#Does she truly know what she is shooting for???? An anger fueled revenge tour just to kill jinx???

[arcanegifs]

ARCANE LEAGUE OF LEGENDS: 2x01 - “Heavy is the Crown” ↳ "I know you doubt your merit of your birthright, Caitlyn. There's wisdom in that. But remember: You're a Kiramman."

[santos-emilia]

An exploration with Emilia’s relationship with struggles and addiction Word Count: ~ 2,400 TW: drug use & addiction, miscarriage, self-harm More for me than y’all

Pain is powerful. Everything in life comes from pain - yours or someone else’s. Even, the first breath one takes only comes after hours, sometimes days, of pain from the one who had birthed them. Pain fueled anger. Pain fueled revenge. The thing is, there is always relief from pain. There is always something better to come, something to take pain away. Pain fueled life and with it the pleasure of joy. Pain fueled happiness. Pain fueled relief. 

But there is one thing that is even more powerful than pain. Numbness. A loss of sensation of feeling. 

When the decision was made to give the daughter she had so dearly wanted up, to make a promise never to interfere in her life and all to keep her safe, Emilia had felt pain. She and Tony had dearly wanted that tiny bundle of joy, had a name picked out and even a nursery made. But time had made her realize that being her daughter would put a target on her back. If President Snow would kill a victor to get his way, what would he be doing to an innocent child to get the cooperation of the child’s parents? It wouldn’t be safe for the child. And so the child was given up, given to someone who could hopefully provide a safer home, one without the constant attention, one without the threat of retaliation if her parents stepped a foot out of line. 

Emilia had only had two weeks with the child, two weeks before being forced on a train to tour the nation. She had cried and grieved for the life lost, for the lie that she tried to pretend was a reality - that her child had died. But in her fragile state she could only take so much, so much poking and prodding, so many touchy hands, so many sponsors she was forced to entertain before she just let go. It was easier to be numb than to feel everything else, pain and shame and worthlessness. It was easy to feel nothing at all - a stagnant, harrowing nothing. 

Numb : deprived of the power of sensation or responsiveness

Being numb took you away from everything. It took away your pain and with the absence of pain came an absence of happiness and joy, pleasure and satisfaction. You would do anything to regain some semblance of normalcy, to break through the fog of numbness. But numbness has no adversary in the way pain does. Numbness lingers. Numbness spawns tendrils that work into every fiber of your being. Numbness’s only adversary is you, and if you refuse to face what invited numbness in, numbness will make your world go black. 

But nothing is not pleasant and trauma, unfaceable. So when a sponsor offered a hit, a line of cocaine, an assurance that it’d make the evening more interesting, Emilia had given in. If for no other reason than to feel something without dealing with her issues. And the euphoria offered by the fine white powder became a problem, a problem that she would seek out in droves. It wasn’t her first run in with drugs (a morphling addiction fueled by a want to escape her post-games pain, but she’d stopped cold turkey at the barest suggestion that it might harm her growing pregnancy), and it wouldn’t be her last. No, the cocaine and the euphoria it offered quickly became an addiction. 

Something was better than nothing even if that something was artificial. 

It would be an addiction she would struggle with on and off for several years, even after the void of numbness abated. A positive pregnancy test would come back and she’d force herself to stop. A miscarriage, or the absence of Tony, or the worry that he might end up dead if caught by peacekeepers while in his search for rebellion would send her spiraling again. Rinse, wash, repeat, the cycle would continue for seven years until an overdose nearly ended her life. 

Chemical euphoria was better than numbness, but numbness was better than death. And numbness was broken by fear so strong it made her blood run cold. She’d almost died, almost killed herself. Tony would forever be physically scarred, his back a grisly mess of blood and muscle (the retribution of the head peacekeeper for activities relating to rebellion) as he fought to keep her alive. And she would be forever emotionally scarred by the fact she’d nearly died, nearly died trying to keep the love of her life alive, that he had nearly died. 

