without your love, without your touch, this world for me is never gonna be enough
thinking about you as if i lost you

Infection’s putrid scent of death works to smother her nostrils, working furiously to destroy the barriers she’s made out of stuffing her face with mint and other strong scented herbs. It makes her body coil, but Amara could be living upon the brink of death, and if she was to be lost because her best friend couldn’t withstand the stench of her affliction, then Sikeax had done nothing to save her.
And oh, what a life wasted that would of been.
“Let Amara die. Amara die either way. Amara is walking corpse.”
You don’t even know what a walking corpse looks like.
There’s a certain sort of snap to her voice that makes his tongue knot within his mouth. While she does tempt him to lash at her and to force her to brandish his mark of control, the emotion laced into her voice, tangled about her soul and heart like razor-lined wire is enough to tell him it’s best not to.
For once in his life, the God that he builds himself up to be becomes a sinner at the feet of his enslaved priestess, made into the devil before his eyes. He fears, for her faith is now wraith, built up from all the love she has for Amara, the only thing in this world that she dares to love and trust more than him.
Their embrace pulls apart like siamese twins finally knowing what it’s like to be two very different bodies, except there is no tearing of skin or cries of verbal pain. All occurs within their hearts and emotions because she only see’s Amara as the monster that wanted to kill her, and the only escape from it is to heal the wounds from her lover’s skin.
Her faint whimperings become shouts to her ears when she dips a crowned skull towards the bloodied legs, trying to think of a way that she can mask the smell of death when it roars in her face. The white flame that pours from her lips reaches with readied fingers constructed of medicine and her affections, all the love she has in the world in a hope that in all the times that it has never failed her that this time it will do the same.
She works without thinking about how Amara is apologizing constantly, caught up in the fear that she’ll lose the one thing that she’s always known if she stops. She doesn’t think about how Hobgoblin tries to alert her that something is wrong, caught up in the cringe that wrinkles her features at the sight of the stab along Amara’s hip.
“What have you done to yourself?”
There’s no need for an answer when she doesn’t want one. More worries would added to the list, extending it like the flame when it pours forth from her lips like a god send that makes a thousand desperate attempts at rescue.



"Talk?"