[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map She offers not knowing what es expected, what price he will extract- but ready to pay, eager and waiting for the toll to be asked. What does a behemoth ask for, what does a winter soldier need? A drink, a dance, a treasure, a kiss joke: her dark eyes gaze boldly into his, the brazenness of her actions offset by the patter of her heart. And then he speaks, his intonation a rolling thunderclap against her soul. A story. She is surprised by the request; she does not know what she expected, but it was not to be asked to spin a tale, give a piece of herself to him. Never one to talk about herself, Amalia resists the urge to recoil, retreat back into her insecurities and hide from the request. You offered this, a nagging voice reminds her. You made the rules. You brought this on yourself. Your mistakes are your own. She wants to give in to that voice, to rally against it and beg for retreat. It is easier to fall down into the dark than uncover a section of her soul, bare her spirit and let the blood rise, vibrant from her veins. And again, it is Deimos who draws her back. Deimos, his smile like a beacon; Deimos, his laugh a balm on her pain. Deimos, who offers to bare the price with her, give her something of himself in return. Wrapped in the safety of his blue, blue eyes, the sunlit baker feels stronger, capable, appreciated, good. And so she swallows, breathing deep, before offering him his prize. "Once upon a time, there was a girl who was born on the last day of the longest night. She lived with her mother and grandmother, under a glass that hid the sky." As she speaks her dark eyes drift, turning to the heavens above, distant dreaminess in her voice. "As she grew, the girl learned many things. She learned about baking, and stories, and gods. She learned about medicine, and history, and myths. She learned everything she could, but there was one thing she never could master. "How to stop feeling alone." Swallowing again, she lowers her eyes and begins to pace upon the grass, arms extended, one foot before the other as though she walked a tightrope. Her toes dig gentle furrows in the dirt; she enjoys the mud between them, feels grounded by the malleable earth. Amalia does not look to him to follow, only hopes he will. There is more to the story, if he will listen. Or perhaps he will not. Perhaps he will let her drift away, and the story will end the way it began: with a child, trying to find her moorings, but never quite able to spot her star. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back