And so, Emilia would wake for the first time in seven years. Emilia would fight off withdrawal, vomiting, shaking and exhaustion. Pain would resurface. And with pain, would eventually come happiness and joy, relief - right? That’s how things were supposed to happen. 

Emotions would be felt again, life would be lived again. She would go about her daily activities and actually take note of them. Emilia would take up the things that had provided her with happiness and excitement and joy before. She would begin cooking again, reading from the small library she'd brought from her childhood home, dancing and listening to the music left behind by her father. 

Pain would make its presence know again and again. Another baby so dearly loved, lost - heartbeat gone at week eleven; a set of twins suffering from twin to twin transfusion, the 'healthy' one with a large gap in its skull; a lack of movement. Each time the numbness would try to resurface, try to creep in, but Emilia knew how to stave it off. Remember that night, the night spent tirelessly tending to her husband's tender back, the night spent covered in his blood, the next morning with her heart racing, the morning spent on the shower floor in the frigid water, Benadryl forced to be taken, her husband's pleading voice begging her to stay with him. If that didn't work, she'd disappear to the Academy for hours with the girl she'd taken on as a mentee, practice and focus, the ache of muscles worked until they could no longer,  would drive off the numbness. Tony would always be there to hold her close and provide the relief she'd need from the self-inflicted pain. Pain to drive away the numbness, relief to drive away the pain. 

But when her husband joined the rebellion again, something Emilia was not against for any reason other than her husband's safety, and his arms were not always there to provide comfort the pain was harder to get rid of and with the pain harder to get rid of, numbness crept in a little more successfully. So a dog was brought home, Metztli named for the Aztec Goddess of the moon and night for the black fur that covered the animal. A dog that was trained to recognize the signs of Emilia's depressive states or when she was on the verge of an anxiety attack. A dog that offered her the comfort her husband could not when he was not home. 

And things would be okay again. Okay and even enjoyable sometimes. She'd garden. She'd cook. She'd spend time with Alejo, the father-in-law who'd become like a second father, a man who'd teach her to shoot a gun just for the relief it offered, nothing more than blanks or paintballs. It was a relief from pent up emotions. But life was okay and she was coping. 

But when Emilia lost that little girl who'd become her mentee. When the little girl became a teenager and volunteered and died, Emilia would feel the pain. She would mourn that little girl who'd been as near as a daughter to her as seemed possible. She would cry in the privacy of her own home, blame herself and wonder if there had been something she could have done different. And in those months nothing seemed to be able to relieve the pain stuffed in her chest, but she had learned pain was better than numbness and so she clung to it. Clung to the pain for fear of the deadening of sensation that she knew came when she hid from the pain. 

Months passed in this way, clinging to the pain. She was tired and nauseous and that too she blamed on the nightmares, or rather refused to believe what else they might lead to. Her husband was away more. Rebellion thick on his skin when he returned. And he would be the one to mention she looked different, though by this point after loss after loss he knew better than to point out what seemed different. That could lead to tears and anxiety, it was easier to Emilia to just pretend she wasn't.  It when clothes begin to fit differently and still nausea clings worse than ever before, she was forced face the reality. And at eighteen weeks she was confirmed pregnant, a miracle, the furthest she'd ever made it since the very first. And at twenty-two weeks she was told she was having twins. 

Everything was great, everything grand. Emilia had finally set up a nursery, her husband was keeping home more, and for the first time in seventeen years Emilia felt well and truly happy despite the still present morning sickness. But as with everything it seemed, life was intent to tear her down and at twenty-six weeks pregnant she stood for another reaping. A reaping that would throw her daughter, the one she had birthed a mere six months after her own victory, at the arena with no hope and Emilia's world would come tearing down around her again within a couple of weeks. 

