Emilia looks the part this evening, at least. Her clothing is lovely and practical by village standards, save for the flowers woven in her hair. She casts a charm on the basket Wrathion brought home to preserve the fish, and kneads the dough before her with the ease of someone who's done so a thousand times.

But the question slows her movements, and she looks up at Wrathion when it comes. Nonna Maria would steal her memories again if Emilia asked. She knows it in her very bones. She could go back to living a blissfully ignorant mortal life, perhaps dying at a respectable age surrounded by grandchildren.

There would be no pain. No betrayals. No warfare among supernaturals.

There would be no Wrath, either, and the mere thought makes her chest ache.

She shakes her head at last, something ancient and worn in her gaze before it lowers, a hint of her true age. "There would always be something missing. The hollow space eventually reveals itself."

And she has always wanted the truth above all else, no matter how bitter. Truth and completion and yes, power. She would make no apology for that, either. "What kind of life would suit you, Wrathion? If you could choose."