Amalia
the archangel
She sets the gift onto a table, along with her keys. ”Mmm. And I’ll never forgive you for getting sick and leaving Wessex in charge.” It’s easy banter, and it’s more pleasant than dwelling on all the things they’ve lost, past and present. The teasing comes with a bright laugh to soften the words, deepening as Ronin the Once-King settles onto her floor. She’s already moved around the counter into the open kitchen when he reminds her of the package; she looks up at it through wide dark eyes, as though surprised that it exists.
It’s barely a second to place the kettle on the stove and then Amalia is settled beside Ronin, leaning back against a chair, the packet in her hands. “What am I going to do with it?” she wonders, giving it a cautious shake before beginning to delicately remove the paper, curiosity tempered by years of being told to slow down, take your time.
It’s barely a second to place the kettle on the stove and then Amalia is settled beside Ronin, leaning back against a chair, the packet in her hands. “What am I going to do with it?” she wonders, giving it a cautious shake before beginning to delicately remove the paper, curiosity tempered by years of being told to slow down, take your time.
she's just like the weather
can't hold her together
can't hold her together
