and like the moon, she had a side of her so dark
even the stars couldn't shine on it
Amalia is not sleeping. She is, however, sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs pale in the flickering candlelight as she stares down on them with all the intensity she can possibly muster. She can feel the tingling in her toes: wonderful, terrible tingling, as uncomfortable as ever and beautifully so. Sensation- gods, how she values it now that it's back, even this sweet, tiny, sliver of it.
It's tantalizing and cruel, though, because it means so little. She can feel her toes, but moving them is still just outside her reach.
This is how Rexanna finds her: staring down her own damn feet, dressed in little more than a shift. It's hot in the infirmary, and she yearns to get out, but stubborn as she is she's staunchly refused to do so until she can move of her own strength.
She glances up when she hears her name, expression shifting to something firm as she regards the Penumbra. "What news?" More loss, more death- or is it about the council Amalia has heard so little about, the newest attempt at governance?
It's tantalizing and cruel, though, because it means so little. She can feel her toes, but moving them is still just outside her reach.
This is how Rexanna finds her: staring down her own damn feet, dressed in little more than a shift. It's hot in the infirmary, and she yearns to get out, but stubborn as she is she's staunchly refused to do so until she can move of her own strength.
She glances up when she hears her name, expression shifting to something firm as she regards the Penumbra. "What news?" More loss, more death- or is it about the council Amalia has heard so little about, the newest attempt at governance?
a side of her so cold
even the sun couldn't burn it
Amalia
