For once, the pit Amalia has sunk into is literal.
Wrapped up in her failures, the girl teeters on the brink of disaster, claustrophobic and corrupted by her cage. It is not an altogether unpleasant prison, objectively speaking, but to the prisoner it is gilded with shame, a hundred mistakes plastered and carved upon the rising walls. She has just learned to fly, but her wings are clipped; just tasted freedom, only to be pushed back down. Miserable, melancholy, she circles around the familiar pool of despair and wonder if she ought to let herself drown.
She had only just begun to learn to swim.
It is the arrival of Kiada which galvanizes the girl, convinces her to hide her woes for the sake of her friend, her cub. And so Amalia rallies, swallowing the creeping anxiety and doubt which tears and bites and scratches her mind and hiding it behind a stoic mask, soothing and leading, planning and pleading. An attempt to escape yields nothing but more bruises; exploration shows a single bed and some food, but little else to be had. The day draws on and fades to night, and with it fades any hope of rescue, that glimmer of peace.
So when stars appear and the others go to sleep, Amalia stays awake. Restless, anxious, defeated, enraged, the baker turns to that one constant, the only thing which gives her solace: faith.
Beneath the sliver of moonlight which pierces through the trees, the girl sits cross-legged on the ground, her eyes upturned to the heaven, narrow face searching for answers in the sky. "Please..." Amalia whispers, so as not to disturb her companions. "Please, Old Ones, if you can hear me... tell me how to help my friends." Amalia Her eyes, they know too much.
She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch. |
