with a reverence unimpaired

"Does... does our world grow on a tulmhainar? Do you house a world?" It seems probable enough to the girl, looking once more over his form, the crashing water and towering peaks which loom impossibly far overhead. At this point Amalia has nothing but theories, straws to explain this creature and its purpose, to Mort and to the Fae. The next thing he says makes her blood run cold. As they return to the field in a slow, slow blink, Amalia stands frozen between landscapes, her heart thundering painfully in her chest. "Memories?" the girl repeats, chokes, her hands landing on the back of the chair. She swallows, thinking of - trying not to think of - the memories she cherishes, the things that have made her who she is. Still standing, still tense, Amalia stares wide-eyed at the man, her voice a questioning whisper on the breeze. "I want to help you, but I... I don't want to forget." Amalia Her eyes, they know too much. She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.