Twelve Years Apart || Self-Para (Emily and Elisabeth Penhallow)
The music room was serene as always -- or empty, as some may have put it, but not Emily. There was such a negative tone to the word 'empty'. 'Serene' seemed as a much more suitable word given the situation. The room was not eerie or cold at all, simply... quiet. Calm. Referring to it as empty would have the same effect as referring to Emily as 'lonely' when she was in fact alone. The two were not synonymous. With a heaving sigh she sat down in front of the piano, allowing her hands to hover above the keys for a minute -- as was her routine, or rather a behaviour she could not seem to rid herself of. It had taken a long time for her to even touch a piano again after her mother's death and she still had trouble playing when others were around. Therefore the music room of the London Institute were of most pleasure to her when she was the only one in it. Not counting James, of course, but he was the only exception. There was one more exception she mediated making, wanting to share that part of her with Jonathan as well -- for some reason, the thought of playing to him did not make her feel uncomfortable, but rather safe and at home. As if sharing the music she played with him would tell him how her heart had truly opened up to him in a way she feared words never could. But as it was with words, she did not know how to possibly begin such a conversation. They had been friends for so long and she often doubted Jon saw her the way she had begun seeing him. Or that he felt the same way about her. For the fact remained that Emily Penhallow had begun considering that perhaps this feeling, one she had never felt before, was love -- and the thought of anyone, especially someone she loved and respected as much as Jon, would ever love her.
Her gaze drifted to the freshly drawn iratze on her wrist as her fingers finally touched down, assuming the familiar melody of Debussy's Claire du Lune. It had been a particularly stressful night; the single lesser demon that was reported to have been spotted on the outskirts of London had in fact been a gathering of molochs, and Emily had not been granted a chance to return to the Institute for the assistance she knew she required -- the accident that had permanently marked her when Mortmain sent his automatons to attack the Institute had left her far more aware of her overly confident attitude in battle -- for the small pack had been quick to spot her, and her Seraph. Luckily she had managed to banish them all without any major injuries, but the final one had managed to push her away with an incredible force the second her blade had pierced its chest, throwing her tar-covered body like a rag doll into a small gorge filled with sharp branches and stone, thus the number of cuts across her body where her gear had not been there to cover it. Although, her hunting session had not been what had bothered her so -- perhaps it had, for she had found ridding the forest of the demons strangely easy, almost as if they were disappearing while her focus was elsewhere -- but because she had felt another presence, following her through the woods as the sun rose on her way back to the Institute. Each time she turned around there had been no one there, and each time she had turned back, Emily had found herself walking even faster. Even now, as she sat before the piano in the safety of the Institute, she felt as though she was being watched.
The soft sound of her fingers striking each note, together creating a sound as close as possible as one might come to the sound of stars, echoed alone throughout the peaceful room, until another sound joined it; the sound of lightly shuffling footsteps. Emily stopped playing. Turning her head and pressing her chin against her shoulder, she hinted a shadow of another person through the corner of her vision -- that, together with another set of breaths seemingly echoing her own, led her to believe she was not alone in the room; despite the fact that she was certain she had locked the door behind her. Emily hurried to stand, turning around and--
A young woman, as tall as Emily, was standing a few yards away, looking at her with anticipation in her eyes. Her face was soft, calm -- her lips slightly parted, as if she was hoping for something to happen next. Emily furrowed her brows slightly. The woman was so very familiar... she was certain she knew her, although she could not quite say from where. It was as if she was looking at a dream she had as a child, knowing nothing but the fact that what she was seeing was not real.
The woman seemed to realise that Emily was not only left speechless, but unaware of who she was, and something faded in her eyes. "Emily," she said, sounding as if she was about to say more but she was left unable to as her voice thickened with the tears she seemed to struggle to hold back. Whoever she was, Emily thought, she was not only familiar, but knew her name. It felt awfully rude not to know hers as well.
Emily studied the woman's features. The woman was dressed in gear, meaning she was most likely a Shadowhunter. Her hair, glowing amber, fell in soft locks over her shoulders. Her skin was fair, her eyes dark brown, and... her nose, chin, forehead... they were all Emily's. It was truly eerie. Had it not been for the colour of her hair it would have been as if she was in fact studying her own reflection. One more difference caught her attention -- her gear was torn in the shape of a crescent, regular, jagged holes moving from her ribs, to her core to her hip on the right side, as if she had been trapped in between a massive set of jaws. It must surely have been a killing blow, even if the skin underneath was completely unmarked. Emily had never before seen such a pattern apart from in books describing the manner in which Lycanthropes attacked their victims.
You remind me so much of her.
Her father's voice suddenly echoed throughout her mind and as if brought into a whole other light, the woman before her was no longer a vaguely familiar person taken from a childhood dream -- but rather someone from the dream she had once been living. The face before her was that of someone who had kissed her goodnight every night for nearly five years; of someone who had laughed with every gasp as Emily sat on her lap, intently listening to the story her father was reading; of someone who had patiently sat beside her in front of the piano, smiling with such warmth and pride when guiding her small fingers to the right keys. "Mother?" Elisabeth Penhallow smiled brightly, tears rolling down her cheeks as her daughter recognised her at last, the two moving towards each other until there was no distance left in between them. Elisabeth wrapped her arms around her little girl who was no longer all that little, holding her tightly as Emily did the same. "I... How," she inquired, not sure what to believe.
"I do not know," Elisabeth replied, laughing as she held her daughter even tighter. "And I do not care."
"Me neither," Emily said as she, for the first time in twelve years, allowed herself the comfort of her mother's embrace.
