Amalia
A deeper conversation is all I want from you-
"I've never had a lover with a beard before." The words slip easily from her lips, still distracted by darker thoughts, inadequacies and insurrection, violence and bloodshed. Her fingers fidget anxious and absent in the strands of his hair, slipping down his neck and down to his hands as she pulls away. She searches for solace in the blue of his eyes, a haven from the storm clouds that darken her own. And when at last she finds it the girl exhales, the ghost of a smile returning to her lips.Settling into a patch of grass Amalia upturns her ardent gaze. The shield tucked between her hands spins and slips beneath anxious fingers as Deimos begins to move, his magic spinning training dummies out of the air, the knife still in his grasp. Unsure what to expect but anticipating barbaric interludes and wanton aggression, Amalia waits for the man to begin, his art made mainfest in her eyes.
It is with the gracefulness of a cat he makes the first strike, calculated and delicate, a pointed, planned, poetic sweep. And again, and again- and the girl's breath catches as she watches, wide-eyed, something hot in her chest. The surprising beauty of his motions really isn't so unexpected: she has come to realize he carries grace, an artists mind and an acolyte's focus beneath the silent facade. He is a thing of nature, and the blade is his arm; he is violence and triumph, and gods, it is hot.
When at last he turns to face her Amalia has to swallow, blinking dark and hooded eyes as she regards him, unabashed. Rising lightly to her feet she clears her throat again. "Come in for breakfast?" Her voice is a little husky, the rest of the invitation left unsaid. "I have some extra time before I have to open shop."
- I want the words you're afraid to say:
the lonely ones you keep hidden
between the folds of your heart
