Prodigal

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 He does look well groomed, better than her, with her loose grey tunic and twice worn pants, barefoot and messy haired in the flickering light. Were it not for the blackness which still rings his skin it might be confusing to tell who was sick, both of them lesser than when they met a year ago, ravaged in different ways by the blight. The Amalia who stands before him is slender, moreso than she has been in the past. The circles below her eyes are dark, the lines in her face are new, and the way she holds herself is weary, as though a weight lay across her shoulders. She would have liked a hug, but he does not seem to want to offer- indeed, he does not seem to want her close at all. Narrow arms wrap around her chest, and her head tilts to the side as he raises his hand, stopping in her approach, anxious and insecure. A range of scenarios run through her mind: Is he worried she will shun him? (Never.) Is he unhappy to see her here? (Likely.) Does he hate her, like Ronin and Safrin do? (Probably.) "What... do you remember?" Amalia's brows draw together as she nibbles on her lip, not pressing closer, drawn and taut. "When did you start to feel better?" 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