where: on the coast of New Place when: 2 hours after Nyima’s death whom: closed to @ofcoeurbrise, mentioned: @dawndusted
Someone tried to reach her. She felt it; sympathetic hands attempting to pry the young naturalist from Nyima’s side. The second she feels a slight separation, she snarls; guttural sounds clawing from the back of her throat and out into the world, ready to kill should the fools attempt again. A savage vocalization perfectly matching the animalistic twist encompassing her entire visage. Her shoulders shove off the caring palms with no regard, still too busy pressing scarves to wound. Even if the scarves have made complete transformation into scarlet rags. Even if there is no longer any light in her eyes. Even if Tristan’s pained howl tells her the truth: Nyima is dead.
She is dead. She is dead. She is dead.
Save for the doctors, Emma refuses and snaps at anyone who dares approach them. Even then, they are not allowed to move her body. In the end, it is only Tristan’s hands and voice that pull her away from Nyima. He is the only one who can touch her now.
If there was a bond between them before, a red string, now there is a steel rope wire made up of a million threads of grief and loss. They are not one person but they might as well be for how similar they look: dark hair, dark eyes, arms around their own bodies, same vacant haunted features. Same blood under their fingernails, on their clothes. They standing closely at the shore of this new place with its crimson sands. It is a lifetime of sorrow that passes before the silence is broken. And it will be a lifetime of sorrow after.
“I’m going to kill them,” she says, a measured God speaking facts and rules of nature into existence. “I don’t know how or when but I know. I’m going to kill them.”