crowned-prince-of-conundrums:
No emotion, no reaction; just a hollowed version of the girl he knew, cherished. And it tore Edward to pieces to see it.
He wanted to touch her, hold her, to tell her everything would be alright— but he did that last time. He said those words before and then promised to leave her again. Pretty words that turned to shit the second he ran off. How scared she must of been when he didn’t return home and how lonely her world became when there was no one to guide her from her madness.
This was his fault, and she paid the price.
His throat tightened, Edward dangerously close to an emotion he hadn’t felt in years when she said she thought he was dead. He took a slow step forward.
He steadied his voice best he could but even Edward Nigma could not shake the quiver in his words. “I am…I am not, Tira. I left. Again. I am…” He closed his eyes, wanting ever so much to say he was sorry, to beg for forgiveness— but he’d do it again in a heart-beat. His work was too important to ignore, and he hated himself for it.
"….there’s nothing I can say that will explain actions nor do I expect you to forgive me, but I am here, Tira. I am alive, and I am here."
-- "B-but... but are you really... actually... here."
That simple sentence, more of a statement than actual question, was spoken just barely audibly. Even so, the brunette's voice quivered and c r a c k e d, syllables tumbling over one another in rather futile attempts to speak. Her throat was tight, her entire frame going numb in shock, in attempting to comprehend something she thought she should be used to. Something she should know better than to subject herself to.
As much as the assassin liked to believe herself independent and free of things as petty and fleeting as attachments, it could not be further from the truth. This was one lonely, sad little monster, one forever t o r n between running from something and clinging to it with desperate grip of her talons.
Thus, her blank facade really could not last that long. Features contorting first in rage, then in hurt, she seemed entirely undecided on which way to sway and what to do; let alone, say. And yet, as soon as Edward stepped forward, Tira leapt back like a skittish, frightened feline, pupils dilating to almost entirely cover those unnatural violet irises.
Paranoia, her old friend, was the first to speak up.
For what if this was a trick of mind? An illusion? Clearly, obviously she only saw what she wanted to see. Only heard what she wanted to hear.
He was not really here.
"You're not here. Hah! No, I'm onto you. You're not. Here. How do I know you're here? Or you're you? How do I... we... know that? I don't, you're a ghost, you're a... a... apparition!"
With sudden haste, Tira rushed him, doll-like features scrunched in a determined grimace to prove that exact theory.
"You think you can mock me, b r e a k me with these illusions? Oh nooo, no, we won't have it!.."
A hand extended forwards, swinging at Riddler, swatting at him with apparent certainty that, just like fog, he would fade away and slip through her fingers. That'd prove it. That'd show those forces to mess with her mind!
Only he did not. Pale, tiny hand of the girl met a very real, very physical barrier, fingers automatically clasping at the lapel of the familiar suit. Just like that, she was back to the numb state of utmost confusion, lips moving with no sound leaving, eyes darting up at his face and back at her hands that clung to him with silent question.