Amias pulls back, wiping his tear-stained face with the back of his hand. His chest is heaving. The air is difficult to draw. He looks at his mother, truly looks at her. She's frail, beautiful, and utterly ruined.
He reaches out and takes her trembling hands in his own. His hands are rough, calloused from training and the recent self-inflicted wounds; hers are delicate, cold, and unnaturally still.
"Mother, I—I-I am so sorry. For everything. For my arrogance. For never seeing... for not understanding. I was a terrible son."
He squeezes her hands, the pressure meant not to hurt. "You sought comfort. You sought your mate. That was not sin; it was survival. The sin belongs to Father."
Clarissa simply shakes her head. Tears still stream silently down her cheeks. "Oh, my darling boy. You were just a child. A loyal son."
