Amalia
a certain darkness is needed to see the stars
✩
These nights, Amalia likes to wander.
She wanders through the fields, looking for things she's left behind but cannot quite remember. Sometimes she dances, stepping on butterfly wings and moving between stars.
Sometimes she runs, fleeing from hands that grasp at her ankles, threatening to drag her into the ground and fill her lungs with earth.
Sometimes she jumps so high she swears that she can fly. She floats on currents of invisible wind much like Jyoti, languid and serene as the fever rages and her mind loses track of who and where she is.
Tonight she is a dandelion seed, drifting through the summer night with starlight in her wake. The starlight is the whale, concerned by this continued sickness, crooning and singing notes of worry that only soothe the Shield. Barefoot and garbed in little more than a light shift, the girl imagines herself to be striding boldly through the tended fields.
In truth she wobbles, drenched in sweat, uneasy on her feet.
It does not surprise her to find Deimos. It should, but it doesn't- it simply makes sense. Of course he is here. He always has been, always will be, promised it time and time again. She stops when she is standing above him, swaying unsteadily but smiling down brightly at his prone figure in the grass.
"Hi, Deimos. I missed you."
She wanders through the fields, looking for things she's left behind but cannot quite remember. Sometimes she dances, stepping on butterfly wings and moving between stars.
Sometimes she runs, fleeing from hands that grasp at her ankles, threatening to drag her into the ground and fill her lungs with earth.
Sometimes she jumps so high she swears that she can fly. She floats on currents of invisible wind much like Jyoti, languid and serene as the fever rages and her mind loses track of who and where she is.
Tonight she is a dandelion seed, drifting through the summer night with starlight in her wake. The starlight is the whale, concerned by this continued sickness, crooning and singing notes of worry that only soothe the Shield. Barefoot and garbed in little more than a light shift, the girl imagines herself to be striding boldly through the tended fields.
In truth she wobbles, drenched in sweat, uneasy on her feet.
It does not surprise her to find Deimos. It should, but it doesn't- it simply makes sense. Of course he is here. He always has been, always will be, promised it time and time again. She stops when she is standing above him, swaying unsteadily but smiling down brightly at his prone figure in the grass.
"Hi, Deimos. I missed you."
