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He blinks, and there it is again.

A shapeless man is slumped on the ground. He doesn't recognize him. He doesn't recognize any of them. He's only aware of a feeling vaguely akin to satisfaction ringing in his hollow chest when he turns away from the sluggishly bleeding corpse, eerily calm and composed with a slight upwards tilt at the edge of his lips.

And it scares him.

Because this is nauseating, disgusting, and for all of the crimes that happens on the streets, none of them were quite as violent as this. He wants to go to his father, where it's warm and safe, who tells him 'Everything is gonna be alright.'

And he really wants to believe those words so much except it never is, never works–

He doesn't want to see this.

He doesn't want to see the way the screaming man's skin peeled back so easily to reveal goblets and rivulets of ruby-red blood, doesn't want to see how easy it was to snap his fingers and watch his bones grind into dust, doesn't want to see how he simply lowered his hand and the man's body just seized and distorted and ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod what'sgoingongetmeoutgetmeout I'mscaredthiscan'tbehappeningit'snotit'snot-

A low whistle sounds behind him, and a warm hand lands on his shoulder. He opens his mouth to scream out his terror, except nothing comes out.

"Tsk tsk, what did this one do?" Despite the chiding tone that he had adopted, he could feel the pride radiating off him.

He responds with a voice that is, but isn't his own.

"He's a warning to the rest of them." A casual gesture at the bloody pulp on the ground. He feels nauseous and tries to close his eyes, except they remain stubbornly open despite his fervent wishes. "A warning that I will not tolerate their transgressions a second time."

Horror envelopes him like a shroud when he finally registers these cold, careless words. Speaking as if this man wasn't even another human being, as if he was somehow worth even less than the dirt beneath his feet, how could any decent person act this way–

"Hmm." The man behind him tousles his hair affectionately. "Try being a little less bloody next time, then? The bloodstains are always hard to wash out."

He tries to scream again, and this time, he manages to make sound.

Except, all that comes out of his mouth is a lighthearted laugh that chills him to his core.

"I'll keep that in mind."

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"N-no!" Emilio gasped for air, his eyes hurting from the sudden light.

The brunette was sitting up in his bed, the moonlight streaming in from his open window and illuminating every wrinkle on his white bedsheets. Emilio had another nightmare that caused him to bolt up wide awake. This wasn't the first time he had a nightmare of such a nature. And he hated it. He hated how they sprung up when he went to sleep.

The ten year old clutched at his shirt where his heart was, willing the rapid pumping of his heart to calm down. And the worst of all, he hated how they felt so real. The way the blood dripped off his hands after each murder, the way he casually stepped on dead bodies, the way he walked around looking for his next victim―

"Stop it!" He shouted at his mind, which so helpfully tried to show him even more mental images. The images jerked and faded out, much like the cigarette that was snubbed out by his father. 'Again... It's always the same thing...' Emilio thought to himself. 'Why is it always the same?' He shook as he forced himself to focus and will away the tension his body was feeling.

Even after his sudden alertness faded away to a distant memory, his panting didn't completely give way to normal breathing, making the child feel like he had run through the city twice over.

'Even if I gasp for air, it's like it will never come to me,' Emilio suddenly felt small in the room, his surroundings looming over him with their great presence. 'It's like... I'm drowning.'

"Calm down," an asserting, yet gentle voice spoke up. It was his, yet not his. "Don't be afraid." It resonated in his mind and a presence that he had not noticed before was there although just barely.

"That was a horrible nightmare... " Emilio whispered out shakily.

"It wasn't just a nightmare, don't you remember?"

Emilio gave a pause. "Rem...ember...?" He closed his eyes and tried to recall what happened before he had awoken.

Half-breeds with dark flames literally fused into their bodies surrounded him everywhere, on the floor, dead, or attacking him with weapons dripping with malice. One particularly grotesque Nahatsu stood in front of him, a harpoon-like weapon casually drapped on his arm. Hmph, how imprudent of them to think he was so easily defeated by a few lackeys. Although the fact that they dared to break their promise to him again and took a knife and to backstab him the moment he had turned showed just how much they overestimated themselves.

He was beyond pissed off. Anger rose up in him, so boiling hot that he nearly gave into the pressure of spilling blood, their blood for the promise they broke. He was only being held back by the thinnest thread of patience, which he maintained by killing these things in front of him. The voice from his earpiece that was whispering 'Is that all the great Seiryuu has got? We should have done this long ago, you are worthless after all!' was quickly upsetting the thread thin balance he tried so hard to maintain

...When his anger had reached the fullest it could go, something white burst into his vision. He could feel it surrounding him, growing and churning in response to his overwhemling anger and sadness, like the water at the bottom of a waterfall. It keeps building up, so powerful and alive that it could probably rip apart space and time itself―

"It did." The voice said.