But Emilia was good at acting. So good that she almost convinced herself she was okay. Her beloved died, but two and a half months later she gave birth to two more children. And though numbness had seeked her out again, dragged her under, she was great at smiling for the cameras. Happy mom happy life despite the warning obviously dolled out by the Capitol. Everything looked and seemed fine. But under it all lulled a sense of dread and failure. Post partum depression danced in hellish circles with the depression and anxiety she was acquainted with. 

And when a year after the death of her beloved first child, the Capitol threw a wicked curve ball - resurrected tributes; the mentee, the beloved, and the father all in the arena again, Emilia could no longer ward off the cold clutches of numbness. Desperation sang out, and one by one she watched as her loved ones died in screen again, Tony gone when one right after the other Diana and Amada died within half an hour. She fell into the only relief she knew in the absence of her husband. Even with Metztli and her children with her, she fell, succumbed to the icy tendrils of nothing and gave in. 

Addiction : the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance, thing, or activity

Addictions are tricky things. The vast majority of people deal with an addiction in some form; caffeine, tobacco, alcohol. But for some addiction runs deeper than those accepted by society. For some, addiction comes in the form of cocaine or morphling or heroine. For some addiction comes in the form of harming oneself. Whatever it is, from socially acceptable, to those often hidden, there is one universal truth. Addiction is hard to kick, addiction with fight you with headaches and convulsions, paranoia and exhaustion. Addiction is not willing to let you go easily.  

Addiction is a hard thing to fight off and nearly ten years after making the choice to be sober, Emilia gave in again. She sought out the only solace she knew, the only thing that was sure to make feeling something possible again. Cocaine was an old friend, and easy to come by, especially when she knew where her old stashes were kept. But when stashes ran out and the itch grew stronger, contacts were made and old acquaintances pulled in. 

And for a while, the old friend worked well. A line or two here or there, kept secret and behind closed doors and she could at least pretend. She could pretend behind her suits of white and her hair pulled back that she was once again that picture perfect victor. But that perfect picture was always a lie, had always been so. The poised and polished exterior hid her darkest of secrets just as it had in her early years of victory. She could stand tall (as tall as she could at 5’2”) when the nothingness was dulled by the euphoria of drugs. She could smile and wave, give advice and live. But is it really living when you're a slave to something else? 

For Emilia it was as good as, at least while her life still maintained some semblance of normal. But when shit hit the fan and the world around her seemed to crumble, fires spread and houses broken into, lives lost and bombs set, and Tony... Tony in the thick of it. When Emilia didn't even know where her husband was, left at home with the kids and her in laws, in laws that took more care of the kids at that point that she did, well not even the comfort of her drug of choice could bring her back from the deep seeded, vast emptiness she felt. Emptiness to stave off the constant worry, emptiness to stave off the anxiety, emptiness to stave off days spent in bed... But when her days were spent aimlessly, wandering and without any emotion to give purpose, when the emptiness could no longer be staved off Emilia found another vice that made her feel something, anything but numb.

It started as half-moon indentations, nails dug into her palm or into the fleshy underside as her arm as she watched news reports of the ongoing rebellion efforts; of bombs set in various districts including her own, of boats set adrift and sank, of factories destroyed and animals let loose, of reported deaths, rebels caught and imprisoned. And it worked for a small while but quickly delved into deeper lacerations. As things got worse so did the numbness and her need to feel anything but, nails in skin no loner could drag her out of the reveries that would suck her in, the what-ifs; what if Tony got caught, what if he was killed, what if they came after her or the kids. 

Half-moon indentations gave way to thin lines of red, to the cool press of metal against skin, one of Tony’s straight razors taken to the thick of her thighs or the tender skin of her belly. And not long after the rebellion would fall quiet, Tony would return home, injured but safe. But the thing with addiction, a fact Emilia knew entirely too well, was that addictions were not easy to kick, no matter what the addiction was. But she could feel something now, even if that feeling was a sharp pain, even if she often chased the pain with a line of euphoria, even if her husband was home to hold and comfort. 

At least again she could pretend, a facade falling back into place and just in time for her to be thrown back into the public face for the Victor’s Ball.