Emmaline Emory

lady_355 @ 03:40 am: December 21, 2009; New York – Adrift
"Adelaide, have I ever told you the story of how Rebecca saved me?"

I don't know how Edward does it. Even at my best I couldn't have kept such a comfortable coccoon of virtue wrapped around myself if I'd been through what he has. And yet here he sits, wide-eyed and filled with hope and propriety, regaling us all with the tale of Saint Rebecca and her valiant stand against injustice in the name of Edward Bloom. And I realize I have no idea who he's talking about.

It wasn't that long ago I was married to a Prince and a respected – if irreverent – member of local society. I knew what I believed in. I cared about things, and I fought for them. I could look someone like Edward in the eye without feeling like his innocent gaze might burn a hole through me. Part of me wants to force his eyes open and disbuse him of his illusions about me. But part of me just wants to hide, and try to enjoy the idea that someone still believes I am anything but a worthless whore gone mad. He has to learn eventually, though. Everyone does.

Instead of learning, Edward teaches. Maybe that's good. Maybe he can teach Prince Howard's childe to survive this world without it breaking him – or maybe he'll make him that much more fragile.

"It is as though in our basic survival instincts... those of flight and fight, of mate and feed, we are reset. We spend our lives learning to overcome these baser instincts, only to have to learn again as Kindred."

"I'm not convinced overcoming them is the best answer," I say. "Maybe that's why we all lose our minds – humans have enough trouble pushing that rock uphill without having to do it with a larger rock for hundreds of years."

I realized that the only thing worse than caging a Lion and letting it grow complacent (or rabid) was doing so when there was no cage at all.

Augustine's words still ring in my head, and now I hear his ideas spilling from my own lips.

"We have great potential," Edward tells his student. "It is a matter of learning that, and controlling ourselves."

"The problem is this: we're all basically pressure cookers. And you can either let the steam out a bit at a time, or explode all over the kitchen. Either way, that steam has to get out."

We aren't human anymore, and the whole game about fighting off the inevitable is a paper cage. One that can be abandoned.

I am no longer your virtuous saving grace. Can't you see? We all fall eventually. It'll happen to you too – maybe not tonight, and maybe not tomorrow. But the longer you hold out, the more it will hurt when your rose-colored glasses finally shatter. Virtue and control no longer belong to us – we are born of chaos, and chaos spreads from everything we touch. We are death and destruction and fear. And you either accept that and find a way to deal with it or you wind up broken.

Like me.

But who am I to judge? At least Edward has made a choice.

You of all vampires can see the cage. If you can walk away from it, you might even hear The Call.

If. If only. If only he were still here to tell me how to listen. Instead the world is filled with noise, but none of it makes any sense. I held out so long, sure that I could stand unchanged and unmoved by the tide, that instead it tore me to pieces. Now all that's left of me is fragments carried by aimless waves, with no direction and no hope of reconciliation. Somewhere beyond the endless blue there are distant shores. Islands on which I could wash up and perhaps begin to rebuild, if only I could choose one.

But I can't choose. I don't remember how.

Tags: augustine, bloom, new york

lady_355 @ 12:45 am: OOC: Because she's the Carthian Princess
Now that I have a picture, you should all be aware that Rebecca was gifted with this:



It has 13 crafts successes on it. :D

Tags: ooc

lady_355 @ 10:23 pm: OOC
(Apologies if you've already seen it. I'm re-posting it here so I can have a link that isn't locked to a Cam filter if anyone wants it.)

feralgangrel asked me to write this, so please don't think it horribly arrogant of me.

( Tremere in the Cam: A few points from someone who's been there. )

Tags: ooc

pcharacter @ 08:44 pm: Young Lovers
Augusta’s laugh rang merrily in the garden, and her secret suitor hushed her, glancing around nervously.

“Shush, Augusta…if your uncle finds out, we’re both dead,” he cautioned her.

