The idea that the Widowmaker was also a victim had never occurred to Amélie, and she wasn't sure how to process that. How could a weapon be a victim? It would be something to think about later, as she instinctively went to refute what Marjara said.
"I am not afra--"
Her voice cut off with the sudden warmth, eyes immediately zeroing on where the elf had moved their hands. Swallowing hard, her breathing kicked up again, the idea of being free - something she both wanted and didn't want - pressing against her emotional barrier. The prospect was too much right then and she was getting worked up again.
But she had something - someone - to focus on right then.
A few long seconds passed then Amélie loosened her grip enough that she could free her hand from Marjara's. Slowly, with a bit of a tremble, she spread her fingers and rest her palm against the elf's chest where it had originally been placed. A heartbeat - strong and full of life. It was something Amélie didn't have and would never have again. If Marjara were to mimic the contact, she would find no pulse. Her heart beat too slow to be felt, barely even detectable by machine. How she continued to live was a mystery.
The steadiness in Marjara held Amélie just enough to halt that rising rate of breathing. Eyes flickering up, the firelight making the ones across from her do that glow thing that was both eerie and fascinating, she made herself release the grip on her pantleg so she could bring it up to tentatively touch Marjara's face. Fingertips resting against her neck, thumb on her cheek, Amélie's brow furrowed a moment before she leaned in to put her forehead against the elf's. From there she just soaked in the warmth, the contact and the scents of wood smoke, leather, and leaves along with the one that always seemed to cling to Marjara, perhaps tied to her magic.
Submerged in that moment, Amélie found it tremendously calming. Each second evened her breathing, settled her nerves and smoothed out the hackles she didn't exactly have control over. It let her think for a moment, really think, and put some important words together as an oft overlooked reality was brought to light.
"I... am not a hero, and I will never be one. I can play the part, but it is just a part. I am a cold woman and my first instinct is to kill not to save," she said in a quiet voice. "I will not sacrifice myself for innocents. I will not sacrifice myself for the greater good; what is left of my life matters to me too much. And there is nothing in this dimension that I care about..." Her thumb ghosted across Marjara's cheek, feather soft. "...except you."
She drew in a shaky breath, eyes closed. "Maybe I am afraid and just don't know it." Eight years was a long time.
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"I am not afra--"
Her voice cut off with the sudden warmth, eyes immediately zeroing on where the elf had moved their hands. Swallowing hard, her breathing kicked up again, the idea of being free - something she both wanted and didn't want - pressing against her emotional barrier. The prospect was too much right then and she was getting worked up again.
But she had something - someone - to focus on right then.
A few long seconds passed then Amélie loosened her grip enough that she could free her hand from Marjara's. Slowly, with a bit of a tremble, she spread her fingers and rest her palm against the elf's chest where it had originally been placed. A heartbeat - strong and full of life. It was something Amélie didn't have and would never have again. If Marjara were to mimic the contact, she would find no pulse. Her heart beat too slow to be felt, barely even detectable by machine. How she continued to live was a mystery.
The steadiness in Marjara held Amélie just enough to halt that rising rate of breathing. Eyes flickering up, the firelight making the ones across from her do that glow thing that was both eerie and fascinating, she made herself release the grip on her pantleg so she could bring it up to tentatively touch Marjara's face. Fingertips resting against her neck, thumb on her cheek, Amélie's brow furrowed a moment before she leaned in to put her forehead against the elf's. From there she just soaked in the warmth, the contact and the scents of wood smoke, leather, and leaves along with the one that always seemed to cling to Marjara, perhaps tied to her magic.
Submerged in that moment, Amélie found it tremendously calming. Each second evened her breathing, settled her nerves and smoothed out the hackles she didn't exactly have control over. It let her think for a moment, really think, and put some important words together as an oft overlooked reality was brought to light.
"I... am not a hero, and I will never be one. I can play the part, but it is just a part. I am a cold woman and my first instinct is to kill not to save," she said in a quiet voice. "I will not sacrifice myself for innocents. I will not sacrifice myself for the greater good; what is left of my life matters to me too much. And there is nothing in this dimension that I care about..." Her thumb ghosted across Marjara's cheek, feather soft. "...except you."
She drew in a shaky breath, eyes closed. "Maybe I am afraid and just don't know it." Eight years was a long time.