A spoonful of sugar

She's imperfect, but she tries She is good, but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help It is a pensive mood that Jigano finds Amalia in, lying back on her bed and staring intently at the ceiling, tracing cracks in wood and stone that has withstood centuries of isolation. She does not look over as the bard peers through the curtain, but a silent pulse through the Attuned bond speaks of acceptance and invitation to join. Truth be told, Amalia is not sure if she begrudges Jigano for escaping safely when she did not. She does, however, know the guilt she would carry if the roles were reversed- the guilt her friend almost certainly wears across his shoulders like a cross. It is for this reason she holds herself close, only letting her appreciation for his presence and his healing eke out through the bond. The resentment, the pain, the fear, the loneliness, the way she misses what they were and hates what they seem to have become- it is contained, for as long as she is able to hold on. And holding on depends on her looking elsewhere, thinking elsewhere, feeling elsewhere, so she keeps her eyes trained on the cracks in a structure she once believed indestructible. But the silence is unbearable, too, and she fears what he might fill it with."I spent a lot of time in the infirmary as a child," Amalia says softly, her alto voice distant as she remembers those times. "Not because I was sick. My mother - I think I told you - she was a healer. Abandoned. She wanted me to learn about medicine, but I always hated it here." Exhaling a half-laugh she shuts her eyes, a rueful smile curling at her lips. "I could be such a brat about it sometimes." a m a l i a She is messy, but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone, but she used to be mine