[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map She scarcely notices his guiding hands: not because they are insignificant, but because they rest so easily, feel so comfortable on her shoulder as to scarcely register as other. She lets him lead her away from the throngs, the massive, milling crowd, into greener grasses and warmer sun. She scarcely notices, because why should she? They are merely ornaments, decorations to a setting, props to the play. He is the audience, the author, the spotlights, the soundtrack. Her story is for him alone; so long as he listens, she will be content. Her silence is an invitation. As the last words leave her lips she waits, back to the man, eyes on the ground, arms extended like the wings of a bird, ready to carry her into the sky, away from his rejection, his scorn. Has she ever given so much of herself away before? Yes- but never in such a way, the intonations and connotations running deeper than either of them will say. There was a time when she offered her heart up freely, gave in away to any who asked, a proud child eager to shed light on every shadow. Now she guards herself fiercely, terrified of the bitter rejection, lonely and lonesome in the howling night. But he is a lighthouse, vibrant and alive, and she cannot help but steer to him through the darkness of her storm. Amalia turns back at his voice, something brittle in her slender face. "She tries," she whispers in response, wide sable gaze scanning his face for the secret meanings within. Something like a smile teases at her lips, tender and vulnerable, a painful yearning to be understood. There is more to the story, but she finds she cannot say the words. Amalia swallows and licks her lips, once more a buoy lost at sea. When his hands wrap around hers it is like fire on her skin, warm and rough against cold fingers. Her eyes do not leave his as he begins to speak, his tale pulled easily from the recesses of his history, spun from secrets into gold. Shadows and darkness, yearning and failure: his is a story she has not experienced, but one she understands. She wishes she could reach up and touch his cheek, feel the soft curls of his beard beneath her fingers and draw those cyan eyes to her, show him she is not afraid to fall inside, for she knows he will not let her drown. As he finishes, Amalia turns back to their hands, withdrawing her own without letting his go. Instead she wraps her own fingers around them, stacking them one atop one of her palms as she traces the lines of them thoughtfully, drawing an invisible painting on their breadth. "Time passed, and the girl began to see the darkness in the world. She was hurt by her own insecurities, afraid of the changes of life. She watched her family slip away, one after another falling into Ludo's hands. Slowly, she retreated away from the world, buried herself in books and dust and tried to forget the sky." His hands are warm against her palms. She wants to place them against her cheeks, to feel the heat of him more closely, press against it and thaw the pieces of herself so long left in the dark. "Then, one day, the world shifted, and someone walked into her sanctuary. He asked her about the books, her only friends, and made her want to step back outside. He helped her build up the ruins of her home, and reminded her of the things she enjoyed, stories and baking and feeding people and seeing their faces light up. Together they fought pumpkins and fed luxeres and made bread. He brought her fuel when the night grew long, and he held her when she died." She swallows at this last admission, remembering sharply that bitter night. "The girl had forgotten, but he helped her remember how to live. He reminded her that there was light outside, and that she had loved it, once." How strange, she muses thoughtfully, how wrong she had been, to see him as the glacier and herself the flame. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back