It takes a leap of faith

Amalia

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stop thinking so much

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Amalia loves the youthful qualities that peek like sunlight through his shadows, the rogue behind a stoic face of glacial carvings and ancient stone. He is a cat, the girl thinks, chuckling fondly as she inches closer, eager and enthused by the secrets she carries, the treasure she has yet to reveal. It seems so small and trivial now, a foolish thing, a snippet, a segment; no grandiose finding, no riches of the sea, only the product of her hard work and artistry. Even the quality is not exceptional: Amalia is not, as some have claimed, the greatest baker. She is adequate, acceptable, her products good, but nothing for him to drive himself wild for, nothing to move him to heaven's gate.

Still, as he grins and admires she nearly forgets her mediocrity, nearly forgets she is not enough. The way he looks at them (at her) is staggering, breathtaking; it makes her feel as though she is better, a thing that is worthy of his respect and love.

She matches his grin, proud and amazed, purring her happiness as his lips reach her brow. Fingers reach up to caress his cheek; "All for you," she murmurs, promises, avows and teases and laughs and declares. His appreciation for the muffins is palpable, and the girl watches intently as he swallows one down, crooning appreciation, a rumble which echoes into her chest. This is why she bakes, she thinks: to see the way people's faces can light, to inspire happiness and safety and love with little more than flour and heat.

Elbow on the table, head on her hand, Amalia smiles up at the Sword. She is content for the moment to watch him, a muffin uneaten in her fingers as he finishes his. Then she reaches for the butter, delicately slicing down the middle of the pastry before slathering some inside, half a blackberry treat brought up to her lips, pleasure and enjoyment clear on her face.

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you're breaking your own heart

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