until i'm ready, let me be
The half-laugh shatters her fury like a hammer striking glass, her tremulous rage and aching anxieties suddenly breaking apart into splinters. In its place, bemusement, a wild sort of amazement at the absurdity of it all. "I don't hate you, either," she admits, her own mirthless smile cutting an awkward line on her face. What a wild way to start a family: no admissions of love, no strengthening bonds, but hey, at least they do not loathe each other.
It feels like a small, rather stupid first step.
Rebuild bridges, tie back torn bonds. It feels so unattainable, that she and Sam could ever be anything even remotely resembling whole given how far apart they stand. She thinks of Wessex, firmly planted on her side of the invisible line that grows like a maw between them; is it really Sam, of all the people, who wants to reach across to the other side?
"I still serve the old gods," she points out, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "And you still serve the Voice." It's not an outright dismissal, because deep down she is desperate for this to maybe, possibly, actually work. How many bridges has she already burnt with her pride and stubbornness, her unyielding expectations of the world? Maea, Wessex, her own mother... maybe Jigano. Maybe more.
She scans his face with frank black eyes, leaning forward, the letter waved demonstratively in her hand. "This... news... it doesn't change that. We're always going to be on opposite sides."
It feels like a small, rather stupid first step.
Rebuild bridges, tie back torn bonds. It feels so unattainable, that she and Sam could ever be anything even remotely resembling whole given how far apart they stand. She thinks of Wessex, firmly planted on her side of the invisible line that grows like a maw between them; is it really Sam, of all the people, who wants to reach across to the other side?
"I still serve the old gods," she points out, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "And you still serve the Voice." It's not an outright dismissal, because deep down she is desperate for this to maybe, possibly, actually work. How many bridges has she already burnt with her pride and stubbornness, her unyielding expectations of the world? Maea, Wessex, her own mother... maybe Jigano. Maybe more.
She scans his face with frank black eyes, leaning forward, the letter waved demonstratively in her hand. "This... news... it doesn't change that. We're always going to be on opposite sides."
i have to heal myself
AmaLiA
