Chapter Text
“Scara?”
Emme’s voice serves only to be swallowed by darkness. The world felt too empty, too big. With the lavishness of the tapestries, the various portraits in the room, and the silken, duck feather stuffed comforter, it feels impersonal, even though extravagance is all she’s ever known.
It feels shameful to call out for someone. To ask for help, to accept that she cannot do it alone, but it’s far more foolish than anything. The person she’s calling out for, is on the other side of the castle, in the servants quarters. He’s likely sleeping peacefully. The idea doesn’t bring her much comfort. If she has to be awake, he should be suffering too, she thought bitterly.
Her hands tremble as they grip the thin night dress, scrunched and tangled around her body from sleep, sticking to her sweat-damp skin. She hates it. She hates the fear, hates the way it feels so real, hates waking up like this, with every unpleasant, clinging sensation. Her breath feels shallow, but she’s certain in this moment that breathing deeper could not fill the void in her chest. Nothing could— or more accurately, nothing will.
She peels the sheets away, attempting to take deep breaths to calm herself, though she knew it was a pointless task. She tried swinging her legs over the side of the bed, but they were stiff with sleep and shaky with emotion, and it wasn’t a graceful movement. Her bare feet touched the rug, and for a moment she allowed the sensation to ground her. The fibers were soft and bristly all at once, and she almost wished it was perhaps more abrasive, just to bring her back down to earth.
She’s had nightmares for years. Ever since that day, it’s been constant, though she will occasionally get a few days without one. In empty, blank sleep, she relished. However, this one was particularly bad. So much so that if she lingered on it, she knew her body and mind would punish her.
As wobbly as she was, she endeavored to stand up, and take several steps, the cool wood against her soles almost as comforting as the rug. It was cold, out of her sheets, and she took a peek outside the window. Naturally, as it does in the middle of winter, it’s snowing, covering everything but the wide expanse of water. She grabbed the curtains and abruptly covered the view. She could not stand to look at the blanket of white covering the scenery. Not now.
A long robe was hung next to her bed, though she usually used it after bathing, it was most convenient to warm her up now, and she wrapped it around herself, covering the thin nightgown. It doesn’t stop the cold. Nothing ever does. She crossed the room, keeping her feet as steady as possible as she navigates in the black, a path well traveled. Her door creaks open too loudly— a flinch— and then she steps out, quickly and quietly padding across the floor. Her movements were as flighty and as deft a rodents.
She knew exactly where she was going, and it was a place that she found solace in nights like this. The kitchen— or more accurately, the small bedroom connected to the kitchen, where the head chef rested her head.
Ever since she was little, she had known that her parents will not show her the warmth she wished for. Her mother was softer than her father, but there was no one more reliable than the old maids. The softness of their apron bellies, and their gentle voices telling tales of commoners and nobles alike, had become the best part of her childhood, and even now that she was grown up, she still finds comfort in their company. There was no performance there, no amount of emotion that was flattened beneath the foot of appearing respectable. It was a space where she could just exist, without worrying about who her existence could threaten.
Emme’s footsteps are silent, though if she strained her ears hard enough she could hear the echo off the walls of their cobbled together hallways. The palace had not one single aesthetic or cultural touch to it, and walking through it would feel like visiting a museum— one that hadn’t quite locked down a theme— for someone who wasn’t well aquatinted with it. But for her, she knew every bit of it. The stone, high ceilings, and detailed windows that resembled Mondstat cathedral’s, with wood support beams, mostly for decor purposes. The wood, detailed carvings, and nature incorporated into every corner, with paper dividers and tapestries, that embodied Inazuman architecture; this particular style is the one Emme chose for her living area, finding it to be the most homely. There’s dabbles of Sumeru and Liyuean influence, but it’s clear that there were two nations that resonated with her parents.
The disorganized nature of the house was one that was often frowned upon, especially when nobility visited, which admittedly, was not often anymore. Nobody would step foot here if they could avoid it.
Emme held the robe tighter to her chest, wishing that the warmth of being bundled would replace the cold chill in her bones. She glances around the dark hallways conspiratorially. Despite how often she does this, she never gets any less paranoid, eyes honing in on shadows where one could hide, never turning a corner without checking, and listening for noise so intently, that it felt as though her ears were physically perked up.
She always makes it to her destination without any trouble though, just as she did today. The kitchen is cluttered, and vaguely smelled of what she had for dinner last night. It’s comforting, and the small, uneasy smile that graces her face is somehow even more comforting to her. In nights like these, she always becomes convinced, absolutely sure, that nothing will ever get better and she will always feel like this. But the recovery period after her nightmares has been growing shorter and more natural, and for that, she can celebrate.
She weaves around islands, pots that have fallen to the floor. She ducks under hanging utensils, before she reaches a small unassuming wood door, one that could be mistaken for a pantry, though she knows better.
There’s no need to knock, Aunty always stressed that knocking is far more a jarring awakening than stirring when Emme crawled into bed next to her, and so she opened the door, and crossed into the boundary of the room, where loud snores dominated any other sound.
Aunty is a wrinkled, stern, tanned woman, who works hard in the kitchen, and works just as hard at caring for others. Hence the name Aunty— when she had come to work for Emme’s grandparents, the rest of the staff quickly found themselves taken under her wing, though she was quite young, and the maids and servants began referring to her with familial titles, though “Aunty” stuck around the longest.
Emme has always seen more beauty in Aunty than she ever has in the inhuman perfection of the noblewomen. They all looked the same to her, long hair piled on the top of their heads, cinched waists, and painted lips. They were beautiful, that’s for sure, but it seemed sad. Empty. To be confined to the same beauty as everyone else is leaves no room for self expression, no room for what they may have naturally looked like.
Emme sits on the edge of the bed. The sheets are scratchy, and the frame is creaky— very different from her high end furniture— but it’s warm. She lifts up Aunty’s arm, something she’s done hundreds of times, and snuggles in next to her, letting the weight drop back down around her. Aunty only slightly stirs before starting to snore again, and the loud noise is comforting more than anything.
It took 146 snores for Emme to finally drift off, entering the bizarre land of dreams, scenes shifting from one to another, nightmares turned soft, brief touches turned threatening, comfort twisting and melding itself with its opposite. This is how her subconscious always is. A swirl of color, memories, and a present, consistent feeling of fear.