Amalia
stop thinking so much
Alas, the mountain does not press and the moment fades away, not forgotten but set aside, left to simmer on the back burner of her thoughts as they continue to work in comfortable closeness. Nimble fingers stretching out the dough, Amalia takes a moment to reply, enjoying the fading reverberation of his baritone hum. "My grandmother. She would tell me stories. She taught me most of the songs, and the legends. We would pray together." Fond nostalgia flickers in her tone, the losses gentler in his presence, the shadows eased by his light. For the first time in years Amalia begins to feel like she may truly move on.
The thought is terrifying.
His story continues to bewitch and bewilder, the pieces swimming through her brain, not quite connecting into a whole, too vast and wondrous and fascinating. She tilts her head as his explanation, remembering keenly that day in the library. She had thought him a glacier, a blizzard in her domain; had questioned and rebelled against his presence. And even then he had worn her down, his patience and perseverance breaking through her discontent, his eyes like oceans, drowning and devouring her even then. She hadn't known then where that river would lead, how deeply she would fall, how far she would sink. She hadn't expected him to become a feature of her life, to fit in against her soul like a second skin. She hand't expected to--
--wait.
"Rexanna - the Rexanna I know - is Kiada's mother?"
you're breaking your own heart
