Amalia
the shield of safrin
"Ah, and I suppose that makes it better?" Arms still tightly strung across her chest, the Shield glares at Nate, too indignant to still her tongue, too incensed to be calm or tactful. "Instead of a clean break you, what? Told him what you had done, forcing him to live with the feelings of inadequacy- to absolve you through forgiveness, or punish you through anger? Either way, you forced the weight of your mistakes onto him instead of having the balls to carry them yourself." There's something about his smugness, his stupid smirking face- it pushes her far past the edge of her patience, outside of anxiety and into blind dislike.
He never asked for Pemota- "But did you ask anything? Where she came from, what she wanted?" Eyes narrowed, she shakes her head at the rhetorical question. He's so very good at deflecting and denying, like a well-polished mirror, always reflecting back to others and never able to truly see itself.
And Amalia? Amalia is quicksand, taking every blow and slight and pressing it deep within herself, until she is burdened with far more than she could ever be expected to carry, until she bubbles and bursts and overflows. What a merry pair they make.
He matches her aggressive stance, his ugly sneer met by blazing eyes, by horns curling up from beneath her gold hair and claws pressed into the countertop. "I'm the one on a high-horse, am I?" More smoke curls from her nostrils; flames flicker up behind her ears. "You make excuse after excuse, painting yourself a poor victim of circumstances. I don't have to know about what happened to know that people were hurt, but by all means, I'm sure if you explain it away their pain won't matter anymore."
He never asked for Pemota- "But did you ask anything? Where she came from, what she wanted?" Eyes narrowed, she shakes her head at the rhetorical question. He's so very good at deflecting and denying, like a well-polished mirror, always reflecting back to others and never able to truly see itself.
And Amalia? Amalia is quicksand, taking every blow and slight and pressing it deep within herself, until she is burdened with far more than she could ever be expected to carry, until she bubbles and bursts and overflows. What a merry pair they make.
He matches her aggressive stance, his ugly sneer met by blazing eyes, by horns curling up from beneath her gold hair and claws pressed into the countertop. "I'm the one on a high-horse, am I?" More smoke curls from her nostrils; flames flicker up behind her ears. "You make excuse after excuse, painting yourself a poor victim of circumstances. I don't have to know about what happened to know that people were hurt, but by all means, I'm sure if you explain it away their pain won't matter anymore."
we drink the poison our mind pours for us
and wonder why we feel so sick
and wonder why we feel so sick
