we're always running scared but holding knives
Clumsily bundled on the shore as she is, with a bandaged foot and sand in her hair, it's perhaps no surprise that as the Lullaby continues down this strange and sincere vein, suspicion is Isla's knee-jerk reaction. Indeed as he reaches for her, at first she instinctively shuffles back, brow furrowed as if trying to make sense of the impossible. "What are you talking about?" she whispers, despite knowing very well what he might mean.
But admitting he might remember anything - anything at all - about their friendship is not a torch the Remedy is willing to light. Her life is one without meaning; too tired to carry on but too stubborn to give up, hope is little more than the light from dying coals, and Isla expects no warmth from it.
And yet, such is the curse of the things she does remember, to see the Lullaby in visible pain isn't something Isla can tolerate, even angry, and she sighs out a shivering breath that makes the back of her throat prickle. "Remi," she mumbles, "you don't have to apologise for something you don't remember. I appreciate it, but it's done. You can't change it."
But admitting he might remember anything - anything at all - about their friendship is not a torch the Remedy is willing to light. Her life is one without meaning; too tired to carry on but too stubborn to give up, hope is little more than the light from dying coals, and Isla expects no warmth from it.
And yet, such is the curse of the things she does remember, to see the Lullaby in visible pain isn't something Isla can tolerate, even angry, and she sighs out a shivering breath that makes the back of her throat prickle. "Remi," she mumbles, "you don't have to apologise for something you don't remember. I appreciate it, but it's done. You can't change it."
Isla
