why else love if not to feel the stars exploding in our veins?
Some things are the same.
The Amalia who stands in front of the Governor's House looks, for all intents and purposes, identical to the one who stood on the bluffs scarcely a week ago. There is no new wound to mar her skin, no noted change in her hair, her clothes. She still carries with her a well-worn bag, still has a shield slung over her back. Uncertainty still radiates off her as she knocks upon the door, rapping in three successive taps before dropping her hand to the hilt of the sword that hangs down at her side.
Some things are different.
Like the sword, a marked shift from the staff she usually lugs around. Different, too, is the way she stands: a little bit straighter, a little more reserved, her usual anxiety dampened and replaced by a new sort of maturity which she wears like a cloak. Even Jyoti seems subdued in her place upon the Shield's shoulder, crooning softly as they wait for the door to open and light to spill out into the dark rain.
Damp hair cascades over tense shoulders, plastered to her face; she pushes a lock back with the heel of her hand, glad for the downpour and its ability to hide her trembling. She came here to be vulnerable, but when you've spent your whole life guarded, vulnerability is hard.
The Amalia who stands in front of the Governor's House looks, for all intents and purposes, identical to the one who stood on the bluffs scarcely a week ago. There is no new wound to mar her skin, no noted change in her hair, her clothes. She still carries with her a well-worn bag, still has a shield slung over her back. Uncertainty still radiates off her as she knocks upon the door, rapping in three successive taps before dropping her hand to the hilt of the sword that hangs down at her side.
Some things are different.
Like the sword, a marked shift from the staff she usually lugs around. Different, too, is the way she stands: a little bit straighter, a little more reserved, her usual anxiety dampened and replaced by a new sort of maturity which she wears like a cloak. Even Jyoti seems subdued in her place upon the Shield's shoulder, crooning softly as they wait for the door to open and light to spill out into the dark rain.
Damp hair cascades over tense shoulders, plastered to her face; she pushes a lock back with the heel of her hand, glad for the downpour and its ability to hide her trembling. She came here to be vulnerable, but when you've spent your whole life guarded, vulnerability is hard.
Amalia
