A M A L I A
The darkness lasts only a second before it is punctuated by light, vibrant as sunlight, soft as starlight, warm as firelight, cool as the moon. And in the light, a face she does not recognize but immediately knows, for who could it be but him, Vi, the lost god of life to whom the girl has so ardently prayed, day and night for twenty one years? The happiness that pierces her is perfect and pure: in his smile she can see the world, in his laughter she hears her grandmother's joy. The god reaches out and the girl does too, her hands extending toward him in an action that is almost compulsory, yearning and longing to be close. "Vi," she whispers into the light.
And then, the light is gone.
The temple is empty, the sun long set. Moments ago bathed in starlight, the beautiful hall appears nearly mundane in the flickering glow of lanterns. But Amalia does not feel alone, for she isn't alone, not anymore, not in the same way. Something has changed in her, something fundamental and deep and beautiful and terrifying and pure. Awash with wonder, Amalia falls onto her knees, blinking and finding there are tears upon her face. She laughs then, a hearty sound, deep and musical as pealing bells, laughs and cries and feels and believes.
"Thank you, Safrin," the girl murmurs, a radiant smile slicing her face. Then she stands and gathers her thing, leaving the familiar temple a new young woman. She is one of them. She is loved. She is attuned.
