[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map Shivering and exposed, Amalia is raw metal, molten and ready for a hammer to fall. Will he break her spirit beneath his might, look at her heart and scoff and jeer - will he see that she is brittle and flawed, cracked and malformed, no good for a sword, no good for anything except to be scrap? Or will he treat her with a smith's talented hands, mold her into something better, help her learn her intended shape? She hopes for the second while expecting the first. Long ago Amalia learned that if she does not anticipate her dreams will come true, it will be less painful when she wakes up and faces the bleak light of day. Still she hopes, continues to pray, to strive and struggle and rise every morning, to end each day more deserving of the next. Hard work is its best reward, her mother used to say. Never stop bettering yourself. There's no such thing as best. Is that the thing which draws him in, makes him stay no matter how many opportunities she gives him to run away? She has carved him out one last escape, laid herself bare and told him to flee if he does care for what she has to give. Yet he told her she was brave, was radiant and bold, and who is she to deny him those things, to be anything less than what he sees in her, when she asks so much of him? Though she is afraid, terrified and alone, Amalia is audacious, too, vibrant in the echo of her words. Spine straightens, shoulders drop, and chin rises, bolstered by honesty - to him and to herself. Because Deimos is right: the girl has conviction, values and passions, stances and beliefs. She wants and wants and wants so much, wants the things he promises, but she wants to do it right. Never one for half measures, always ready to give away her time, her work, the pieces of herself- and always wholeheartedly, always too much, always with a fervent ardor, jealous and overzealous, faithful and devout and anxious and brave. Why would she degrade his affection by offering anything less than what she is? Always she tries and tries hide that fervor, to make herself a milder picture, composed and pressed and palatable, something clean for the world to want. But she does not want him to want that image, does not want him to love that girl. She wants him to want her, to know her, to see the fire behind her eyes and not be afraid to burn. She would rather lose him than lie to him, as much as it may break her heart. Oh, but there is no rejection in his eyes. Deimos steps toward her, a decision in his patient smile, and Amalia does not move. Tight as a bowstring the girl waits, her own expression slowly shifting, mimicking, easing into radiant happiness as her terms are met with implicit acceptance, no ounce of reticence in his embrace. She turns away as his grasp snakes around her, not an evasion but a further consent. Her hands find purchase on the arms that circle her chest, holding tightly in return and searching for fingers with which to entwine. She does not need him to see her expression, the strength giving way to wordless relief, a wrenching happiness that her honesty paid off, a staunch amazement that he has not left. Gilded head leans back against him, tucking neatly beneath his chin as though it was meant to be there, as though it is where she has always belonged. His joke is met with an echoing laugh, bright and merry and free, for once, of fear. Tilting her head to look up at him, Amalia flashes a mischievous grin. "We'll see about that," the girl teases, ridiculous in her upturned position and too relaxed to care. "You're stuck with me, now." Amalia drops her head back down, leaning into the warmth of him with an exultant sigh. His voice is a soothing rumble on her back, and she hums softly in response, content for the moment to stay and savor, let the rush of new and real wash over her like a comforting wave. Lifting his fingers to her lips, the baker brushes them across her mouth, leaving lingering kisses in her wake. "There's time," she murmurs against his skin, urgency lost in glow of acceptance, more than content to take her time, now that she has his consent. Her caresses follow down his knuckles, trail to his palm, lackadaisical, exhaustive, as though she is trying to memorize each line of him, savor every inch. The process repeats on his other hand, and then the girl turns, raising slender arms around his shoulders, finding a place for her face on his neck. Inhaling deeply, Amalia sighs, her fingers rising to play gently with the curls on his hair. If only this moment could last a lifetime, but the day is growing old, and there will be more of these - countless more, if she has her way. "I should go back to the stall soon," she breathes against him, though it is obvious from her reluctant tone and the way she presses closer that she has no intention of doing so just yet. Pulling back to meet his eyes, the baker smiles incandescently, shy and hopeful, adoring and alive. "You've more than earned all the bread you can eat, but... maybe one more dance?" A slow strain of music wafts through the air, flutes and strings combining in a lover's waltz. She lets him lead, content to follow, safe and at ease within his grasp. She has found a haven, a shelter in the storm, a constant star in a midnight sky. She will go wherever he should lead, so long as he is happy to take her pace, to follow her down meandering detours and savor every step, to help and forgive her when she stumbles, to push her to be better with each new day. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back