Emerald Ashes

Imp

L

Nostalgia wasn't something I had a lot of. From my childhood, sure, but after my twelve-year stint with Peter in his undisclosed bunker, with nothing more than my thoughts and the cool touch of the stone floor by my side? The idea of reliving those experiences wasn't entertaining. I locked them away, far in the depths of my mind where they went untouched for so many years. Every time he did something more, I snatched the memory before I had the chance to recount, and stuffed it in the same small wooden box as the rest of them. But this wasn't the first time Corvo pried into my history. The first time down in the cells when I originally arrived on Emerald land, I told enough to garner pity out of the three men holding my fate in their fists. The second time, at the hospital after Cole's betrayal with the needle full of MAD, I shut the topic down before it had a chance to be explored. And now, with the chance of exposing Allison as a part of the Council, I had to open up to him. Hiding the past wasn't an option anymore. Truly, it was never an option. I just delayed the inevitable for as long as possible. If we ever mated and sealed our bond – or lack-there-of – he'd have a golden ticket into the dark recesses of my head. No longer would I be able to cloak those horrible memories with lavender tulle and the smell of gardenias. I had to face the inevitable, and that was Corvo knowing everything.

"There's no going back," I warned him. Corvo's body was hunched over, his elbows on his knees, and his face close to mine.

"I feel like at this point, L, it's too late to go back. I want you to trust me enough to tell me these things." He reached out with one of his hands and took one of mine. He laced our fingers and brought our conjoined fist to his lips. A long, gentle kiss pressed to my knuckles. Heat rushed into my cheeks. I let my head fall, the hair tucked behind my ears fell to shield my face. With audible clarification, I needed nothing more. If we were to ever progress in our relationship past subtle touching and fearful affection, then I needed to speak my history without fear of the future – our future.

After Peter took me from the field, I woke up in a small house, on a couch dressed in linen. The cushions were deep. They molded to my childish form without trouble, and I struggled to escape their grasp on me. Peter sat across the room with a cup of coffee in his hands. A deep nutty aroma wafted in spirals of hot steam. He revealed to me what I for the longest time believed to be the truth. A pack of rogues attacked Ruby and killed everyone. They torched the buildings and left the grounds to the elements. Councilmembers arrived shortly after the rogues dispersed and disposed of the bodies.

"Your parents nor your sister made it," he said quietly. Peter's eyes glistened with tears. He sipped on the coffee in his hands, his legs were crossed with one over the other knee. A pair of beige slacks cinched with a leather belt, and a white button-down covered his body. The shirt wrinkled, the fabric folding with his sluggish posture. "Their bodies were a part of the group disposed of by the Council."

I sat up too quickly. My head throbbed, the room around me swirled with white flashes of light at the edges of my vision. "I watched – Sophie was..." I trailed off. I scratched the side of my head. A burst of pain spiked where my fingers scratched. I ripped my hand away from my head, wincing as I did so.

"Their bodies were, unfortunately, taken to a burn pile. You blacked out after getting knocked into the tree. Thankfully you did, though, because the rogues thought you were dead. I found you after they left the area." Tears collected in my eyes. My sister – my parents – dead, their bodies reduced to ashes and charred black bones in a mountain of skeletal remains. The man across from me revealed no signs of remorse for what he had seen on Ruby property.

"I'm very sorry for what happened to your family, and your friends," he said after a moment. His voice stuffed with pebbles smacking against his teeth, and his face lacked familiar wrinkles of a person wrapped in emotional turmoil. Anyone else who had witnessed such a tragic event was sure to harbor feelings but this man, Peter, had nothing. His eyes were marked with glassy nothingness. They were gray, the color of muted feelings stolen from their owners. Peter felt nothing, and his words possessed no sustenance, and yet I believed him. Every word.