Amalia
I know.
He does, though, doesn't he? Amalia does not remember his mother, but she remembers the way she died. Her own mother had come back to the bakery that night, her face an unreadable mask of hurt, silent and disquieting and somewhere far away. Amalia had been sent to bed early, but the girl crept down the stairs to watch and listen as the adults sat, each clutching a bottle of spirits, their voices hushed and emotionless with shock and pain. It was not the first such death. It would not be the last. But it broke them every time.
"I'm sorry," Amalia repeats into his hair, but this time she is apologizing not for her mistakes, but for the world. They are children of this prison, born into a cage. This is their home, and they have suffered for it, sweat for it, mourned and endured and fallen and survived. Perhaps living this close to loss leaves them restless, reckless, makes them more prone to throwing themselves off cliffs. Perhaps he understands the part of her that burns, needs to arc toward the sun and catch its filtered rays, to taste something close to freedom, for what else do they have?
A deep inhale, shaky, rattling in her slender lungs. Her eyes flutter closed and her breathing deepens, her grip on the antlers softening as her hands uncoil. Nesting closer against his skin (so warm, so alive), Amalia lets herself ease out of her fears, exhaustion and injury winning out. She is too weary, too broken, to keep fighting herself, to do anything but succumb. Maybe it is greedy, selfish, further abuse of his kindness and embrace- but Amalia needs it, needs him, the heat of his skin and the quiet waves of his words her tethers to the world.
"Can I here stay with you?" she whispers into his hair, not looking at his face, not willing to see rejection there. Childlike, fragile, hungry and afraid. "For... for right now? I don't want to be alone again."
He does, though, doesn't he? Amalia does not remember his mother, but she remembers the way she died. Her own mother had come back to the bakery that night, her face an unreadable mask of hurt, silent and disquieting and somewhere far away. Amalia had been sent to bed early, but the girl crept down the stairs to watch and listen as the adults sat, each clutching a bottle of spirits, their voices hushed and emotionless with shock and pain. It was not the first such death. It would not be the last. But it broke them every time.
"I'm sorry," Amalia repeats into his hair, but this time she is apologizing not for her mistakes, but for the world. They are children of this prison, born into a cage. This is their home, and they have suffered for it, sweat for it, mourned and endured and fallen and survived. Perhaps living this close to loss leaves them restless, reckless, makes them more prone to throwing themselves off cliffs. Perhaps he understands the part of her that burns, needs to arc toward the sun and catch its filtered rays, to taste something close to freedom, for what else do they have?
A deep inhale, shaky, rattling in her slender lungs. Her eyes flutter closed and her breathing deepens, her grip on the antlers softening as her hands uncoil. Nesting closer against his skin (so warm, so alive), Amalia lets herself ease out of her fears, exhaustion and injury winning out. She is too weary, too broken, to keep fighting herself, to do anything but succumb. Maybe it is greedy, selfish, further abuse of his kindness and embrace- but Amalia needs it, needs him, the heat of his skin and the quiet waves of his words her tethers to the world.
"Can I here stay with you?" she whispers into his hair, not looking at his face, not willing to see rejection there. Childlike, fragile, hungry and afraid. "For... for right now? I don't want to be alone again."
