He’d awoken with new memories in his head. Of his siblings finding out the truth, of their desperate protests, of the younger ones’ fear and shock. Of the forced calm that he had barely managed to hold together in the face of it. Norman had lain in bed for several minutes, replaying it over and over. None of it was surprising, he’d anticipated all of it...but...
I made her cry.
... He couldn’t do anything about it now. So he dragged himself up to start the day instead, determined not to let on that anything had changed. Realistically, nothing had changed. What difference did memories make? But despite his decision not to burden Ray with it (dealing with all that had happened once was bad enough), Norman still made it a point to spend time with the other, savoring what reassurance his presence offered.
Which had translated to going to get pizza for lunch. It always excited him to try new things with his brother. Besides, he wanted to discuss the lay of the figurative land with him, and the individuals they’d met who could help or hurt them.
“He really has been more than helpful,” Norman was saying on the way. Archer was the primary invaluable asset that he had, and a likely ally, as he’d just explained to Ray. “I still think you should get to know your Servant,” he added, eyeing his brother. Ray’s reaction to such suggestions and the very notion of trusting anyone else kind of amused him...as long as he didn’t think about why he was like that. Norman wouldn’t push the issue, despite how helpful he felt another Servant would be. It wasn’t like he fully trusted them, either.
He would have said more, if not for catching sight of something that halted him in his tracks. Through the pedestrians crowded at the crosswalk ahead, he glimpsed wild red hair. Familiar red hair. His heart stopped. It had to be a hallucination, or a trick of his eyes, but he knew what she looked like, and... No, it had to be -- it had to be because of his regained memories. Or something. He willed away the desperate, intangible hand suddenly clutching his throat. She wasn’t here; he’d likely never see her again -- he’d accepted that reality, no matter how hard it was to live with.
But still he found himself breaking into a jog, conversation forgotten. He pushed through to the curb and tried to see through the people at the other side, wanting to call her name, just to see, but holding his tongue because he had to be wrong. The voice had said that their loved ones were here, but...he didn’t dare to hope, to let himself hope. The traffic light changed, he crossed, and --
She peered through a store window like a curious child, bright-eyed and safe and alive. Real, so far as he could tell. There was no reason his mind would hallucinate her with a bandage over her ear. She’s... She’s okay. She’s okay! His eyes began to sting as he stood, speechless, for a moment. The suffocating feeling rising like a flood in his lungs didn’t keep him from bursting out, “Emma!” He started to reach toward her, then hesitated. The last time she’d seen him, he... How long had it been, for her? Months, like Ray? How would she react...?
He tried to hold onto his composure, though emotion was thick in his voice. Better to give her the chance to process what she was seeing, regardless of his relief, his need to reach out, to reassure himself she was real. It took all he had not to grab her in his arms and pull her to his chest, every muscle taut with emotion that had nowhere to go.
But nothing could keep the smile off his face, nor did he want to. “You’re here... You’re okay.” The mantra reverberated in his head over and over, a desperate reassurance to himself as much as anything else. It didn’t keep him from trembling.
@emmalive, @pissethoff
