[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map She has given him an opportunity: go, escape, leave me behind and find a better ship to harbor. Sprawled upon the damp, green grass, she waits, breath baited, to see what he will do. The game has ended, and the man is free, the debt he swore repaid in full and then again. Amalia has had more gleeful fun in these past minutes than in many months, and she is grateful to him for the sacrifice, the gift of his time and boisterous laugh. To ask for more would be greedy, avaricious, and she dares not strain the tenuous bond they have forged from mischief and merriment. And yet. And yet she wants it, burns and aches, yearns to bask a little longer, to envelop herself a little further in his light. So she reaches out in invitation, an effort to tug him a little closer, to keep in his orbit for a little more time. And when he sits beside her Amalia feels herself bloom, something warm like summer song sitting on her chest. So delighted is she that her senses cloud, or so she will tell herself later. Declarations and challenges are issued, uttered- and then mentally redacted a moment later. It is not a tie. She realizes this as soon she says it, looking at the trio of crowns in her lap, re-running calculations behind onyx eyes. Her final count is forty-five, not fifty. He has won, has defeated her, has achieved his ends. He really is free then, and she should release him, should confess her miscalculation and take the punishment of isolation in stride. As he turns those piercing eyes on her (blue like lighting, blue like glaciers, blue like a sky she can finally see) Amalia resists the urge to recoil, to wither and weaken beneath his inevitable loss. We need another challenge. "Yes." What else can she say that is not already written in her smile, sung by the flush of her cheeks, the light of her eyes? Does he know? Does it matter? He wants to stay. She moves to the third crown, still extracting the nicest flowers, a mountain of petals growing steady in her lap. Her refuse has left him awash in color, and Amalia finds herself aiming for his beard, snickering with satisfaction whenever a blossom catches in his mane. Without asking, she steals another from his pile (bold, brave, a small defiance but one that thrills her nonetheless), extracting superior blooms from this, too. Also set aside are lengths of twine, the salvaged tools for some craft of her own device, a devious creation only she can see. "We used to play a game, as children." Deftly her fingers begin to weave, crafting a dense mesh of flora, colors vibrant and petals relatively unbruised. "Where we went behind strangers and danced. The goal was to dance as long as you could without being caught." She adds another stalk of lilac to her creation, looking slyly through lowered lashes at the behemoth of a man. "Though it might not be fair, given that we were smaller then..." And though she will never admit it to even herself, the girl's gaze darts briefly over his body, wondering at the musculature, the toning, the strength hidden beneath wool and furs-- Quickly she turns her eyes back to her flowers, trembling hands and crimson neck the only remnants of her brief and startling foray into scandalous thoughts. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back