On Broken Wings

She's imperfect, but she tries She is good, but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help Her hands slink back over to his fur, hoping he will not draw away once more. There is a moment between her speech and his response where they are silent, thoughtful, mulling over one another through their mental bond. Amalia hopes he feels her fondness, the forgiveness he need not ask for, because he has done nothing to demand it, committed no crime. When he does speak at last she opens her eyes in bright surprise, a bemused and somewhat indignant expression pulling together her brows. His statement is so much like Deimos' that she wants to laugh again, to shake her head and then shake him a little for being such a fool. Instead she simply shakes her head and reaches out with her other hand, planning to scoop him up if he'll let her, to place him with Isuma on her lap. Black eyes look for the fox's blue, intent, starbright, endless and ardent. "Do you really think so little of us, that we would give our love to someone so unworthy?" There is fondness in the stare, of course, but a seriousness too; more channeling of her grandmother, an maturity not often seen from the girl. Do you think so little of people, that they would spend their time on those they despise? Sighing, Amalia sets him down, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. "I think Deimos has killed many people," she murmurs softly, trying to hide the tremble in her voice, to keep from betraying how much this knowledge bothers her. "Is it wrong of me to love him, because of the man he was?" Is it wrong for you to love me, when the person I was yesterday is so much less that the person I hope to be tomorrow? a m a l i a She is messy, but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone, but she used to be mine