make peace with your broken pieces
Her face lights up at the mention of Safrin, open adoration tinted by a furrowed brow, the whites of her eyes visible enough to translate into fear. "Safrin said I couldn't help her," Amalia murmurs, remembering something else. Another sickness, another year. "She said I had to kill her if she didn't get better. Do you think she's going to kill me, if I don't get well?" Strangely enough her body relaxes, the fear fading away into weary acceptance, almost peace. She'd rather die at Safrin's hands than anyone else's, she thinks.
Again the water. She doesn't trust it, but she does trust Ronin and his light, his clarity in the storm. Carefully, slowly, Amalia sets about unscrewing the lid, her weak fingers trembling as she uncorks the canteen of sacred spring water. A pause - she sniffs it skeptically, looking to Ronin for reassurance before raising it to her lips.
The first sip feels like ice in her veins, like butter greasing her parched throat, and it's terrible but wonderful at the same time. Another sip, and another, and a third, slow and measured but oh so good. When she moves the canteen from her lips it's far from empty, but her stomach already feels full.
Again the water. She doesn't trust it, but she does trust Ronin and his light, his clarity in the storm. Carefully, slowly, Amalia sets about unscrewing the lid, her weak fingers trembling as she uncorks the canteen of sacred spring water. A pause - she sniffs it skeptically, looking to Ronin for reassurance before raising it to her lips.
The first sip feels like ice in her veins, like butter greasing her parched throat, and it's terrible but wonderful at the same time. Another sip, and another, and a third, slow and measured but oh so good. When she moves the canteen from her lips it's far from empty, but her stomach already feels full.
shield of safrin
