WC:300+ It's totally fine! And aww... I love Ehno he's so nice.
Caprica, too, usually enjoyed a peaceful evening watching the sun set. The skies were full of inspiration, colours for beads or patterns for dyed pieces of fabric. Tonight, all she could see were the shadows, getting longer and longer and greyer until they perfectly matched the barren and lifeless world she found herself engulfed by. She was relieved, almost, to shut her eyes to it all, but she could not close her nose - here on the borders where the Clouded Tears scent was as familiar but as distant as her first word or step. Caprica couldn't close her ears, either, but this was for the best, as the first thing that broke her broken-hearted reverie was the more comforting sound she could have heard. Her own father, first a beloved playmate and all-powerful protector, then a forgotten part of a confusing and obliterated history, then yearned for as a half-remembered and idolised figure, recalled in the presence of her sister, who too had sought him recently. Where, given that circumstance, else would she have turned? His words were startling, the emotions flooding her turned bittersweet, a dish seasoned by far too many cooks, some rubbing in the bitter salt of pain and loss, the sickening grease of guilt: others the syrups and spices of the reunion and the creamy delight of hearing words in the language she'd almost forgotten she knew. Almost, but never quite. "Papà, il mio papà," choked Caprica, and flung herself into his arms, hands still hiding her face - not daring to show such a guilty and pain-racked facade to the world: especially not the part of it that she most dearly wished to impress. "Non volevo farlo, I didn't, I didn't." But she must have, mustn't she - some dark part of her must have: and that was a blackness that she was not ready to contemplate. She had never felt so cursed: if Tak had wanted her now, he could have taken her, and with ease.
Image courtesy of Ant Jackson@Flickr; Table by the Mentors!
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