A/N: Hey you guys, I know it has been a while since I've updated this story – it has honestly been a busy few months for me, as I just finished moving. But I've recently caught the writer's bug, so I'll be updating this story a lot. Just for plot reasons: this story takes place around mid-season 3, around October/November 2014, so dates and ages will be in accordance to that timeline. And thank you again for the all kind feedback so far; I plan on getting this story moving pretty quickly. ENJOY chapter 2!
R&R – 10 reviews and I'll post Chapter 3 early. Reviews are eye-candy. :)
"We spend our lives struggling to hold on to the things we value most. To the people and things we believe we could never exist without. But our memories are often an illusion protecting a far more destructive truth."
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The Clarke House –August 1992
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"Daddy, look !" Shoulder-length sand-colored tresses fall in front of the face of the precocious 8 year-old as she kneels down beside a small bed of white flowers in the sand, her voice radiating on the beach as she calls for her father. Her small fingers stroke the soft, velvet petals of the flowers before her and the wind and roar of the ocean rage against her voice. "There's flowers here."
"Hey, look at that." The girl's father meets her dreamy gaze and comes down to one knee, taking one of the ivory flowers into his palms. "I didn't know daisies grew on the beach."
"Daisies," her voice echoes, wavering slightly on the word. She smiles subtly, but not as most do in the face of pure, unplanned happiness. Her smile reflects one of peaceful acceptance, of bliss and tranquility. "They're beautiful."
Her father gently plucks one of the pure white daisies from its refuge under the sandy surface and tenderly places it behind his daughter's right ear. "Beautiful like you, Amanda." He smiles in her direction but his expression becomes puzzled when her peaceful demeanor vanishes and a look of panic takes hold of her peace.
She quickly removes the flower from behind her ear and frantically attempts to place it back within the sand. Her hands scoop bunches of sand grains which fall through her fingers as she pours them onto the daisy. "Daddy, you killed it! It has to stay there and grow and now it can't." Slowly, her frantic movements die down and the smoke settles, allowing her to retract her quick hands from the scene. Just like that the girl sullenly ends her nervous plight and sighs, looking sadly up to her father.
He shakes his head and lets out a small chuckle. "Sometimes, we must be removed from what we know to truly experience the most beauty in our lives. It is better to feel beauty rather than to see it; that's why people pick flowers." He then removes the flower from its temporary hold within Amanda's sand piles and returns it behind his daughter's ear, where he had placed it before. "You deserve all the beauty in this world, Amanda."
"What happens when it dies?"
"Flowers come and go, but the peace and happiness they bring you will last, always. Nothing goes away forever." David reassures his curious daughter.
"Really?"
"Really."
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Southampton, NY – Present-day
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Emily Thorne was not one to stray off her designated path. After years of physical, mental, and emotional training, she became immaculately precise, focused, and driven in every aspect to exact her inevitable revenge on the Graysons. Every ounce of her initial character became shaped into the stealthy, meticulous, and calculated body necessary to take down the Grayson regime. The makings of Amanda Clarke, as she knew it, were all but gone. However, oftentimes when she reflected on this self-chosen purpose, she wondered what her current motivation was to continue on in her journey. Was it hatred? Was it anger?
Was it that revenging became all she knew? All she had left to live for? Was she too invested, too far gone?
Every once in a while, Emily Thorne would stray from the path when thinking about her. Similarly so, thinking about her would always bring her back to him.
She thought of him often, especially on evenings like this one; when hues of pink and blue and purple would sink and simmer down into lingering fog and charcoal skies while the ebb and flow of the ocean maintain a balanced rhythm. They had spent so much time here together, if not plotting red-sharpie tactics, then simply enjoying the company of one another in her childhood home – it was like it was theirs; a place separate from all the planning and destruction around them. There was a quiet essence about Aiden that brought her so much peace, even without words.
Though, behind their every encounter, every time he would caress her face or tousle her hair, every time his tender words and gentle embrace would seep through her skin and into her blood and being, part of her ached inside at the thought of their young progeny, and how even in her position of strength and cunning she was unable to tell him. She loved Aiden deeply, powerfully, for he was the only person who broke down her 10-foot emotional barriers and saw the truth underneath all the lies and lack of feeling. He ignited something within her; he kept her safe and weak and utterly lovesick like no one had before. He made her feel. But Emily knew he would never forgive her for giving her up all those years ago, though she knew it was for the best. She didn't want him to hurt like she did. She couldn't tell him, even though it killed her. And now that he had left, she didn't have to. But the guilt didn't subside.
