Intertwined

First- An Introduction

The author has chosen to write the following story from the point of view of two separate yet intertwined characters with the intention of giving the reader the most in-depth understanding of the events and people about to be retold.

Therefore, the author advises the reader to pay mind to both the names and dates listed underneath each chapter to insure the most optimum reading experience.

The author thanks the reader greatly for their cooperation.

~

    Countless people over the years have asked me about my beginning, my origin story, and where this all started. I suppose their already-present assumptions of my greatness, inflated to a level I can't ever hope to understand, make me out to be some icon. It's given me this unalterable sort of worth that to this day I still can't totally wrap my head around, though I've since gave up trying to make anything of it. Instead, I've resolved to smile, wave, thank people for the overly reverent words, and dismiss whatever compliments they try to thrust onto my shoulders. The weight's too heavy and sincere to carry on my own.

    The decision to not wallow in all the crazy glory so many feel I'm obligated to receive can explain my current place in life, one that is relatively lonesome and full of solitude. It's intentional however, so I don't mind. After pulling through what I did, I don't think anyone can really blame me for my choices. I like remaining alone and peaceful on my perch above the rest, a perch not consisting of importance or rank but one of observance and of my watchful eyes. My counterpart in the whole ordeal has chosen a more public, admirable direction, however, but that hasn't hindered our friendship in any way. Truthfully, during those brief periods of free time within her horrific night-owl schedule when I'm actually able to see her the distance and time spent apart makes these occasions all the more exciting. I love hearing her stories.

    She travels all the way from the depths of her workplace, makes her way up the hilly landscape of the same Civilian's District where our bond was fashioned out of disaster, the District salvaged from its destroyed, ruined state where I'd stationed my own home, detached and museum-like in its size, grandeur, and untouchability.

My home always feels noticeably warmer when she graces the inside of its walls, when we huddle up near the fireplace, no matter how hot or cold the weather beyond the thick glass walls. She speaks to me about the wonders of her serene, humble success without fear. I always make sure to tell her that she deserved as much, prompting her to shake her head and then change the subject to my books. In this situation I let her have her way with the conversation. There's always a new novel to discuss, but that's besides the point.

    Those instances are just teeming with this kind of peace I can't ever remember experiencing, not without painfully strong ignorance trailing directly behind. The sense of finality that this second phase of life has come with has assured us all that the worst is gone for a long enough period of time to enjoy its absence. We as a people are still learning how to accept that fact and embrace it.

But people breathe now, let loose, allow themselves to live and converse and love freely, and I believe quite strongly that most of us have the right to feel this way, myself included. After fighting through what we did, we need a period of equanimity, and so it's transpired. The walls have come down between enemies, society has changed, and we aren't divided down the middle anymore; whatever tiny fragments remain are mere collateral damage, unaccounted for.

    And that brings me right back to why I'm considered such a important figure here in Civilian District Eight: apparently I played a massive role in the conception of this peace period. Apparently, without me, we'd be nothing more than a lost cause, the majority dead and swept under the rug. No amount of smiles, waves, and humble dismissals of excessive compliments can prevent my thoughts from racing at statements like that, and thus I often find myself constantly contemplating the hand I've played.

The first aspect of the before-time that I recall is the loss and all the unfillable holes and crevices that I can't even see anymore, they've become so normal, and I while really don't think loss rightfully gives me the title of hero or gift, there isn't much else to consider. These loose-ends losses and the opinions of others they come attached with aren't why I'm here before you today.

    The real point, my point, and the last one I ever plan to make on the matter, is to answer the questions once and for all, to tell the story through my own lips and using my own words, no matter how dark or starkly different they may be in comparison to the common misconceptions. I figure that the best way to quench everyone's desire to know the tale in full is to tell it in its most accurate and complete form, and while my counterpart in the ordeal  is always horrendously busy, I remain idle in my mausoleum-like fortress, consistently unmoving and constantly running every detail, every sentence, every interaction, every decision, and every tension-filled moment through my head.

Perhaps recording the events will relieve the headaches I endure routinely now, I'm not sure, but it's worth a shot. I'll try most anything nowadays.

    So now I dare to introduce myself. My name is Emalia Grace. This journey you and I are about to embark upon is bound to make little sense at its conclusion, perhaps even none at all, but I have to say it. I must record it, each detail, each memory, each smile, tear, and exchange. It's my life, my identity, and I so direly need it to mean something.