SAFRIN
"Ah, how nice." The goddess sneers, though Amalia is right. She wants to snap that it should be Vi coming to bring her a rose, Vi coming to heal her, but that is too close to the truth and right now. And that truth will shatter her entirely, and so she swallows it down where it broils nicely in the pit of blackened acid in her core.
"How do I know that the thorn of a rose, carried to me by a mortal, will somehow be my panacea?" Her teeth are like needle-points now. "Because this is not a fairytale, Amalia." Honestly. The God of life, swooping down when the snow falls to blanket the world in roses?
It is as pitiful as it is cliche.
"How do I know that the thorn of a rose, carried to me by a mortal, will somehow be my panacea?" Her teeth are like needle-points now. "Because this is not a fairytale, Amalia." Honestly. The God of life, swooping down when the snow falls to blanket the world in roses?
It is as pitiful as it is cliche.
