Prodigal

She's imperfect, but she tries She is good, but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help He would do far worse. Amalia swallows the lump that rises in her throat at the statement, trying to quell the erratic thundering of her unsteady heart. She does not want what he says to be true, but somewhere down deep she knows it is. If anything were to bring the Reaper out from the shadows, it would be her- and that is a painful, terrifying thought. But Jigano pulls her out of, literally and figuratively, his cold hand wrapping around her smaller warm one as he pulls her up to meet him. Mutely she follows, finding a place in the familiarity of his embrace, her arms wrapping up around his neck, her face pressing against the silver braid. He smells like the farm, like Rory and spring days. Inhaling deeply, the Shield choked back a sob. "I'm so tired, Jigano," the girl admits, her voice a quiet and tremulous whisper. "Sometimes it feels like... Like I'm barely holding onto a ledge, and it would be so much easier to just let go, but if I do I'll fall and not be able to get back up." She sighs again, then pulls away, her eyes downcast, adding: "And I know what you'll say. That I'm blessed. That I've done so much. That people love me. I know, but I still feel this way. It only makes it worse." a m a l i a She is messy, but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone, but she used to be mine