It sometimes overcame her, like an ocean wave pulling stragglers under the current, especially now that he was gone. It crept up on her mostly in her times of leisure or deep rumination, which she reluctantly did a lot of upon returning to the house to recover from her incident. Now that Emily could not build a future for herself or anyone else when it was all over, now that her ability to bear children was demolished indefinitely – she thought of her existing little girl more than ever, and her guilt raged on.
The evening is a chilly one – the ocean outside draws in strong gusts of cold wind that come into the beach house from the windows. The windows and walls rattle and roar with every exhale, bringing the opaque white curtains inward towards Emily, whom is curled up in a blanket on the far end of her taupe-colored chenille sofa. Her witty accomplice and long-time companion, Nolan Ross, sits rapt by his laptop screen in an ottoman across from her. Night was settling into the Hamptons, and it had been a quiet day for team Red-Sharpie. Now that she was in recovery, now that her years of training and planning had been blown, now that they knew – Emily Thorne wasn't quite sure what to do to keep on top of the Graysons. She wasn't sure if she knew how; if her mission could even be put back on track.
She wasn't sure if it was worth it.
Emily knew she had time to think; although the Graysons were now aware of her true intentions and identity, she knew they were wise enough not to try anything just yet. Both sides needed time for damage control and to digress from the hype and media attention of the wedding and the shooting and all that preceded. She had time to come up with her next step, but while she was dedicated towards pushing forward, something in her felt so entirely defeated and distracted.
Now that her future was so fruitless and uncertain, now that the only man she ever loved was gone, Emily for the first time in her life had no real idea where even to begin to fix her broken and flawed mission. If she even could, or wanted to.
She wanted to maintain her impenetrable guise, her impeccable cunning – she clung to it – but the white sheet was removed from her numbed ghost and so much of herself and her weaknesses were exposed.
Emily's complex mind is so flooded with thoughts of her, so much so that she cannot concentrate on much else. She was so distracted.
She wonders what she looks like – if she looks like him, if she has his smile, or his comforting presence. She is a little over 5 years old now; Emily smiles against her weakened disposition at the thought of her child starting school. She wonders if she is smart, or kind. She wonders if she is happy and healthy and if she is safe. Emily wonders if she is loved and she sends a silent prayer to the God she doesn't believe in that her little girl is loved, above all.
Emily Thorne aches for her, pathetically – her mind aches for knowledge and confirmation that her daughter is happy and okay. While she always knew she could, Emily has never attempted to look for her before. She had to remove herself completely from her one true weakness, an asset she learned in training, not only for her best interest, but for hers too. She deserved a life much happier and safer than one Emily could provide and despite her heartache, Emily was blindly satisfied at the thought that she had the possibility to have one.
Though, curiosity did kill the cat.
Emily remembers a family name, one that belonged to the people that were to adopt her. Mondale. She wonders if she could simply check on her, to ease the unsettled tension deep within her lower abdomen. Ever since the shooting, Emily seemed to regularly hurt there, where she had once occupied, although she was reserved in letting on.
Leaning over to one side of the couch, Emily's slender body reaches towards her laptop a few feet away on the silk green rug below and grasps at it, stretching her long, graceful fingers towards it. Looking up to notice the laptop is just out of her reach, Nolan gets up from the ottoman before his wounded companion and picks the computer up from the ground himself, handing it her to with a complacent smirk.
"You… can ask for help, you know." He chides, standing in front of Emily for a stray moment.
"I'm alright," She sighs, keeping her eyes on her computer screen as she breezes by the myriad of security features, typing a mile a minute.
"The doc said you shouldn't be moving and reaching for things like that. You've got to heal up right, Ems." Nolan reasons, returning back to his comfortable situate on the ottoman across from Emily. She doesn't answer, rather, takes a deep, relinquishing breath and types the next two words very slowly into the default search engine :
HARRY MONDALE
Thousands of hits spring up onto Emily's computer screen, overwhelming her with various sources of the same information. Several article headings attached to the name startle and shake the young blonde, but one source in particular makes her heart drop down to her chest with two sentences :
OBITUARY: RENOWNED SURGEON HARRY P. MONDALE, 41, AND WIFE, DET. MELISSA MONDALE, 38, PASSED AWAY ON SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 29th, 2009 IN A SIX-CAR COLLISION ON 1-95 IN HARRISON, NY. THE COUPLE, BOTH LONGTIME RESIDENTS OF HARRISON, ARE SURVIVED BY A DAUGHTER, DAISY, 8 MONTHS.
