AMALIA
you're staring at the sky
watching stars collide
For a second Amalia debates placing a comforting hand on his back, wondering if it would be inappropriate. The ridiculousness of this idea, of course, is immediately apparent - they have come much too far for a comforting pat to be misinterpreted or unacceptable. So she places her palm between his scapulae, gently rubbing along his spine, a comforting motion learned from her mother on days when she was ill. Her voice comes out as a low, comforting murmur, soothing despite its practical content: "Please don't throw up on my stairs."watching stars collide
Tilting to look at him, Amalia blinks in a little surprise, a warm smile lighting up her face. "It's okay," she replies honestly, head still in her hand. "I can say my evening prayers here." There is a small alter in the front of the shop, after all, tucked beside a window, and the baker frequently prays in her home, the street, the meadow - the location does not matter much, in the end.
But the question that follows is harder to parse, difficult to answer with words alone. Amalia hums softly in thought, her dark eyes distant as she turns back to gaze down the stairs. "I suppose... part of it is because I'm grateful. The gods made the world for us, after all, and even though though there are things about it that hurt... it's beautiful, too. And I'm grateful for that." There is something in the reverence which lights her gaze, leaves her almost incandescent with affectionate fervor for her gods.
"And part of it is because... because it makes me feel less alone. To know they're out there, and that they care."
