[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind His fingers reach beneath her chin; compliantly she raises her head to meet him, dark eyes beseeching, entreating his blue, looking for secrets in a sunlit sky. "Yes." The blush that paints her dusky cheeks is enough to answer him, but she gives a vibrant smile as well, small and rich with unsaid things, a promise that yes is the least of her feelings, a grain of sand on the cascade of her bliss. More than good, she wants to say. Perfect, because it was you. Again, she wishes she could freeze this moment, the heartbeats that pulse between them, the happiness she feels. It is pristine, flawless, too good for the girl - he is too good for her, but she will take his offerings, his alms, his pleasure and words. She will take it all and hold it close, the dearest treasure she has ever been given. But beneath her happiness apprehension lurks, still unsure of what comes next, how this dance will inevitably conclude. Because it will - it must - it always has, and as the waves of passion begin to subside fear creeps in to take their place. Loss, and loss, and loss again- it is all Amalia has ever known, the penumbra on every point of brightness, threatening inevitable eclipse. He is her sun, her beacon, her lighthouse, her guard: to lose him would be devastation, but it is better to know than be taken aback, caught unawares as the ground shifts beneath her and she tumbles into her own despair. Onyx gaze drops down again, to his beard, his neck, her hands on his chest. Why would I leave? he questions, and the girl nearly laughs, brows furrowed tight to hold in her emotions, to keep from breaking, from scaring him further away. "Everyone does," she answers simply, trying to swallow the lump in her throat, to keep her voice measured (she does not succeed). "After - not that there have been many - and one was Frey -" She's a mess, tripping over her words, unable to communicate the thing she feels, to make him understand. Biting down on her lower lip, the gilded girl inhales deeply, a rattling breath that expands her lungs, dark lashes falling to her cheeks. "Everyone leaves me," she whispers at last, the words a shudder from her chest, and the everyone is not just the men she has been with, but the rest of them as well, her family, her loved ones, her friends. Raising her gaze back to his blue (endless and warm and perfect and hers, but for how long and at what cost, and what if she cannot pay it, if she does not measure up; what if he grows tired, or bored, or finds someone better, prettier, less destitute-?), Amalia gives a mirthless half-smile; she does not know what to do, is spiraling and floundering and doubtless making it worse. Her heart is a hammer pounding on her ribs, threatening to splinter her from the inside out, to break her apart and lay out the pieces, shattered and worthless at his feet. She sighs again and shakes her head, wishing she could wind back time, could go back to that moment of perfect bliss. There is nothing left, no explanation to give, and Amalia leans forward once more, trying to put her head on his shoulder, to bury herself in his embrace. "Just... don't go yet." the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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