meet me where the falling stars live
i will wait for you
She does not wake when he enters, does not hear his steps on the stone. It is only when his eyes have drifted shut that Amalia's flutter open, slow as sunlight peeking over the horizon, the world coming into slow focus through her dark gaze.
It has been the same for days now, to the point where she knows what she will find before she finds it. There is the ceiling, cracked rock and old wood; there are the curtains strung around her bed. She never expected the Infirmary to become a place of such familiarity, and yet now she feels she knows each crevice of her little corner as well as she knew the stars that danced upon the ceiling of her room above her shop. That, too, had been a prison of sorts, gentle shackles to the past, keeping her from moving on through the dust and darkness that had held her for so long. How had she been able to overcome the apathy, she wonders, the ease with which she stayed so easily in the hold of depression and dark?
The answer, of course, is sitting beside her, head on her bedside, fast asleep.
Is he real? Amalia wonders, blinking at the crown, the figure, the man. Why is he here- what can she give him, broken creature that she is? He'd coaxed her from shadows into sunlight before, but now she cannot even carry herself. The ring on her finger feels like fire, a burning reminder of all he has offered, the debts she can't repay.
A sob rises, choking in her throat, as she places her hand upon his head, pushing a strand of hair from his face and knowing she does not deserve his smile, and that she is far too selfish to give it up.
It has been the same for days now, to the point where she knows what she will find before she finds it. There is the ceiling, cracked rock and old wood; there are the curtains strung around her bed. She never expected the Infirmary to become a place of such familiarity, and yet now she feels she knows each crevice of her little corner as well as she knew the stars that danced upon the ceiling of her room above her shop. That, too, had been a prison of sorts, gentle shackles to the past, keeping her from moving on through the dust and darkness that had held her for so long. How had she been able to overcome the apathy, she wonders, the ease with which she stayed so easily in the hold of depression and dark?
The answer, of course, is sitting beside her, head on her bedside, fast asleep.
Is he real? Amalia wonders, blinking at the crown, the figure, the man. Why is he here- what can she give him, broken creature that she is? He'd coaxed her from shadows into sunlight before, but now she cannot even carry herself. The ring on her finger feels like fire, a burning reminder of all he has offered, the debts she can't repay.
A sob rises, choking in her throat, as she places her hand upon his head, pushing a strand of hair from his face and knowing she does not deserve his smile, and that she is far too selfish to give it up.
day and night
