A baker, a victim, a villain, and a simple, easily overlooked girl; what sort of dreams did Genny have?
Zilliah knows the storm that nears, the reckless and uncontrollable cascade of emotion, often too overwhelming to wrangle even when awake. In minutes the woods might be little more than tree tops stretching to keep their upper branches above the flood. The fae’s name is spoken and he is soon beside her, but she needn’t look to know. Her eyes remain fixed upon the accusatory invader.
Pain had saved Ser Elliot. The fae’s blood and her own blinding agony. She had wanted to scream then, her lips had pinched until they’d gone white, biting back the sound. Even now it made her flinch, sending bright and burning flashes of lightning crackling across the sky.
Whose dream is this.Did they dream? Logic failed to find anything more than the reality of the developing memory, and an answer failed to find her lips. This was a precise moment, Zilliah’s tree and the grassy glen. The bloodied boy laid out and suddenly she was filled with recall of all that had brought her to this point. It came rushing back as surely as the thin wash of salty water began rushing over the forest floor. Some of the details are lost, and others with exaggerated emphasis. Catch was close to her heart, and so it is no surprise that his was one of the most analyzed, detailed, and well-remembered moments. A mere second of reality to fill long minutes with more that just physical pain from when Catch had punched her. Then dread upon witnessing the blood in the grass, Noura vigilant at a bloodied Elliot's bedside, and Cherny tagging along through the trees. Her own perspective and assault of emotion follows, from the death if Niall on the lawn,
the bloodied hands,
reporting the murder, everything that had brought the three of them to this moment.
Almost like ink, bleeding down the white dress, her clothes turn black. Changing a dress to loose pants and rolled sleeves, the mercenary colors complete with the subtle smell that had disgusted Zilliah. As if recreating the entire memory to be relived in this new and twisted version, superficial blood crawls from the once damaged eye, down her cheek and drips onto Giuseppe’s clothes.
Except her eye was fine. She stared on, growing angry, perhaps without realizing the change.
“You’ll hurt yourself,” she scowled, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say. After all, they had sacrificed a great deal to save him. Reaching out instinctively, she would seek to push him back, to keep him from landing another blow on the embodiment of memory.