well someday soon when the spring brings the sun
i'll sleep, i'll finally
feel better when the winter's gone

Need gives way to emotion, interlacing a set of delicate fingers into the hold of rough and dirty hands, staining the beauty of a pristine skin with its ugliness. In her ears, she can hear the sea calling her name, or maybe she is finally giving into her mind and crumbling, readying herself to leave for the ocean. Her heart is heavy. Her soul is worrisome. Amara’s eyes are staring as she stands halfway between the world she can co-inhabit with her and the world that Amara cannot touch nor see into, her sanctuary.
She feels bare, exposed, naked and most of all, scared. Hobgoblin is gone. One look through his eyes tells her he has delved deep and far from her. She tells herself that she needs him now, like a child needs its mother.
Please don’t leave me, she whispers into their bond, waiting for his voice as she studies Amara, the blood painted over her lips that matches the flowing blood emerging from the bites on her legs. I don’t want to be alone. Amara’s eyes feel like the weight of a thousand stones, ones that she has found herself trapped under and can’t seem to let out an audible cry for help or move her body to try and free herself.
No answer breaks the silence.
Eye contact seems hard to hold now that she’s noticed Amara’s blood, how it fits into self-harm like a pair of perfect puzzle pieces. She had chosen to betray her the first time she was left alone as if she had no self-control. Is that what led to all their problems? Lack of self-control? A frown grows across her lips as she searches for golden eyes, wearing disappointment over her soft baby blues. I thought better of you, they seem to say.
The first step from the sea is the longest, swaying when the ocean draws waves against her tired legs and pushing herself forward when they urge her on. She keeps searching, looking for eyes, Hobgoblin’s hand to hold in the darkness, safety, just another soul to keep her safe when fear continues to dwell right behind the curtain that stands lifelessly behind the one she’s supposed to care the most for, watching, waiting, trying to find the first sign of weakness so that it can suck her dry.
Amara’s words meet her ears with speed, drawing them forward slowly as she listens in. Would time away from her senses to think over what they needed in the Throat become her downfall? Could she trust Amara not to wound her as she had tried many times in the past, both physically and mentally, time and time again?
The blood slaps her. Disgust swings in when she has to look upon the mess over her lips and over her legs, how she destroys all the work that she has put so much effort and love into without a second thought.
“Give me your leg.” Words roll out of her mouth in a much rougher tone that she had intended, but she can’t help but feel betrayed and upset. If this was how respect was going to be shown to her, then let her responses be harsh. She expected respect, not out of her rank and overall standing in the Dragon’s Throat hierarchy, but out of their friendship and bond. Hobgoblin’s eyes hang in her own for a moment, watching with increased curiosity as she waits for the chewed upon leg to be extended.
When it is finally out, no eye contact is made, soft eyes having now hardened into stones, head dipping at an angle that keeps her face hidden behind the veil of dark brown hair that sweeps forward. From her lips draws the white flame, flickering as she pushes it outwards, kissing away the wound until nothing but fresh scar replaces it.
She draws away with the same ignorance as before.
“Wash in the ocean before we head into the island. We need goldenseal and vines for the time being, and anything else that we come across that can be useful.”
Hobgoblin chuckles at her tone, toiling in the sea but ever intent on using Sikeax as a way to watch.
“You no like Monster?”
She’s making me upset.
“Monster bad. Let Monster drown. Hobgoblin drown Monster for You?”
No.
“Why not?”
Another unanswered question that causes her to feel his hatred grow, imaging that as she watches Amara that Hobgoblin is somewhere out in the sea, furrowing his brows and taking his rage out upon whatever he can find in the vast emptiness.



"Talk."