[ She wonders if it would be better to know the reasons why one is chosen to wield a certain power or to never know at all. Is there ever a good reason to be saddled with abilities to mess with the threads that make up the fabric of reality? To make an Empire rise and fall. Is it better to be given a purpose?
Amber takes note of his every word with diligence. Never mind the hollow feeling in her own chest. Duty is duty. She never once forgets to observe. ]
So grief can also be a fuel. Like anger, like vengeance.
[ Even if that reason amounts to regaining what she lost. Amber reaches a hand across the table to hold his, a gesture of trust, whether or not he understands it. ]
[ he stiffens, can't help it, knows it for what it is but there's that flicker that runs up his arm, his back, holds him so, so, so still. Breath short in his throat, and his fingers curl back around. This deep in that place and it's slow, and his hold is careful, like wrapping around glass. She is fine bones in his hand and things more fragile -- something like trust. ]
[ Amber doesn't remember ever being held so tenderly. Memories of any family she had has been erased without trace, while war grants few reasons to touch another, as for Hei-- he has always held on to things, clothes, hands and bodies, with a certain desperation. She has never been so fragile and it frightens her, so she returns his touch with a fierce, white-knuckled grip. ]
[ He doesn't blink when she grips tightly, and he doesn't give it back. he still stays light, the same way he soothed Emily's feverish brow when she grew distressed in her dreams -- all her dreams now. She had done nothing but slept fitfully since that day and he doesn't think Amber has either. Some things did not need explanation.
Which there is nothing to say, so he doesn't. That was all of it, and it wasn't much, but there wasn't much left of them either, so he makes up for it the simple ways, the little ways. His hand in hers, the pad of his thumb rough against the dump of her knuckle. His hands broad from years of sword work, as much as they are marred.
But right now, at least, they're sure of this small space and the littleness of her digits. ]
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Amber takes note of his every word with diligence. Never mind the hollow feeling in her own chest. Duty is duty. She never once forgets to observe. ]
So grief can also be a fuel. Like anger, like vengeance.
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Yes. It may not keep you warm, but it can keep you moving.
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[ Even if that reason amounts to regaining what she lost. Amber reaches a hand across the table to hold his, a gesture of trust, whether or not he understands it. ]
Thank you.
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I am sorry I cannot give you anything more.
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It is enough.
[ Nothing will ever be enough again. ]
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Which there is nothing to say, so he doesn't. That was all of it, and it wasn't much, but there wasn't much left of them either, so he makes up for it the simple ways, the little ways. His hand in hers, the pad of his thumb rough against the dump of her knuckle. His hands broad from years of sword work, as much as they are marred.
But right now, at least, they're sure of this small space and the littleness of her digits. ]