meet me where the falling stars live
i will wait for you
She waters the roses with her tears.
In the pre-dawn hours Amalia sits beside her newly planted flower, exhausted and drained of anything but a quiet and brittle determination, titanium soul stretched thin and ironed out until there is little left but the fingerprints of a grasping, hurting child. The confrontation with her goddess used every scrap of strength she has; the planting of the rose exhausted the remainder of her reserves, until she is nothing, nothing but dust, nothing but ashes, nothing but the flickering and smoldering remnants of what used to be a fire.
Exhaling a shuddering breath, Amalia leans against the wall of the shrine, Jyoti curled in her lap, a soothing song sung into the space where her hope and happiness used to live. Half leopardess, her skin is covered with fur, ears sprouting form her golden hair, a tail wrapped around them both, evidence of her insecurity obvious in the form.
The last of the stars are fading away, and are no more tears left for her to cry. Soon people will begin to come to the bakery in search of her and find it shuttered and closed, no smell of fresh bread in the oven, no lights on in the shop. Today Amalia is not a baker, not a fighter, not a shield. She is a broken girl with a shattered heart, too tired for any more pain.
In the pre-dawn hours Amalia sits beside her newly planted flower, exhausted and drained of anything but a quiet and brittle determination, titanium soul stretched thin and ironed out until there is little left but the fingerprints of a grasping, hurting child. The confrontation with her goddess used every scrap of strength she has; the planting of the rose exhausted the remainder of her reserves, until she is nothing, nothing but dust, nothing but ashes, nothing but the flickering and smoldering remnants of what used to be a fire.
Exhaling a shuddering breath, Amalia leans against the wall of the shrine, Jyoti curled in her lap, a soothing song sung into the space where her hope and happiness used to live. Half leopardess, her skin is covered with fur, ears sprouting form her golden hair, a tail wrapped around them both, evidence of her insecurity obvious in the form.
The last of the stars are fading away, and are no more tears left for her to cry. Soon people will begin to come to the bakery in search of her and find it shuttered and closed, no smell of fresh bread in the oven, no lights on in the shop. Today Amalia is not a baker, not a fighter, not a shield. She is a broken girl with a shattered heart, too tired for any more pain.
day and night
AMALIA
