Prodigal

She's imperfect, but she tries She is good, but she lies She is hard on herself She is broken and won't ask for help She does not reply to his restated offer; it doesn't matter now, for the damage is done. Amalia knows that there is tension between those she cares so dearly for, but she does not know why, or when, or who is at fault. It is another weight to add to the countless in her breast, and she accepts it with a quiet resignation, sighing softly and nodding her head in silent acceptance of the invitation. Perhaps it is that which fuels her anger, perhaps something else. But she schools herself as he steps away from the book, letting her take a closer look at the pages which remain somewhat impossible to read. With a gentle reverence Amalia runs long fingers over the inscribed letters, wondering what secrets are hidden away, what Safrin did not tell her and what she already forgot. This had been her first task, her first quest, and still it feels unfinished. Sinking into the chair at the desk, the baker seems for a moment lost, caught up in her voracious perusal of the tome. "I wonder... maybe the Fae know the language." She can think of nobody else to ask: if there is something Safrin did not tell them, she is unlikely to share it now. a m a l i a She is messy, but she's kind She is lonely most of the time She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie She is gone, but she used to be mine