plenty other hands to hold

and look for the stars as the sun goes down
each breath that you take has a thunderous sound

Oh, Vi, he doesn't know. The color begins to drain from Amalia's face, leaving her suddenly clammy and pale. Beads of sweat rise on her palms; she reaches for the back of a pew, clenching until her knuckles turn white. The pit in her stomach only deepens at the pride that's clear in his voice when he talks about the Harpy: she wishes she could crawl into that hole and never, ever come out.

She swallows, mouth dry, and closes her eyes. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Opening them up again the Shield turns a gentle, pained smile to Bastien, her brows heavy with the storm of what she needs to say.

Not yet.

"Azrael, that's... your son? How... um... How is he? Can... Do you mind if I sit?"

Amalia