it is both a blessing and a curse, to feel everything so very deeply
Amalia has had a difficult week.
She's definitely sick. She's been able to piece together that much together through the haze of her delirium and the spiking, unsteady fever. Sick, and yet somehow she keeps forgetting, finding herself in places that aren't Remi and Ronin's house or her bed or the bakery or anywhere else she thought she would be.
Like now. Now Amalia finds herself at the familiar foot of a familiar shrine, a place of so much catalyst and change in the Shield's life. It all blurs together in her mind, moments and memories snapping like shooting stars through the fractured facets of her conscious thinking. The foundations of a shrine, a wedding that isn't hers, dark eyes full of cosmic madness, walking barefoot in the grass. A bearded face that's dark and handsome, a face she loves with all her heart. Whose face is it? Amalia wonders, unable to focus long enough to find details in the haze.
Everything is too hard to focus on. She's tired, so very tired, loss and failure and change and illness piling up and driving her down, until she feels simultaneously light as a bubble and heavy as lead. It's far too hot to be wearing this skin, yet Amalia finds too much comfort to give it up. She'll just settle down in the sunlight and take a quick nap. Hopefully Safrin will be able to help her feel better.
All she wants is for her mother to come and take the pain away.
She's definitely sick. She's been able to piece together that much together through the haze of her delirium and the spiking, unsteady fever. Sick, and yet somehow she keeps forgetting, finding herself in places that aren't Remi and Ronin's house or her bed or the bakery or anywhere else she thought she would be.
Like now. Now Amalia finds herself at the familiar foot of a familiar shrine, a place of so much catalyst and change in the Shield's life. It all blurs together in her mind, moments and memories snapping like shooting stars through the fractured facets of her conscious thinking. The foundations of a shrine, a wedding that isn't hers, dark eyes full of cosmic madness, walking barefoot in the grass. A bearded face that's dark and handsome, a face she loves with all her heart. Whose face is it? Amalia wonders, unable to focus long enough to find details in the haze.
Everything is too hard to focus on. She's tired, so very tired, loss and failure and change and illness piling up and driving her down, until she feels simultaneously light as a bubble and heavy as lead. It's far too hot to be wearing this skin, yet Amalia finds too much comfort to give it up. She'll just settle down in the sunlight and take a quick nap. Hopefully Safrin will be able to help her feel better.
All she wants is for her mother to come and take the pain away.
