@recitedemise || continued
She walks the perimeter out of habit. Ever since shedding the surname she was deemed so undeserving of in exchange for her life, she's never felt truly safe at night anywhere that isn't her grandfather's farm. And after waking up to allies holding something sharp to her neck one too many times in recent memory, that instinct will continue to speak louder than usual for a good while.
There is one absence that makes itself most noticeable, and her gaze washes searchingly over the area, finding a gentle spot of summoned light that draws her in like a moth to a flame. Her steps remain silent whether on stone, earth or grass, sauntering closer and closer without apparent detection.
Smiling to herself, Alice crouches down next to the mage, admiring him from upclose. She knows he can take care of himself - has witnessed him wield his magic with terrifying mastery, shoulder a god-given burden with almost infuriating grace - but seeing him like this, so innocently engrossed in the well-loved book, it makes her want to protect him.
Gingerly, she pushes back a lock of hair hanging over his eyes. Her heart breaks in waking him, whether from slumber or from his immersion, but his body will thank her for it later. Her smile widens when he remarks upon it himself, watching him with affection shining in her gaze. From her own experience, she knows that a book he carries with him has to be a treasured one, but the knowledge doesn't keep her from taking a peek at it.
It is not the first time she's had this thought while in Gale's presence. Perhaps if her life had been a little less tumultuous, if she hadn't stumbled upon the arcane and learnt it out of necessity... If she'd had safe ground and time spent not running to nurture her curiosity, perhaps she would have trailed a similar path to his. But it goes away as quickly as it appears. If her journey had been any different, maybe it wouldn't have led her to him.
"I would gladly listen to you reading anything." Born to a songstress, her ears are particularly attuned to voices. His is a balm she will never tire of hearing in all its little lilts and dips, in how it speeds up when he's excited or flustered. "But perhaps we should turn in?" She suggests gently, running a fingertip along his jaw. "We can always read together later." His moments are no longer numbered, after all.
