wash away our sore eyed souls

YOU SAID THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT THE MOON IT ROSE TOO SOON AND WE'RE DOING WHAT WE SHOULD She is vaguely aware of Deimos beside her, his rough hand slipping into hers. She does not look up at him; she knows that if she did it would break her, pull away that final brick which holds her crumbling soul in place, leave her shattered upon the floor, a million broken pieces they should not have to clean up. She has done enough, damaged enough, hurt enough for one day. To condemn them to repair her after she has led them astray is insult to injury, a selfish cruelty she cannot justify. Still, she is so very tired. Jigano's story is a gentle retelling, but still it stings upon her ears, make her wince with each recalled mistake. All she had wanted was to rescue the lost, to save a soul so much older than them from a life of forced captivity. It had seemed so simple, so straightforward: with a purpose so clear, how did it go so wrong? Muddy water, smoke and wings; Amalia remembers each new onslaught, each attack upon her friends, the hell into which she led them all, stalwart and stupid and unthinking and naive. And then there is Safrin - beautiful Safrin, bold Safrin, starlit daughter of Vi. Safrin, who gave her the world because she gave her faith, believed in Amalia when she could not believe in herself, and for what? The bakers hand tightens on Deimos' as the bard continues on, her eyes closing painfully as he says she tore the heart. At what cost, at what cost? the girl wants to scream. Was it worth it, in the end? Because in the end, Safrin was gone. Amalia had felt her absence, had watched her dissolve away into stardust, into nothing, into dust. Where was she? Was she still alive? And would any of it have happened, have mattered, if the girl had not been so stubborn, so brazen, so quick to act and slow to think? It should have been me. It should have been me. If anyone were to die, it should have been me. Part of her wants to shrug off Kiada's hand; the other is grateful for its comfort, warm and soft upon her shoulder, a reminder that there are still others in the world. Amalia is not one to drink, but if she has ever needed one it is now, and so she takes her hand off Isuma and wraps it skeptically around the cup. The smell is acrid; the taste is worse, and the girl can only swallow a little before she is overtaken by coughs, her untrained throat unsure of how to deal with this attack. Still, it feels good to hurt, to burn herself with the poison. Another sip, this time accompanied only by a disgusted face; Amalia puts the cup down and sighs, finally rising her sable eyes to survey her gathered friends. "Safrin isn't dead," the girl breathes, as much for her own benefit as all of theirs. There is steel in her voice, a hardened belief: it is true, it must be true, because she will not survive if it is false. Taking another unhappy sip, the girl closes her eyes. "I'm sorry it all went so poorly." I'm sorry I failed. a m a l i a You said it's life that moves too much We're losing touch But I'm not losing you