AmaLIa
shield of safrin
His house feels so empty, without him there.
Walking through the front door, she remembers the first time so keenly. The motley crew assembled to manage a golem in the basement: Lucas (dead), Wessex (further away than ever), Peter (dead), and of course... him.
Walking into the front room, she can almost smell the scones and cakes they made together for Peter. Had it really only been a season? It feels like minutes and it feels like months - how carefree they had been, then. How easily she had teased him about his intentions, his plans.
Slender fingers trace along the empty countertop. There is no teasing now, no voices. Only silent ghosts.
Into his bedroom, a bizarre, eclectic combination of colors and fabrics and sparkly things. It feels sacrilegious to be in this private place, and she is careful as she drifts around it, not touching anything for fear of disrupting the spirits that sleep within. As though he would care - as though she is trying to hide her presence from him, to leave it the way she found it for when he comes home.
He isn't coming home.
There is a shirt on the floor (is it a shirt? Can something with so little fabric really be called a shirt?). Almost absently she picks it up, intending to fold it and put it away. To tidy up for him- except why the fuck does it even matter, because he's never coming home. He's never going to notice the things she touched, and he's never going to appreciate her cleaning up. He's never going to gossip with her, tohinder help her bake, to go on adventures with her. He's never going to wear this ridiculous shirt again, and soon the smell of him will leave it.
Soon scavengers will take his possessions, and someone else will live in this house, and the golem will decay and his name will be forgotten and he'll be nothing, just another ghost rattling around in her memory, just another name attached to failure, another thing she loved and lost.
For a moment, Amalia had a best friend. For a moment, she wasn't alone.
Clutching the shirt to her chest, the Shield sinks into a chair and tucks her legs against her. The fabric is unpleasant on her face, but she doesn't care: she presses the leather against her skin, inhales deeply the smell of him, and finally, for the first time since the dragon, Amalia begins to sob.
Walking through the front door, she remembers the first time so keenly. The motley crew assembled to manage a golem in the basement: Lucas (dead), Wessex (further away than ever), Peter (dead), and of course... him.
Walking into the front room, she can almost smell the scones and cakes they made together for Peter. Had it really only been a season? It feels like minutes and it feels like months - how carefree they had been, then. How easily she had teased him about his intentions, his plans.
Slender fingers trace along the empty countertop. There is no teasing now, no voices. Only silent ghosts.
Into his bedroom, a bizarre, eclectic combination of colors and fabrics and sparkly things. It feels sacrilegious to be in this private place, and she is careful as she drifts around it, not touching anything for fear of disrupting the spirits that sleep within. As though he would care - as though she is trying to hide her presence from him, to leave it the way she found it for when he comes home.
He isn't coming home.
There is a shirt on the floor (is it a shirt? Can something with so little fabric really be called a shirt?). Almost absently she picks it up, intending to fold it and put it away. To tidy up for him- except why the fuck does it even matter, because he's never coming home. He's never going to notice the things she touched, and he's never going to appreciate her cleaning up. He's never going to gossip with her, to
Soon scavengers will take his possessions, and someone else will live in this house, and the golem will decay and his name will be forgotten and he'll be nothing, just another ghost rattling around in her memory, just another name attached to failure, another thing she loved and lost.
For a moment, Amalia had a best friend. For a moment, she wasn't alone.
Clutching the shirt to her chest, the Shield sinks into a chair and tucks her legs against her. The fabric is unpleasant on her face, but she doesn't care: she presses the leather against her skin, inhales deeply the smell of him, and finally, for the first time since the dragon, Amalia begins to sob.
you can't choose what stays
and what fades away
and what fades away
