a m a l i a
Annual traditions, as foolish as they may seem, are something society relishes. They bring consistency, tell stories, establish order in a chaotic world. Or so Amalia tells herself as she approaches the clearing of the spark bird's perch, a warm jug of tea cupped between her hands. She is attracted to the spectacle like moth to flame, though it is a long time since she actually participated - ten years, in fact, ten long and lonely winters, since the girl was a child and her grandmother held her hand, smiling and laughing joyfully as she regaled the village youth with old wives tales of the spark bird's exploits. After the old woman's death the girl stopped participating, but would still turn up and watch. Amalia would watch with doleful eyes, curious and yearning but too shy to join in, always an observer, needing to be coaxed.
Now, though, the girl is an adult, a woman, and for her twenty-first Deepfrost she is determined to change her ways. She has loaded her pack with hearty breads and comes armed with these and the tea, a fur cloak pulled around her shoulders, her long tunic reaching to her boots. Her left arm is caught in a makeshift sling to protect the still healing muscle of her shoulder. The construction has begun, but it is a sorry affair; little of the festivity of a decade past remains, and presently the perch is little more than a great hole in the ground and some stone. Amalia eyes it skeptically, anxiety thrumming electric through her bones. Go home, get warm, it scolds her firmly. How could someone like you possibly help?
Amalia swallows this anxiety, burying it beneath stubborn determination, and makes her way toward a growing assembly dotted with comfortingly familiar faces. One in particular stands out, blonde and boyish and comfortingly close to an animal, which the girl is quick to draw beside and offer a hand to sniff. "Hi, Rory," Amalia greets, glancing from her refuge beside the horse and up to its owner before turning to face the others assembled. She knows one of them from that fateful night, an ascended, and her shoulder twinges with the memory of it all, the pain and wounds still fresh upon her skin. Quickly the girl turns from him, instead alighting on a vibrant young stranger with fiery hair.
A bittersweet nostalgia pierces Amalia: she might have been the girl's companion, in another world and a different time. She might have been bright and carefree, innocuous and curious. She glances back at the ascended, a careful smile tugging at her lips. Today, she can be friendly and open. Today, she can forget the trauma of yesterday and start anew. Today she can be like this pleasant child, the child she once was, and participate in tradition despite her injured arm and hollowed eyes and the anxiety that eats endlessly at her brain. "We're going to build the greatest perch in years," Amalia announces to everyone, "And perhaps this year the Spark Bird will grace us with his presence, Caido willing."
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