Amalia
the shield of safrin
The things she holds feel almost inconsequential, lifeless pieces of metal and cloth without him to give them spirit. She looks at them as Ronin speaks, a bracelet clasped between her fingers on top of a long scarf. They remind her so much of him; more than that, worse than that, they remind her of his absence. He'll never wear them again, never touch them again. She'll never get to make fun of him for his bizarre style, or have him help her dress for her wedding.
She doesn't comment on the lack of Aoife's things, but reaches out to squeeze his hand before rising to her feet. The Shield turns her back toward Ronin for a moment, not wanting him to see her face as she struggles to regain some composure, to bite the pain and anger down. The shoreline is drifting further away; "We'll be pretty far out soon. And it'll get dark. You don't... don't have to stay." Though the invitation is unconvincing: it is clear she doesn't want to be alone.
She doesn't comment on the lack of Aoife's things, but reaches out to squeeze his hand before rising to her feet. The Shield turns her back toward Ronin for a moment, not wanting him to see her face as she struggles to regain some composure, to bite the pain and anger down. The shoreline is drifting further away; "We'll be pretty far out soon. And it'll get dark. You don't... don't have to stay." Though the invitation is unconvincing: it is clear she doesn't want to be alone.
She wants the silence but fears the solitude
she wants to be alone and together with you
she wants to be alone and together with you