"Stop!" Emilio hissed out through clenched teeth, and everything left his thoughts, although he could feel them pressuring his subconciously built mental barrier. He screwed his eyes shut with the effort of forcing out the memories in his head, so that they didn't take over his subconcious.

'It's not real! There's no point being so hung up on it. Afterall, its just a dream. Its just a dream.' Emilio mentally decided.

The white light he saw in his dreams― visions, more like― reminded him of a little puppy trying to swim against a raging river the other day, only he was now the little puppy, being tossed around before being tore apart and drowned as the river continued downstream, eating its victim alive.

"Emil, are you alright? Would you like some water?" Alaric was leaning against the doorframe, voice cutting through his thoughts and effectively bringing him back to reality. He must have accidently woken his father up when he had that nightmare.

...something white burst into his vision...

Just hearing the word 'water' brought him back to the vision of the energy that was moving and angry and alive, and he didn't want to drown from those visions again.

"Just juice please!" Emilio nearly shouted.

"Just juice please..." he repeated tiredly.

"I'm alright," he said in assurance, more to himself.

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Who are you?

Only three simple little words, and somehow he can't dislodge them from his throat.

He's sitting in a boat. Dark waters stretch as far as the eye can see under a thousand-star-speckled sky. A foggy white mist curls gently on top of the waves, softly lapping at the waters, and he squints at the humanoid shape faintly silhouetted in the distance of the strange, unnatural mist.

Who are you? He tries to ask again, but still nothing comes out. He coughs, trying to clear his throat –and that sound comes out perfectly fine– but when he tries to speak again his voice is gone.

Frustrating, really.

…

The humanoid shadow's face is tilted upwards towards the starlit heavens, as he is steadily ignored, and he struggles to speak again, because somehow, intuitively, he knows that this is important.

So.

…

Who are you?

--------------------------------------------------

His name is Emilio.

Emilio D'audrino is a pretty normal boy and the adopted child of Alaric D'audrino. He has black hair and golden eyes, unusual, but not enough that he couldn't blend in with the rest of his surroundings. He is quiet and doesn't talk to others all that much, but he isn't the type to shy away either. He just blends into the background and is content to do so.

His father, on the other hand, is charismatic and inspiring. In the small rown that they live in, he is the unofficial town mayor. He leads a vigilante group called Ateliest that is dedicated to protecting the people and all the things that the actual town mayor should have done. He is like a Robin Hood, protecting those that are neglected by the corrupt government.

In the world where they lived in, people with flames were treated with a high amount of respect while people without flames were literally casted aside. His father had always hated that very idea and had opposed to it ever since he could do so. This had caught the attention of the government and they were quick to oppose it.

Emilio just watched and kept quiet, even if his father came home only once a week, bleeding and practically collasping on him. He just quietly helped to patch up his injuries, giving him a safe place to rest for a few hours. And he just watched as his father rushed out of the house again, a few hours later, to intercept the people the government had sent.

--------------------------------------------------

There it is again.

Roses and daffodils and lilies and hydrangeas; all sorts of flowers that he knows and all sorts of flowers that he can't even begin to name; all in full bloom in the beautiful garden that wouldn't be out of place in the fairyland storybooks.

(Thank goodness for small mercies. This is one of the times where there's no blood no gore no death no–)

"Young master, would you like a cup of chamomile?"

A small smile curls at the corner of his lips, even though he hasn't moved.

"That would be lovely, Vishnal."

Bone-thin hands that are much too pale to be his own reached out and gently received the delicate teacup offered by the butler standing beside him.

Happiness.

Contentment.

Emotions that he has never felt before, not like this, but a feeling almost tangible that beats in his chest and fills him with an indescribable warmth, fingers tingling–

"The mistress is asking for you again, young master. She seems adamant that you move out of the West Wing. "

Vague amusement as the warm feelings fade a little.

"Really now? My answer won't change, no matter how many times she… insists upon it. Father approached me the other day about it, too, and I refused."

A sip of tea.

"Wise choice, young master."

"Thank you, Vishnal."

He hears the words and understands them, but for some reason he still thinks he's missing the entire point of the conversation.

… Well.

Who knows?

--------------------------------------------------

Who am I?

Emil.

Who am I?

Emilio.

Who am I?

Emilio D'audrino!

…

…

… Really?

.
...
.