Running out of air

She watches him with a predator's eyes, wild and wary, ready to strike if he continues to press against her wounds, to dig his finger upon the scars. Her heart aches, and she wonders if he can feel it, if the sound of her pain is a louder cry than the anger she wears like a shield. I was there for you. I believed in you. I tried and I tried and I tried. Jigano is tired from illness, and she it tired from the world. She is tired of trying and falling, failing, tired of every good intention becoming a brick in the monument to her futile dreams. From trying to run a bakery to trying to make a king- she tried, and she tried, and it wasn't enough, and the world continued to rage against her while she tried to remain strong. Atlas, she holds them all on her shoulders. When she needed him to hold her, where did he go? He lashes out suddenly, the kettle knocked loose from its place on the counter, sending scalding water pouring off the countertop and onto her skin. A sharp gasp of pain; "Ow!" she exclaims, pulling herself away from the burning, less injured than taken aback by the sudden outburst, the flash of rage. She pulls her arms against her chest, the right fore already angry red with burns from his attack. For a moment there is silence stretching between them, trembling, tremulous, a violin's string, their relationship stretched to translucency, fragile enough to break. And then she shudders, realization painting a picture of dismay upon her face. Amalia's eyes are wide and staring as she looks at his claws, his pale skin, his peaked appearance, knowing but wishing she could deny it, that somehow she could convince herself it is not true. "You have it, don't you," Amalia murmurs, a sinking weight in the pit of her stomach. "Jigano... you have the Blight." a m a l i a You were young and you'd stare With a reverence unimpaired Searching in your dark eyes to find the stars already there