Amalia
A deeper conversation is all I want from you-
Another way, another act. At least Amalia is easing into it, growing a little more relaxed. Some of it comes from repetition: as her muscles learn and re-learn the movements they become easier, natural, less like violence and more like dancing, the knife becoming an extension of her arm.Most of it comes from him. With anyone else the girl would have faltered, fading and retreating into herself. She would have shuddered at being watched and judged, either for weakness (why can't you do this?) or commitment to violence (why do you still try?). The threat of disappointing would sit on her shoulders, weighing her down into the loam, crushing her into the grass, the dirt, until she was nothing, until she collapsed in on her own mistakes. Instead, she has him: he who holds her through the storm, who keeps her from falling, from sinking, from fear. As long as she has his eyes to sink in, the baker will stay afloat.
Nodding tersely, Amalia waits, her arm rising as she assumes the stance, waiting for his cue to strike. This time his blade catches hers and pulls; the girl takes a breath as his hand shifts and the knife flips, momentarily bemused, her dark eyes wide enough that she does not fully expect the retaliation, too caught up in admiring him as he perfects his art.
When her turn comes to repeat the movement the baker does not hesitate, though her action is a little different, and significantly less refined. She catches his blade and pulls it down, but does not flip the knife. Instead, Amalia replicates his earlier action, neatly sidestepping to come behind him, her hips twisting, her body flowing, perhaps not quite a soldier's dance but the only one she can do. A clatter; the knife falls from her hands, which instead rise up around his waist as she buries her head between his shoulders, taking in a shuddering breath. For a moment she lets the silence stretch, holding him tightly, taking solace in his warmth. "I don't think I'm meant to fight," she confesses into the space between them, her voice shaking, a gentle sigh. "Even pretending to hurt you, I... I hate it, Deimos. I'm sorry."
- I want the words you're afraid to say:
the lonely ones you keep hidden
between the folds of your heart
