"She would be proud of you," Lumielle chided, "Your mother. My mother as well. Apparently, she was quite fond of you."
"It doesn't matter," Asterias mumbled, his fingers still toying with her own, "Their pride means nothing. Which is why," he paused.
He kissed her fingers, a habit that she still grew red over. Her cheeks flushed as she attempted to move but Asterias had an iron grip on her wrist. His blue eyes staring deep into her halcyon ones. He was beautiful; outlandishly beautiful and that face would soon be obscured with a mask if she didn't do everything right. It was suffocating. The burden of her memories felt like a vice. She had the ability to change the future.
"You don't need to love her," Asterias answered, "Because it means nothing. The dead can't love."
A slight smile curved on her face. He was trying to make her feel better. She appreciated it.
"It's morose," Lumielle retorted.
