So it was a difficult matter of pity. I didn't believe in ideals as stupid as running at the cry of a damsel in distress. Amelia wasn't a defenseless maiden, nor a flower that needed to be protected from the wind. She was a storm. But even storms have an eye, a center of brittle calm. At least I had to be there to support her. It was my responsibility as her friend and as the person who forced this situation.
She carried more than she let on. And she did it alone. Too alone. Perhaps in moments like these, she reminded me of myself.
Many avoided her because of her last name, because of the coldness with which she walked through the halls of the academy, because of that difficult personality that didn't ask for permission or forgiveness. But beneath all that rigid facade, there was someone who was also suffering.
