Amalia
a certain darkness is needed to see the stars
✩
She reaches for the fire he holds in his hand, wanting to touch it, to take it for her own and bring it to her chest. But all she touches is heat and pain, burns licking over her fingers before she can pull them away. "Ow," she murmurs dreamily, placing singed digits between her parched lips. "It's so beautiful. Why does it hurt?"
Did she say she wasn't doing something? She doesn't remember, now. Lowering her hand back into the grass, Amalia digs into the earth, the cool dry dirt a balm on her fingers. "You have to save yourself," she tells him, and it feels like déjà vu. She said this to someone else recently, didn't she? Someone who wasn't him at all, and yet held her like he did and called her bright.
She'd wanted to be bright for him (for whom?). She wants to be bright for herself.
"I will look for her." This is said with a solid confidence, her voice surprisingly steady as her mind trips and unwinds. Then she softens, slumps, the brief surge of ardency swallowed by fatigue. "But not tonight. I haven't been feeling very well. I think I need to rest."
Did she say she wasn't doing something? She doesn't remember, now. Lowering her hand back into the grass, Amalia digs into the earth, the cool dry dirt a balm on her fingers. "You have to save yourself," she tells him, and it feels like déjà vu. She said this to someone else recently, didn't she? Someone who wasn't him at all, and yet held her like he did and called her bright.
She'd wanted to be bright for him (for whom?). She wants to be bright for herself.
"I will look for her." This is said with a solid confidence, her voice surprisingly steady as her mind trips and unwinds. Then she softens, slumps, the brief surge of ardency swallowed by fatigue. "But not tonight. I haven't been feeling very well. I think I need to rest."
