LOREN
Although he managed to make contact by gripping the baker’s wrist, Loren wasn’t sure if any of his words were able to break through to Amalia. If he’d been capable of mustering hope, or prayer, or anything beyond the last dregs of energy to try and bring her back from whatever brink she’d found herself on, he would have. As it stood, all he could do was just let the rush and jumble of his useless thoughts pour out, unable to help, but similarly unable to stop.
Perhaps it was just another manifestation of his misguided recklessness, that kept him going long past the point he should’ve given up.
However, then he found the tables were turned: Amalia laid a hand on Loren’s knee, and though he didn't flinch away, he didn't react to it in any other way either. He found his blue eyes meeting her much darker ones. However, despite the summoner eye's lighter shade, and the baker's earlier confession, his were the ones without any light or spark in them. Then again, the only time he’d really felt alive recently had been with Frey, and even that felt more like a dream than anything else.
Finally the baker spoke. For a long time, he considered staying silent, as she had, even though Amalia’s words almost begged for a response. Mostly, they were empty platitudes—she didn’t know him, and all she could offer was the same sort of drivel he’d heard from everyone else—but even so there were echoes of truth in them. Perhaps not in the way she’d intended, however. ”Some of us can’t.” His voice came out louder, but just as broken, filled with no emotion but a dull weariness.
You aren’t your family. You aren’t her.
The latter part was true, if only by dint of it being an objective fact the Loren was not Zariah. That had to be the her Amalia referred to, the summoner’s tyrant of a cousin. The fact that the baker had even made the comparison was telling. He could almost picture how Zariah might have felt similar pressures, beset on all sides by perhaps well-meaning, but certainly judgmental and accusatory eyes.
”I am a Launceleyn.” By blood. By upbringing. By training. And, despite all his efforts to the contrary, to be good, to be kind, to be light, by inclination.
Perhaps it was just another manifestation of his misguided recklessness, that kept him going long past the point he should’ve given up.
However, then he found the tables were turned: Amalia laid a hand on Loren’s knee, and though he didn't flinch away, he didn't react to it in any other way either. He found his blue eyes meeting her much darker ones. However, despite the summoner eye's lighter shade, and the baker's earlier confession, his were the ones without any light or spark in them. Then again, the only time he’d really felt alive recently had been with Frey, and even that felt more like a dream than anything else.
Finally the baker spoke. For a long time, he considered staying silent, as she had, even though Amalia’s words almost begged for a response. Mostly, they were empty platitudes—she didn’t know him, and all she could offer was the same sort of drivel he’d heard from everyone else—but even so there were echoes of truth in them. Perhaps not in the way she’d intended, however. ”Some of us can’t.” His voice came out louder, but just as broken, filled with no emotion but a dull weariness.
You aren’t your family. You aren’t her.
The latter part was true, if only by dint of it being an objective fact the Loren was not Zariah. That had to be the her Amalia referred to, the summoner’s tyrant of a cousin. The fact that the baker had even made the comparison was telling. He could almost picture how Zariah might have felt similar pressures, beset on all sides by perhaps well-meaning, but certainly judgmental and accusatory eyes.
”I am a Launceleyn.” By blood. By upbringing. By training. And, despite all his efforts to the contrary, to be good, to be kind, to be light, by inclination.
But don’t be weary if it’s broken
Families are like that—
they’re split up and always torn.
