the throne one day, with no time to chase shadows.
"As you wish, Empress."