when water is as thick as blood

Amalia

'Cause she's just like the weather
Can't hold her together
Born from dark water
Daughter of the r a i n and s n o w

The silence falls like a curtain between them, the slicing of a knife. Part of her had hoped, had prayed, that it would be different. There is a dream she has, that the honesty, the hard truths, will only bring them closer; that by looking at the points of their separation they will be able to bridge those gaps, to bind more strongly through misunderstandings, to love each other despite the divide. Isn't that what adulthood is: managing when things are not the way you want, learning to accept the world despite its disappointments?

Isn't it supposed to be easier, now?

Seconds, minutes, hours; Amalia cannot say how long it has been, only that it is far too long, the silence oppressive in the wake of her admission, that final sentence a haunting echo between the women on the bank. Staring at her hands, the girl swallows against her ash-filled mouth, wishing she could retract the words, swallow her sentences and mute her mind. I'm sorry, she wants to cry aloud. I'm sorry. I hate it. I wish it was different.

But it isn't. It will never be.

When Wessex finally breaks the silence, Amalia does not want to meet her gaze. But she owes the older woman that much (and more), and so, reluctantly, she raises her head, black eyes touching piercing blue, trying not to recoil and shrink beneath the strength of the Ascended's stare. It takes her a second to process the question, but as soon as she does her expression changes, childlike fear twisting to incredulous passion, disbelief rampant across her brow. "No!" Amalia exclaims with vehemence, no second thought behind the words. "I wouldn't- I never- I don't think you should have died! But..."

But there's the rub, because part of her does think that Wessex should have died - or rather, that someone in Wessex's place should have, should have accepted the way of the world instead of trying to bend nature to their own will. But not Wessex - not her Wessex - except - except - except-

Dropping her head to hide her tears, Amalia shakes it angrily, her long hair falling across her eyes. "I don't know," she says at last, exhales into that stagnant space, a confession of doubt in every direction. She feels rudderless, lost, unable to easily answer the questions which are so much bigger than her. Amalia knows what she believes, but she knows what she feels, too, and with every piece of her being she is grateful that Wessex is alive, even if it is a lesser version of the woman, twisted and corrupt.

Even if, yes, she thinks the choice the older woman made is inherently selfish and wrong. Because at the end of the day Amalia is selfish, too, and she has been willing to overlook the transgression to cling to the dwindling pieces of her past, the person she treasures and values and loves. She has opted to simply not think about the cost, or the meaning, or the fact that it places them on opposite sides. And it has worked, it has worked,but it isn't working now, and the girl is lost in a tumultuous sea, the impending loss already crushing her, pushing in against her lungs---

"I don't know."