“Oh Luke! Don’t be so dramatic. I know my Uncle Isaac is severe, but you know he’s only trying to do right by my father’s ghost, and take the best possible care of me. It's no matter: He’s not here. Luciano brought me, so you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“He’ll never accept my suit, Augusta,” he frowned, taking her hand. “I’m too common.” His
words were laced with bitterness.

“You’re too Protestant,” Augusta corrected, thinking that her family, for all their pride, never claimed noble descent. Indeed, they were fiercely proud that their wealth and power was built on merit, and was thus far more resilient than the fragile fortunes of aristocrats. “And who says that I shall accept your suit?” she said, a lightness in her tone concealing her concern. She was beginning to suspect Luke might actually be in love with her.

“Will you, Augusta?” Luke pressed.

“Will I what?” she feigned ignorance.

“Accept my suit? Right now, tonight…we can go to Gretna Green and be married and sail to America and...”

“Luke!” Augusta hissed with a mix of shock and horror, cutting him off. “Are you mad? My Uncle’s men will be on us before we’ve even left London, not to mention you’re insulting me twice over with that horrible proposal. I could never be married outside the Church, and most certainly not by eloping to Scotland. That…that is the most vulgar and immoral thing anyone has ever dared say in my presence, and you should be ashamed.”

“Augusta, please, you don’t understand…” Luke pleaded, reaching for her hand and pulling her back as she began to walk away. “I’m trying to save you Augusta,” he begged her.

“Nonsense,” she snapped. “I’m not some poor orphan in need of your pity or charity,” she spat out the distasteful words. “I am Augusta Ginevra Giovanni, and you, sir, will unhand me now.”

They stood there for a long minute, their gazes locked, Luke pleading and desperate, Augusta incensed and inflamed. He dropped her hand.

“I love you, Augusta. Whatever else happens, remember that.”

His only answer was the rustling of her skirts as she strode away.

***

“Luciano, I am feeling quite unwell. Please take me home.”

Augusta abhorred pleading weakness in front of her brother or Uncle, but could not deny its
efficacy. Luciano – who nearly choked on his drink as Augusta came up abruptly behind him – promptly set down his glass and offered his arm.

“Of course,” he conceded, glancing around nervously. “You do look quite flushed,” he said, stalling.

“It’s nothing to be worried about,” she soothed. “Just a touch too much champagne, I think.”
Luciano was relieved Augusta mistook his nerves for concern, though this prompted him to worry genuinely, for she was usually more astute than that. He cleared his throat, and then stood there in a moment of indecision before smiling gallantly, and patting her hand where it rested on his arm.

“Yes, well, I shall call for the carriage immediately, but I shan’t have you waiting in that drafty foyer. Let me leave you in the ladies withdrawing room with a glass of lemonade, and I’ll send someone to fetch you in a minute?” he suggested, flagging down a passing servant, who inclined his head at the instructions.

Augusta smiled affectionately at Luciano, and gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and allowed herself to be led off.

***

If Augusta had been lying at the beginning of the evening, she certainly wasn’t by the end. It had taken an eternity for the carriage to come round, and then it had broken a wheel on the trip home. While their coachman had been quick in his repairs, the spare was not as well set as the wheel proper, and the carriage had rattled uncomfortably the whole way home. Except, of course, when they had been sitting at an absolute stand still in traffic. By the time they were finally in their own foyer, shedding wraps and gloves, Augusta was tired and irritable and eager to retreat to her own rooms.

It was only for that reason she failed to notice the house was emptied of its usual ghostly occupants. If she had, perhaps she would not have screamed quite so loudly upon entering her bed chamber.

The body of Luke Cayhill was laid out in restful repose on her bed, a white lily clutched between his lifeless hands. Augusta whirled around to flee the room, bumping into her uncle who was standing directly behind her, and promptly broke into hysterics.

“Shh…..” he soothed her, holding her firmly by her shoulders until she at last stood silent, her face as drained of blood as the corpse on the bed. Isaac placed a finger on her lips for her silence, releasing her only when she nodded in mute agreement.

He held up a pen, which she took with a trembling hand, and he guided her to the writing desk, on which was laid out a stack of paper and a large inkwell.

