she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
His fingers tuck within her own, his larger hand somehow fitting perfectly against her palm (how?) despite their differences in size and breed, the histories that divide them, the strangeness they both wield. Amalia does not possess magic, has never felt power at her fingertips or lurking beneath her skin: but she thinks that it must feel like this, the electricity which ignites her at his softest caress, the searing heat from anticipation as they dance and tease and cast their spells, each deep within the other's web.she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different
There is magic in love, Amalia thinks as she follows, her hand entrapped by his. There is power to build and to destroy in the songs sung by their heartstrings, a terrible beauty in their euphony, a thunderous wound when they strike cacophony.
To edges of fields, to perimeters of dance floors, to the very ends of the earth. Like a shadow, a wraith, she drifts behind, her angular expression luminous, her dark eyes bright as a summer sun. "I'm very particular about my partners," she says in response, her alto voice lilting as they draw to a stop. Tilting her head she draws back from him, affecting a posture of mock seriousness (her hand does not let go of his, for fear the spell will break). "They would have to prove themselves on the field of battle, before they could win a dance."
Amalia
we are all b r o k e n
that's how the l i g h t gets in
that's how the l i g h t gets in
