meet me where the falling stars live
i will wait for you
Her expression stays uncharacteristically neutral as she waits for the woman to reply, waiting for condemnation or abandonment, for onslaught or attack. Amalia has changed dramatically in the past year, the past season, the past week- in this night, even, and the girl who looks at her one time mentor is a different one from the shy baker who kept against her grandmother's shadow, too afraid to reach for stars.
The Amalia that sits before Wessex now has touched the stars, been burnt for her efforts.
Wessex looks the same. The observation almost amuses the girl - would, if she was currently capable of amusement. The lines, the age, the way she stands, all painfully familiar to the Shield. Everything changes, but Wessex never will, because Wessex has made a change too great for Amalia to comprehend, a change she will never agree with or understand, the change to never change.
Not in ways Amalia can see. Once, she might have been privy to the other ways, but these days there are walls between them, built from pain and steel. Is she cold? "I don't think so," the girl replies, looking down at herself with something like surprise, as though she did not register the fur which grows from her skin. "Are you?" A stupid question: of course she is not. Wessex has moved beyond feeling cold. She is bigger than that, now.
Wessex is a Queen now, the Queen, high above her in status and importance, a vassal of a corrupt god, and Amalia? Amalia has not heard from her, has not been asked to help. Amalia has fallen behind, been left where she belongs: a small child with nothing to contribute except repeat failure and more disappointment, an island in the storm. Wessex is finding her place in the world, and Amalia is more lost than ever, her heart given to a cause she may have to betray to save the thing she loves the most, to protect that which she holds most dear.
But there are still things she can protect, still things she can do. Maybe Wessex no longer loves her, but a piece of the girl will always adore the wraith, cling to and cherish their family ties. There is a movement of fur as the slender baker seems to wake up, shaking some of the defeat from her shoulders, blinking the crusted tears from her lashes. Tilting her face up to the woman, the girl regards her with eyes too tired to dance or make a game. "Would you kill me, Wessex? If the Voice asked?"
The Amalia that sits before Wessex now has touched the stars, been burnt for her efforts.
Wessex looks the same. The observation almost amuses the girl - would, if she was currently capable of amusement. The lines, the age, the way she stands, all painfully familiar to the Shield. Everything changes, but Wessex never will, because Wessex has made a change too great for Amalia to comprehend, a change she will never agree with or understand, the change to never change.
Not in ways Amalia can see. Once, she might have been privy to the other ways, but these days there are walls between them, built from pain and steel. Is she cold? "I don't think so," the girl replies, looking down at herself with something like surprise, as though she did not register the fur which grows from her skin. "Are you?" A stupid question: of course she is not. Wessex has moved beyond feeling cold. She is bigger than that, now.
Wessex is a Queen now, the Queen, high above her in status and importance, a vassal of a corrupt god, and Amalia? Amalia has not heard from her, has not been asked to help. Amalia has fallen behind, been left where she belongs: a small child with nothing to contribute except repeat failure and more disappointment, an island in the storm. Wessex is finding her place in the world, and Amalia is more lost than ever, her heart given to a cause she may have to betray to save the thing she loves the most, to protect that which she holds most dear.
But there are still things she can protect, still things she can do. Maybe Wessex no longer loves her, but a piece of the girl will always adore the wraith, cling to and cherish their family ties. There is a movement of fur as the slender baker seems to wake up, shaking some of the defeat from her shoulders, blinking the crusted tears from her lashes. Tilting her face up to the woman, the girl regards her with eyes too tired to dance or make a game. "Would you kill me, Wessex? If the Voice asked?"
day and night
AMALIA
