and look for the stars as the sun goes down
each breath that you take has a thunderous sound
each breath that you take has a thunderous sound
She fights, to be sure, but there is a part of Amalia that is okay with this. A small, dark part that has always been there, sometimes dormant and sometimes vocal, waiting for her weakest moments to assert itself upon her fragile soul. How hard has she tried to live a life worth living, only to feel this darkness creep back, to fail and fail again? How often has she loved only to lose, her own faults and inadequacies hurting more than they help? How many times has she passed a ledge or seen a knife or stood before a blow and wondered if maybe, just maybe, the world would be a better place if she took that simple step?
Maybe this is for the best: an accident, tragic but really nobody's fault but her own. If anyone could watch her die without guilt or remorse it would be Remi- justice for him, given the slight she has apparently forced on him. Perhaps he will help, his role as Ludo's liaison easing her pain, easing those who will hurt most from her loss. She would like that, Amalia thinks, to go peacefully instead of painfully. She hopes that he will break it gently to Deimos. He deserves someone who would be hurt more from being torn away.
The darkness wraps further around her. She can feel her awareness of the world dimming beneath the pressure of the water, the sensation of it in her lungs. Dimly Amalia is aware of movement, the water rushing, her body shifting without control or consent. She still claws her way toward the surface, but the effort is half-hearted; the leopardess is tired. It would be so much easier to just let go, to accept that at last her fight is over. That nobody will care.
One more time she reaches out, paw outstretched into nothing, into water, into---
---his hand.
And just like that Amalia realizes: she doesn't want to die.
The magic pulls her forward, but it is not alone. Light shines out of Amalia's mind in an invisible, glaring surge, hope searing through the darkness, sending it hissing back to its recesses, its hole. The claws that dig into Remi's flesh shift back to fingers in his hold; her legs change too, fusing together into a powerful tail. Half-human, half-encantado, Amalia uses the last of her strength to propel herself toward the Alchemist. And between his efforts and hers it is somehow, miraculously, enough.
On the shore Amalia collapses, her body writhing as she attempts to inhale. On her hands and knees the Shield coughs up water between gasping gulps of air, until finally she collapses, shivering, cold, and wonderfully, incredibly, beautifully alive.
Maybe this is for the best: an accident, tragic but really nobody's fault but her own. If anyone could watch her die without guilt or remorse it would be Remi- justice for him, given the slight she has apparently forced on him. Perhaps he will help, his role as Ludo's liaison easing her pain, easing those who will hurt most from her loss. She would like that, Amalia thinks, to go peacefully instead of painfully. She hopes that he will break it gently to Deimos. He deserves someone who would be hurt more from being torn away.
The darkness wraps further around her. She can feel her awareness of the world dimming beneath the pressure of the water, the sensation of it in her lungs. Dimly Amalia is aware of movement, the water rushing, her body shifting without control or consent. She still claws her way toward the surface, but the effort is half-hearted; the leopardess is tired. It would be so much easier to just let go, to accept that at last her fight is over. That nobody will care.
One more time she reaches out, paw outstretched into nothing, into water, into---
---his hand.
And just like that Amalia realizes: she doesn't want to die.
The magic pulls her forward, but it is not alone. Light shines out of Amalia's mind in an invisible, glaring surge, hope searing through the darkness, sending it hissing back to its recesses, its hole. The claws that dig into Remi's flesh shift back to fingers in his hold; her legs change too, fusing together into a powerful tail. Half-human, half-encantado, Amalia uses the last of her strength to propel herself toward the Alchemist. And between his efforts and hers it is somehow, miraculously, enough.
On the shore Amalia collapses, her body writhing as she attempts to inhale. On her hands and knees the Shield coughs up water between gasping gulps of air, until finally she collapses, shivering, cold, and wonderfully, incredibly, beautifully alive.
Amalia
