and look for the stars as the sun goes down
each breath that you take has a thunderous sound
each breath that you take has a thunderous sound
Come-
And there it is, a single word to begin a new chapter of her life, spoken by a figure who sits within a sparse yet imposing room. Cian ó Broin. It's a name that even in her brief time here she's learned to associate with reverence and respect, and perhaps more than a healthy amount of apprehensive fear. This is the man who is Falke's boss, Finn's captor, who carries the weight of a war on his shoulders, who is shrouded in secrecy even here. And now as Amalia looks at his silhouetted figure, she can't help but feel a mixture of anticipation and dread, not knowing what to expect from the Eye, what it is he will see.
She strides across the crimson carpet, feeling underdressed in the grandiose room. Stopping just before the desk, Amalia does not take a seat, instead standing, her dark eyes sharp as she waits for the Eye to look up from his task. It takes nearly all her willpower to keep herself steeled and still, curiosity and anxiety trying hard to pry her attention around the room; but she is determined to meet this monolith with strength and severity of her own. She is prepared for him to treat her with coldness, to be ruthless and cunning and difficult to understand.
She is not prepared for him to greet her warmly, a charming smile on his face when it rises from the shadows at last.
Well.
"Ah- yes." Color creeps across her cheeks, the carefully prepared words melting away. "I- that is. You too. Cian. The Eye." She's floundering, the youthful insecurities suddenly shining through as she resists the urge to rub her palms over her thighs, taut with sudden stress. She is here as a representative of Vi- she is better than this.
Clearing her throat, the girl inhales, straightening a little and trying again. "I assume you know Finn spoke to me," she states this time, meeting denim eyes with onyx, her chin raised up as she tries very hard to present a front of strength. "What do you plan to do about the Voice's machine?"
And there it is, a single word to begin a new chapter of her life, spoken by a figure who sits within a sparse yet imposing room. Cian ó Broin. It's a name that even in her brief time here she's learned to associate with reverence and respect, and perhaps more than a healthy amount of apprehensive fear. This is the man who is Falke's boss, Finn's captor, who carries the weight of a war on his shoulders, who is shrouded in secrecy even here. And now as Amalia looks at his silhouetted figure, she can't help but feel a mixture of anticipation and dread, not knowing what to expect from the Eye, what it is he will see.
She strides across the crimson carpet, feeling underdressed in the grandiose room. Stopping just before the desk, Amalia does not take a seat, instead standing, her dark eyes sharp as she waits for the Eye to look up from his task. It takes nearly all her willpower to keep herself steeled and still, curiosity and anxiety trying hard to pry her attention around the room; but she is determined to meet this monolith with strength and severity of her own. She is prepared for him to treat her with coldness, to be ruthless and cunning and difficult to understand.
She is not prepared for him to greet her warmly, a charming smile on his face when it rises from the shadows at last.
Well.
"Ah- yes." Color creeps across her cheeks, the carefully prepared words melting away. "I- that is. You too. Cian. The Eye." She's floundering, the youthful insecurities suddenly shining through as she resists the urge to rub her palms over her thighs, taut with sudden stress. She is here as a representative of Vi- she is better than this.
Clearing her throat, the girl inhales, straightening a little and trying again. "I assume you know Finn spoke to me," she states this time, meeting denim eyes with onyx, her chin raised up as she tries very hard to present a front of strength. "What do you plan to do about the Voice's machine?"
Amalia