And all at once, Emily Thorne shuts down. Her dark eyes grow pale and every function within her freezes; her recovering gunshot wound becomes numb and painless, her fingertips shake and shivers that reach her bones run a poisonous course throughout her tensed body. Nothing physical ails her anymore; this is worse.
She could be fine, she could still be in a house and a home with parents who love her and care for her and keep her safe. She is still okay, Emily reasons. But what if she's not?
She attempts to rise from her repose on the sofa now, gripping one of the arms of the chenille and stepping onto her own two feet. Suddenly, she began to hurt both all at once and not at all.
"Ems?" Her quick, frantic reaction draws in Nolan's active concern from across the living room, as he makes eye contact with his beloved friend. He'd never seen her in quite this state of… panic.
All her previous convictions regarding her child's current situation were gone. All this time she presumed she was okay, she assumed she was safe and loved. But now she didn't know. All this time, Emily had no real idea where she was.
"Nolan," she chokes before a broken breath escapes her trembling lips. She catches her stance and her confidante's glare, revealing to him the most pain-ridden eyes he had ever seen in her. Nolan knew Emily had been suffering especially in the last weeks but with one look he could see such deeply-set, unknown pain within her – something completely foreign to the both of them.
The one woman who knew everything was now tripping on her own ignorance; the one who was always two steps ahead was now so behind. The cool, calculated Emily Thorne became completely weak at the mere thought and uncertainty of one person.
"I need you to find someone for me."
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The Maldives - April 2nd, 2009
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"Alright, Miss Clarke," a short-statured nurse with a small figure and a slight accent enters her grey, dismal hospital room. From the window towards the right of the entrance is a pristine view of the Indian Ocean, though the sight does little to settle the tense situation at hand, "You are aware you have 48 hours to change your mind. The Mondale couple, Harry and Melissa, from New York, are on their way to retrieve her, but you do have time to reconsider relinquishing parental rights. Are you absolutely sure, Miss Clarke?"
She keeps her eyes on the small, sleeping body in her arms. She takes a deep breath and chokes back tears, "I'm sure."
"Did you have a name picked out?"
A name.
After all this time, it never occurred to her what exactly to name it. She had spent her months away from training scoping the internet and studying newspapers and legal documents – anything that would bring her information on how to infiltrate the Graysons. She had spent hours surveying the Graysons' every move, every mistake. She practiced responding to her alias, perfecting a socialite guise. Her seven months away from physical training meant mental preparation for her mission, and Emily knew her time was limited to become mentally up to par with her enemies when she was in the game.
At the same time however, Emily had been in the process of completing an entirely different mission while she was away.
She left training the morning after he left and told no one. She stayed so hidden and so far from the few people she knew that she became untouchable and safe. She took all the appropriate medications and set all the plans in place so that it would be okay and happy with a real family when she was born.
It. Emily called it it, or thing. She was certain it was a girl by no expertise but her own intuition, though she still resolved to call it it. She did not look at names in a book, or pick out onesies or baby furniture. She told herself that to succeed in her mission, she had to live on the notion that she had no regrets or weaknesses. Emily had considered, early on, abort mission or mission give-up-revenge-and-keep-it, but both weren't right. So Emily did not allow herself to get attached, though on some nights when it became cold on the island, she would lie in bed and hold the growing swell of her midsection and cry, wondering what would become of her after it was all over. What would become of it once she could not knowingly keep her safe anymore.
In another world, she would love it with everything in her and make up for all that she lost by giving it all the love it would ever need. But she could not keep her baby girl safe along the path of revenge; she could not risk her ending up with the same life she had if anything were to go wrong. Emily Thorne could not afford weaknesses.
A hard, tense sensation within her chest settles with the pain and realization that she has to lose the purest, most beautiful thing she's ever seen and felt. It kills her inside to face that it is better to feel beauty rather than to see it. It's better to let her little girl go and remember the feelings she brought her than to see her suffer with her day after day. She had to give her flower her best chance at love and happiness.
Though, it still needed a name.
"Miss Clarke?" The nurse inquires, careful not to break the intense connection between the young blonde and her baby.
Emily keeps her eyes fixed on the baby and gingerly strokes the soft, velvet touch of her cheek. She could not fathom that only an hour ago it was safe and away from the outside world and now she was here. She was here and it became all too real.
Really.
She studies every inch of her – the facets about it that were hers and the facets that were exclusively his. Emily memorizes her eyes and her lips and her tiny fingers and the nose she shares with him – she engrains within her every groove and feature of this baby so she would never forget. So that her daisy would never truly go away.
Just then, Emily looks up at the young nurse and nods, blinking tears away. "Yeah.
Daisy."