"I don't want to go down yet," which is not a yes or a no to his initial question, but the soft loll of her head to the side, the slow blink of heavy lids speaks for her.
Dull and cloudy skies make her hands look even paler against the deep brown taffrail of the ship, but the skies and temperamental are not the only thing that steal the color from her cheeks, not the sole source uneasy nights that leave her tired into the day. She strums her fingers, imagining the light twirling around them like she might fidget with a pencil. Sankta Alina is a title she is not ready to reconcile with, but in tucking it away she hides another part of herself, bright and bold but not at all suited to subtlety.
Invisibility is their safety here, but no mastery of light or shadow is needed to accomplish that. There is some nostalgic comfort that sits in being anonymous and ordinary. Ghosts that can slip away unnoticed.
His bicep makes for a comfortable place to rest her head, his body the protective shield and comfort of a home she never had, a warmth echoing a comfort she could never concretely place. There is so much uncertainty ahead of them that she has grown less cautious with Mal. Hesitation is for those who have the luxury of time, although there are still questions she cannot put words to, instead asked and answered in held breaths and gentle touches, steadier than the rocky seas below their feet.
"And she's just lonely," not to be too defensive of Madame Apolena, but that's a feeling Alina understands well.
"Her snoring is worse than her stories though," Alina muses ideally, having given up on trying to keep her eyes open, and settling for just pillowing her head against Mal's arm. "Worse than your impression of a bear in hibernation you do each night."
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Dull and cloudy skies make her hands look even paler against the deep brown taffrail of the ship, but the skies and temperamental are not the only thing that steal the color from her cheeks, not the sole source uneasy nights that leave her tired into the day. She strums her fingers, imagining the light twirling around them like she might fidget with a pencil. Sankta Alina is a title she is not ready to reconcile with, but in tucking it away she hides another part of herself, bright and bold but not at all suited to subtlety.
Invisibility is their safety here, but no mastery of light or shadow is needed to accomplish that. There is some nostalgic comfort that sits in being anonymous and ordinary. Ghosts that can slip away unnoticed.
His bicep makes for a comfortable place to rest her head, his body the protective shield and comfort of a home she never had, a warmth echoing a comfort she could never concretely place. There is so much uncertainty ahead of them that she has grown less cautious with Mal. Hesitation is for those who have the luxury of time, although there are still questions she cannot put words to, instead asked and answered in held breaths and gentle touches, steadier than the rocky seas below their feet.
"And she's just lonely," not to be too defensive of Madame Apolena, but that's a feeling Alina understands well.
"Her snoring is worse than her stories though," Alina muses ideally, having given up on trying to keep her eyes open, and settling for just pillowing her head against Mal's arm. "Worse than your impression of a bear in hibernation you do each night."