AmaLIa
shield of safrin
It isn't that she's angry at him- it's that he's there, always there, utterly untouchable in his stoicism and calm, diamond beneath a tungsten shield and iron under that. In the years intervening, in the struggles and the conflicts, she has come to expect him to simply be there, absorbing the vibrations of a tumultuous world with some sage, cultured zenness she can never hope to achieve.
So when the thing that finally breaks him is her- well, it takes her aback as much as him, her head bolting up at last from her knees as he releases her with the swiftness one might drop a hot poker. Black eyes rimmed in tears blink with wild surprise, disbelief and confusion and guilt rampant on her face: "I-" she begins, half apology, half retort, but it's far too little too late. She's become so accustomed to his steadiness and strength; she never expected it would be her words that broke him, in the end.
But it makes sense, doesn't it? Cruel and vicious, selfish and immature- these are the things she is inside, beneath the veneer of the pious baker, the shiny title of Shield. She can feel her breath hitching, desperate and anguished as she watches him walk away. There is a part of her that wonders if she can't compel him back, reach out with that Attuned magic and draw him to her side. She'd resented it only a second ago, the quiet and reasonable embrace.
Now she feels naked without it, empty and alone.
It takes a minute for her to rise, her body uncoiling from its tightly wound knot. It takes longer for her to leave the doorway; she lingers there, steeling herself, her arms around her chest as thoughts crash through her mind, raging and roaring conflicting desires. If she doesn't go to him will he come to her? Probably, a wicked, selfish voice whispers in her ear. I could wait and he would come, and he would apologize, and I could languish in my pain. It would be so much easier, so much more comfortable: then she could apologize without losing the fight. She could be the victim, the martyr, the one whose hurt deserves the most comfort.
Because she is hurt, has been hurt by the world, again and again and again.
But his wounds? Those are not just from the world. She hurt him, and that is unforgivable.
Her feet pad softly on the dusty floor, soft and tremulous as the beating of her heart. She comes to a stop behind him and swallows: the last opportunity for her to retreat, to let him close that gap and thus shirk the blame. She could wait for him to turn around, but she cannot bear to see his face. If he is angry it will hurt her, but if he forgives her?
It will tear her apart.
Slowly, softly, Amalia leans forward, her cheek coming to rest atop his head. "I'm sorry," she whispers, eyes closed, voice throaty; if he lets her she will slide her hands over his shoulders, let them dangle down to drape carefully across his chest. "I'm sorry, Deimos. I wish... will you tell me what you're thinking? Please?"
So when the thing that finally breaks him is her- well, it takes her aback as much as him, her head bolting up at last from her knees as he releases her with the swiftness one might drop a hot poker. Black eyes rimmed in tears blink with wild surprise, disbelief and confusion and guilt rampant on her face: "I-" she begins, half apology, half retort, but it's far too little too late. She's become so accustomed to his steadiness and strength; she never expected it would be her words that broke him, in the end.
But it makes sense, doesn't it? Cruel and vicious, selfish and immature- these are the things she is inside, beneath the veneer of the pious baker, the shiny title of Shield. She can feel her breath hitching, desperate and anguished as she watches him walk away. There is a part of her that wonders if she can't compel him back, reach out with that Attuned magic and draw him to her side. She'd resented it only a second ago, the quiet and reasonable embrace.
Now she feels naked without it, empty and alone.
It takes a minute for her to rise, her body uncoiling from its tightly wound knot. It takes longer for her to leave the doorway; she lingers there, steeling herself, her arms around her chest as thoughts crash through her mind, raging and roaring conflicting desires. If she doesn't go to him will he come to her? Probably, a wicked, selfish voice whispers in her ear. I could wait and he would come, and he would apologize, and I could languish in my pain. It would be so much easier, so much more comfortable: then she could apologize without losing the fight. She could be the victim, the martyr, the one whose hurt deserves the most comfort.
Because she is hurt, has been hurt by the world, again and again and again.
But his wounds? Those are not just from the world. She hurt him, and that is unforgivable.
Her feet pad softly on the dusty floor, soft and tremulous as the beating of her heart. She comes to a stop behind him and swallows: the last opportunity for her to retreat, to let him close that gap and thus shirk the blame. She could wait for him to turn around, but she cannot bear to see his face. If he is angry it will hurt her, but if he forgives her?
It will tear her apart.
Slowly, softly, Amalia leans forward, her cheek coming to rest atop his head. "I'm sorry," she whispers, eyes closed, voice throaty; if he lets her she will slide her hands over his shoulders, let them dangle down to drape carefully across his chest. "I'm sorry, Deimos. I wish... will you tell me what you're thinking? Please?"
you can't choose what stays
and what fades away
and what fades away
