AmaLIa
shield of safrin
They trade their stories in pictures rather than words, in feeling rather than strict recounting: intimate, eager, reliving rather than retelling, thoughts and memories melding together into a shared experience. She wraps her arms around his waist, anchoring them both to the table, the floor, the world of now, afraid to be swept up in the torrent of memory and regret.
It's almost a relief when Sam pops into her mind, that new and most unsettling part of her history drawing her mind back to the present. Not releasing Deimos as he pulls away, Amalia hums a thoughtful note, turning so her cheek is pressed against his chest, the rhythm of his heat beating comfort into her ears.
"Ah... I only found out recently." Worrying her lip between her teeth, the Shield exhales a thoughtful sigh. "I guess my mother, um... she had an affair with David Wordsworth. Evie and Sam's dad." It feels bizarre to say aloud, a torrid affair she would never have expected from her stoic mother. "So he's my father. Or, was. He's dead."
It's almost a relief when Sam pops into her mind, that new and most unsettling part of her history drawing her mind back to the present. Not releasing Deimos as he pulls away, Amalia hums a thoughtful note, turning so her cheek is pressed against his chest, the rhythm of his heat beating comfort into her ears.
"Ah... I only found out recently." Worrying her lip between her teeth, the Shield exhales a thoughtful sigh. "I guess my mother, um... she had an affair with David Wordsworth. Evie and Sam's dad." It feels bizarre to say aloud, a torrid affair she would never have expected from her stoic mother. "So he's my father. Or, was. He's dead."
you can't choose what stays
and what fades away
and what fades away
