EARLY MORNING,
The home of Philip Frenchwoth,
A normal girl
Emily awoke in Philip Frenchworth's bed, but was greeted first by rays of light shaved by the billowing curtains beside her, caressed softly by the wind with
fshh after
fshh as the realization of morning, of it being morning and of her being here, sank in, and the girl gazed up with eyes released from indolence. She squeezed each uncomfortably and the bed creaked underneath. Her body proceeded to sit itself up to the audible incline of hummingbirds and trees rustling outside when suddenly, swinging her legs to the bedside, she felt a cold jolt course through her soles and jerked backward. Her feet was drawn up towards her torso, and she looked down to see the culprit, as if it was one that could be struck with a luckily aimed knuckle, only to find it was just the hard wood floor, still chilly from the overnight drafts. She blinked before relaxing and settling them back on the floor. Then, with a conscious sigh, the girl submitted herself to a brief, tension-melting laugh. And it went on for a while, until her eyes rose, just a bit, and she stopped. For she surprised herself a little; she had started to sound like a girl free of complication and malady, free to laugh and be jovial, and it was a bit disconcerting in one way; but in another, it was right, right to the very core, it felt, just to have done that in that brief window of time. And it was pleasant. A feeling of the type that Grimwald seemed all too bankrupt to afford, these days.
After a stale silence, the girl left the bed and the cluttered but irksomely empty bedroom and went in search for Philip.
The morning began to wane and the girl wandered throughout the house in a spontaneous putter of curiosity while Philip, in what appeared to be his absence, seemed to have left it intact and constantly animate; on the wall hung portrait landscapes and sketches of pigeons. In one room leading from the kitchen (in which the lingering smell of pies clung incessantly, to the wrinkling nose), there were unfinished contraptions and fragmented pieces of scrap bestrewn across the likes of desks, haphazardly placed mats, any area with space or the presumption of it.
And finally, there was the medical room, where her brother was currently laid. Having made only an inch or two past, the girl inhaled sharply as she was suddenly attacked by visions of the blurry events which took place predominantly in that space the night before, and shut tight the lids of her eyes like the canopy of a spirit-dwelling jar.
"I don't," utters her response to her having a place to stay or someone to call for. Besides Blackbeard, sh -- they had been alone.
The buzz of night growing louder as the boy's dimming spirit, in spite of Philip's attempts and desperate maneuvers, only become fainter and fainter. Hope nowhere to be seen. Lost like a letter at sea.
"Can he make it?"
Wait. Don't answer! What words meant as little as those you wished most to deny?
Wait. Wait.
"So sorry, my dear."
She had felt the cold sheet of skin that ran down his cheek, but she couldn't recall crying.
Later that night she made an oath. A declaration of war. She would find purpose in her brother's death. If it was possible, she would help cure the poison that belittled this city, to finish what he had sought to begin; to fight for others, for those who suffered beside her, instead of just herself -- instead of just what had been themselves.
It was no longer about escape.
It was about correction.
A soft
thud resounded through the air and the girl stumbled back from a wall, massaging her forehead. Muttering, "Ow," her sharp ears caught a glint of something nearing in the background and her knees prepared to stand: the sound, it soon became apparent, not just of any ambient residue, but of deep, rich, breathy feathers, which grew steadily in volume until suddenly, the front door opened, and with news of the other half of the Sage-killer hunt, the house's original proprietor appeared. Eyes widening, the girl grabbed her recently bestowed, hooded cloak and ran towards the Pigeon Master's beckoning arm. All notable Sagen were being called to a re-briefing at
The Captain's Chair. Inevitably, that included her as well.
Stepping into the rush of day and the crackle of the dirt beating patiently against the bottoms of her footwear, it was with this a new chapter had begun; and so had the day, as the pair started for the Docks of Grimwald.
Until under a gentle whisper slithered the ghostly remnant of one long since past, and, for just a brief flash, a world that was now sealed away forever came cursorily back to be.
"Farewell, brother."
A ray of light, shaved by the crevices of the billowing trees beside them, landed neatly across her hair as the pigeons began to coo from behind her and the trees began to rustle and the hummingbirds serenaded, and her leg was lifted over the other and the single, cloaked girl with a breath briskly marched on, not a wall in sight.
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