It had been four days.
Four days since she had saved Samuel Glass, and deserted him.
She was not at all surprised when he stormed into her office near to midnight and demanded she speak to him, eyes blazing with that alien tinge of red and fierce determination.
And pain.
"Amelie, please say something. Anything. Just talk to me."
She reached for the embroidered pillow on the settee beside her, tracing her fingers lightly over the silver stitching.
"I have nothing to say."
"Nothing at all? Are you sure about that, Founder?"
The last word reflected his anger, and he was already mere inches away from her, fists clenched as she lifted her own head to meet his eyes in a bleak stare. His nostrils were flaring, though he had no need to breathe.
He did, however, feel the dire need to feel something, even if it was her anger.
And yet there was nothing in his lover's eyes when he met her empty gaze. This only infuriated him, and with inhuman speed he tore the gray cushion from her light grasp and shredded the silky material. Sobs tore through his body as he sunk to his knees before her motionless figure, feathers drifting over them like exotic birds.
"I don't understand what it is you want from me," she said steadily, standing and stepping past his trembling body to pace towards the darkening window. Outside it was Morganville, the town she had built. This was her kingdom.
"I want an explanation, Amelie. You left me."
"I was never yours, you fool! I am your founder. You will not presume me to stand by you like a love-ridden child," she spat, the icy words escaping her lips as her throat tightened with her guilt.
My dearest Samuel. Forgive me.
Her silence and isolation were an easy price to pay in exchange for his safety, but she wondered if she could bear to watch him fall, even if from a distance.
She turned to find his lips inches before hers, his eyes pleading for pity. He could find none beneath the eyes that looked right through him, and he reached to lightly touch her chin.
She had to end this, now. He was young, and so naive. He would move along, as time wore on; pulled further and further until she was a faint memory. (And yet, there is a part of her that begs him to save her from the very lie she must carry in order to save him).
"I must ask you to leave."
And he did, for the last time. There would be no waiting.
She knelt at his grave decades later.
The night air brought the early winter winds, which were cold even in contrast to her unusually cool skin. Wrapping the gray shawl tighter around her arms, she reached out to the smooth surface of the gravestone, her fingertips lightly tracing each rounded letter (much as they had once touched his hair, his face, his lips). He was degraded to a name that the town would eventually forget, as time wore on.
"I did it to protect you, my love."
The words were devoid of emotion, and barely a whisper in the thick and rumbling silence.
But they were enough.
The cold breeze suddenly felt like a strange sort of caress; a solemn embrace that she decided was forgiveness as she walked out of the cemetery to Oliver's waiting arm.