LOREN
It wasn’t surprising that Loren didn’t understand. He wasn’t particularly good with people, nor was he all that capable of listening to them and actually hearing them. However, he heard Amalia loud and clear.
I want to die.
His head shot up. No. Not that. Anything but that. Even though the baker was mostly a stranger, too many had died, or were lost or gone already. His hand unfurled and he would attempt to grip her now unmarked wrist. ”No.” His own tears and pain and anguish were forgotten in the face of hers, which so far superseded his own that it was almost completely forgotten. ”No. Don’t say that. Don’t think that.” His voice came out hoarsely, but it was filled with a desperate need. He couldn’t be responsible for causing this pain on top of everything else.
If only he had the words or the knowledge to help her out of this pit of despair. Just because he was in it with her, and had been here many times before didn’t mean he knew the way out. Always, always there'd been a helping hand, and now it was just the two of them. If he’d been anyone, literally anyone else, he would’ve given her hope, reassured her, found a way to show her that life was still worth living. But he wasn’t. He was a pathetic, tired, starving, shadow of a man.
But he was all she had. And somehow, he’d have to find a way to be enough.
Gods, let him be enough just this once.
”I know it seems bleak right now, with everything you’ve been through, everything that’s going on in your life. But...it is your life. Not your death, your life. And it’s a good one, Amalia. I don’t know of many people kind enough to help the Prince, or me, a stranger who is the son of a family that wronged her. And I know there are those you care about, and who care about you in turn. Jyoti. Deimos.” While the Launceleyn didn’t know exactly what the general was to the baker, the summoner knew they were close. ”I know it doesn’t seem this way right now, but as dark as everything might feel, there is light in your life. And warmth. And love.” He didn’t know that for sure, it was true. But it had to be true for anyone as fundamentally good as Amalia. Because if it wasn’t, there was no hope for people like Loren.
Somehow, even after all that, his words felt inadequate for the depths of depression he’d sensed in the baker. ”I need you to remember what living feels like. The smell of fresh-baked bread. Of spending a cold day indoors with a hot drink, a good book, or with friends and loved ones. Of cuddling with Jyoti and anyone or anything else that brings you joy and who you bring joy to.” Let Amalia think about that, and not about dying. It was everything Loren longed for, and nothing that he possessed, so he knew how acutely he missed it and how comforting it must be for her.
As she finally spoke directly to him, he felt the urgency drain from him. If he’d managed to snag her wrist, he’d release it to hug his legs with both arms once more; either way, he rested his chin on his knees, eyes losing whatever spark they had when talking about her woes. They became dull and lifeless instead, just like his soul. ”I hurt you.” His voice once more came out in a broken whisper. However, he knew she wouldn’t understand what that meant, not to him. That was okay, though. He’d given up on leaning on others, mostly—isolation was increasingly calling to him, and it had always been more familiar to him than being around people who professed to care—and so long as he minimized the damage he did, that would be enough for him. At this point, he was done hoping for anything more than that.
I want to die.
His head shot up. No. Not that. Anything but that. Even though the baker was mostly a stranger, too many had died, or were lost or gone already. His hand unfurled and he would attempt to grip her now unmarked wrist. ”No.” His own tears and pain and anguish were forgotten in the face of hers, which so far superseded his own that it was almost completely forgotten. ”No. Don’t say that. Don’t think that.” His voice came out hoarsely, but it was filled with a desperate need. He couldn’t be responsible for causing this pain on top of everything else.
If only he had the words or the knowledge to help her out of this pit of despair. Just because he was in it with her, and had been here many times before didn’t mean he knew the way out. Always, always there'd been a helping hand, and now it was just the two of them. If he’d been anyone, literally anyone else, he would’ve given her hope, reassured her, found a way to show her that life was still worth living. But he wasn’t. He was a pathetic, tired, starving, shadow of a man.
But he was all she had. And somehow, he’d have to find a way to be enough.
Gods, let him be enough just this once.
”I know it seems bleak right now, with everything you’ve been through, everything that’s going on in your life. But...it is your life. Not your death, your life. And it’s a good one, Amalia. I don’t know of many people kind enough to help the Prince, or me, a stranger who is the son of a family that wronged her. And I know there are those you care about, and who care about you in turn. Jyoti. Deimos.” While the Launceleyn didn’t know exactly what the general was to the baker, the summoner knew they were close. ”I know it doesn’t seem this way right now, but as dark as everything might feel, there is light in your life. And warmth. And love.” He didn’t know that for sure, it was true. But it had to be true for anyone as fundamentally good as Amalia. Because if it wasn’t, there was no hope for people like Loren.
Somehow, even after all that, his words felt inadequate for the depths of depression he’d sensed in the baker. ”I need you to remember what living feels like. The smell of fresh-baked bread. Of spending a cold day indoors with a hot drink, a good book, or with friends and loved ones. Of cuddling with Jyoti and anyone or anything else that brings you joy and who you bring joy to.” Let Amalia think about that, and not about dying. It was everything Loren longed for, and nothing that he possessed, so he knew how acutely he missed it and how comforting it must be for her.
As she finally spoke directly to him, he felt the urgency drain from him. If he’d managed to snag her wrist, he’d release it to hug his legs with both arms once more; either way, he rested his chin on his knees, eyes losing whatever spark they had when talking about her woes. They became dull and lifeless instead, just like his soul. ”I hurt you.” His voice once more came out in a broken whisper. However, he knew she wouldn’t understand what that meant, not to him. That was okay, though. He’d given up on leaning on others, mostly—isolation was increasingly calling to him, and it had always been more familiar to him than being around people who professed to care—and so long as he minimized the damage he did, that would be enough for him. At this point, he was done hoping for anything more than that.
But don’t be weary if it’s broken
Families are like that—
they’re split up and always torn.
