Amalia
only lonely hid the morning from the stars
✩
In the end, she goes back to the place it began.
Amalia cannot remember her first visit to the Shrine. She cannot remember most of her visits, in fact: there have been many, almost daily for a time, happy or sad, pensive and merry. Amalia had come with her grandmother, her friends. She'd asked for wisdom, for safety, for strength and guidance. She had been comforted and reassured, given gifts and had sacrifices accepted.
She had prayed here after her grandmother died, and again for her mother, countless tears shed on the dusty stone running rivers beneath her hands. And always, the gods had been there.
Today, Amalia does not cry. She is out of tears: too devastated, too afraid, too deep in her denial. Dry-eyed, she kneels before the altar that she has prayed to so many times before, her head bowed before the stony, lifeless likeness of Vi. He has never answered her before, never cared enough: she is too small, too meaningless, too mortal for his regard. She is a disappointment, a disgrace, endlessly striving to accomplish something and endlessly finding herself falling short.
But today is different. Today she has witnessed a falling star, watched celestial light and life be snuffed out. Today she has made a mistake too great to bear, with nothing to show for herself, her faith, her ardent devotion and foolish passion. Today she has been part of something terrible, and she has nothing to say in her defense. She does not deserve forgiveness, absolution, the gift of being Attuned, the love of the gods.
Amalia deserves the punishment, the judgment, the silence which cuts into her like a knife.
"I am sorry," she whispers from behind closed eyes. "Safrin, I... I am so sorry."
Using my CotS pass to chat up Vi!
Amalia cannot remember her first visit to the Shrine. She cannot remember most of her visits, in fact: there have been many, almost daily for a time, happy or sad, pensive and merry. Amalia had come with her grandmother, her friends. She'd asked for wisdom, for safety, for strength and guidance. She had been comforted and reassured, given gifts and had sacrifices accepted.
She had prayed here after her grandmother died, and again for her mother, countless tears shed on the dusty stone running rivers beneath her hands. And always, the gods had been there.
Today, Amalia does not cry. She is out of tears: too devastated, too afraid, too deep in her denial. Dry-eyed, she kneels before the altar that she has prayed to so many times before, her head bowed before the stony, lifeless likeness of Vi. He has never answered her before, never cared enough: she is too small, too meaningless, too mortal for his regard. She is a disappointment, a disgrace, endlessly striving to accomplish something and endlessly finding herself falling short.
But today is different. Today she has witnessed a falling star, watched celestial light and life be snuffed out. Today she has made a mistake too great to bear, with nothing to show for herself, her faith, her ardent devotion and foolish passion. Today she has been part of something terrible, and she has nothing to say in her defense. She does not deserve forgiveness, absolution, the gift of being Attuned, the love of the gods.
Amalia deserves the punishment, the judgment, the silence which cuts into her like a knife.
"I am sorry," she whispers from behind closed eyes. "Safrin, I... I am so sorry."
Using my CotS pass to chat up Vi!
