everything you want is on the other side of fear
It is a miracle she finds her way back from the Wilds, with all the tears she sheds.
And when she does make it? When Stormbreak's spires come into view, the Tower and the Needle and every other part that represents everything she's ever wanted? It is not to her rooms the Archangel goes, nor to the gardens, the temple, the church. No, it is into darkness the wounded bird falls, weaving her way through busy streets until she finds herself at a door decorated with softly glowing antlers.
Once there, she drinks.
Amalia does not drink often. By all accounts a lightweight, even her demigodly stamina is not enough to protect her from the effects of that first glass of liquor, the way it burns against her throat and causes her ears to buzz. Not enough- she makes a universal sign for another, and the barkeep is quick to oblige. It tastes like oil, like gasoline, like Adam's blood probably does now, but Amalia drinks it anyway, relishing the pain.
Patrons whisper to themselves about this young demigoddess who seems determined to drink herself under the table, but none dare approach. She has taken a corner of the bar for herself, wings wrapped tight against her shoulders, a crown of black orchids stark within her golden hair.
And when she does make it? When Stormbreak's spires come into view, the Tower and the Needle and every other part that represents everything she's ever wanted? It is not to her rooms the Archangel goes, nor to the gardens, the temple, the church. No, it is into darkness the wounded bird falls, weaving her way through busy streets until she finds herself at a door decorated with softly glowing antlers.
Once there, she drinks.
Amalia does not drink often. By all accounts a lightweight, even her demigodly stamina is not enough to protect her from the effects of that first glass of liquor, the way it burns against her throat and causes her ears to buzz. Not enough- she makes a universal sign for another, and the barkeep is quick to oblige. It tastes like oil, like gasoline, like Adam's blood probably does now, but Amalia drinks it anyway, relishing the pain.
Patrons whisper to themselves about this young demigoddess who seems determined to drink herself under the table, but none dare approach. She has taken a corner of the bar for herself, wings wrapped tight against her shoulders, a crown of black orchids stark within her golden hair.
Amalia