“You will write,” he pronounced in angry, clipped tones, “one thousand times, in Italian, I will not disobey my family. One thousand times, in Italian, I will not bring shame or dishonor upon my family. One thousand times, in Italian, Actions speak louder than words. You will not eat, you will not sleep, you will not move, until you have finished. Do you understand?”

Augusta glanced up at her Uncle fearfully, and shrank back underneath the hot, primal fury in his features.

“Yes,” she choked out, dipping an unsteady hand in the ink well and beginning to write. He glanced down at the first completed sentence.

“Neatly.” He snarled at her, turning on his heel and slamming the door so hard behind him the reverberations rattled her teeth. Augusta sat for a few more minutes in shock before she slowly pulled a fresh page of the stack, and began again.

***

Augusta wrote the first night until her hand cramped from the effort, and she was nearly reduced to tears by the pain. Luciano slipped in to whisper that all would be well and to convey Isaac’s permission for her to take a necessary break whenever she needed. On the second night, exhaustion and hunger threatened to overcome her, Isaac himself silently slipped her a cup of tea and a plate of toast, his silent nod of approval at the growing stack of completed pages doing more to revive her than the tea. On the third night, she set the pen down, gathered the evidence of her completed punishment, and with one last glance at her deceased suitor, walked slowly to her Uncle’s study.

“Uncle Isaac?” she asked, her voice wavering with uncertainty. “Permesso?”

“Si, avanti cara mio,” he said warmly, and Augusta was flooded with relief at the endearment. She entered the study. Isaac sat behind his desk, imposing and autocratic, and Luciano mirrored him at a smaller desk off to the side.

She approached Isaac and offered him the stack of papers. He took them silently, and after briefly examining them for neatness and correctness, tossed the whole stack on the fire.

“Come here,” he commanded gently, pushing back from the desk and holding out his hands.

Augusta approached him, eager to return to his grace but still wary of his recent rage.

Isaac took her hands and lifted them to his lips, placing a kiss on her knuckles.

“What did I say about Mr. Cayhill, Augusta?” he prodded gently. Augusta swallowed, her mouth dry.

“That I was to avoid his company when possible, and be politely discouraging of his suit when not.”

“So I was not unclear in any way?”

“No,” she said, blushing with shame.

“I was very disappointed in you, Augusta. Not only did your disobedience disgrace yourself, but it disgraced your brother as well. I trusted him to see to your care…do you think I would not punish him for allowing such indiscretion while under his charge? And I trusted you to be sensible of his responsibility, and to assist him by behaving with proper decorum. And suppose you should have been caught – we are outsiders in this society, Augusta, and the scandal would have seen the drawing rooms closed to all of us. It was not Mr. Cayhill who did this, Augusta. His infatuation I could have dealt with far more gently, but you…ah, cara mio, you have such spirit! And if you cannot control it, then it is my duty to control it for you, until you learn that your actions have consequences not just for yourself, but for your entire family,” he lectured gently. “Do you understand?”

“Y…Yes,” Augusta said, and then she could not help herself. She burst into tears of shame, throwing her arms around her Uncle and sobbing apologies.

“Shh, shh, cara mio, it’s all right. All is forgiven,” he soothed her, kissing away her tears like a lover. Augusta pulled herself together, blowing her nose ungracefully into her uncle’s proferred handkerchief. He gave her a final kiss on the forehead and a gentle squeeze.

“Go…apologize to your brother, and then you will find a bath and a meal waiting for you in your dressing room.”

Augusta smiled bravely at her uncle, and then turned her watery gaze on her brother, who grinned warmly at her. He held out his arms and they embraced, and she made fresh and sincere apologies to him as well, which he graciously accepted. She withdrew from the study with one last relieved smile, and closed the door gently behind her.

Isaac chuckled after the door had closed, and raised a glass in a silent toast to the departed girl.

“You’re going to have to watch her, Luciano,” he chuckled darkly. “She’s not even a woman full grown yet, and already she has the power to drive us both to distraction. You’re going to have to work to keep her in her place.”

Tags: augusta