AmaLiA
the shield of safrin
It is dawn, and the garden is quiet, a haunting backdrop of early-morning animals and rustling leaves setting a peaceful, beautiful scene. Amalia sits cross-legged on the ground before the statue of the Vi, eyes closed and breathing deeply. More and more she has taken to meditation, learning to impose a level of stillness upon her turbulent mind. It is a difficult thing for one such as the Shield, but the slowly and steadily sharpening skill is one she values already. She is training herself not to think.
Not to overthink, anyway.
The soprano of birdsong flutters and lilts below a low bass of larger beasts, all of it backset by the percussive rhythm of flora, of literal woodwinds. It is on these sounds Amalia focuses, blocking out the countless visual stimuli that deafens and dampens everything else. Beneath her feet and legs she can feel the earth, bright and alive; the smell of it fills her with appreciation for all the sustenance it provides, to keep Vi's creatures whole. She feels wind against her skin, and other things as well: a number of voles have come to nestle beneath her knees, and a butterfly stops to pollinate one of the flowers in her hair. The promise of an autumn storm hovers at the edge of the horizon, the heavy taste of it washing over her tongue. With the rain will come more life, strengthening and renewing, preparing for the long rest winter will bring. Many lives will not survive the cold, but their deaths will contribute to a bountiful spring, and thus the cycle begins anew.
It is too beautiful for the Shield to contain. A tear slides silently down her cheek, leaving a trail of salt on her face and disappearing into her vibrant smile. "Thank you, Father," the girl whispers. "It is your work I do."
Not to overthink, anyway.
The soprano of birdsong flutters and lilts below a low bass of larger beasts, all of it backset by the percussive rhythm of flora, of literal woodwinds. It is on these sounds Amalia focuses, blocking out the countless visual stimuli that deafens and dampens everything else. Beneath her feet and legs she can feel the earth, bright and alive; the smell of it fills her with appreciation for all the sustenance it provides, to keep Vi's creatures whole. She feels wind against her skin, and other things as well: a number of voles have come to nestle beneath her knees, and a butterfly stops to pollinate one of the flowers in her hair. The promise of an autumn storm hovers at the edge of the horizon, the heavy taste of it washing over her tongue. With the rain will come more life, strengthening and renewing, preparing for the long rest winter will bring. Many lives will not survive the cold, but their deaths will contribute to a bountiful spring, and thus the cycle begins anew.
It is too beautiful for the Shield to contain. A tear slides silently down her cheek, leaving a trail of salt on her face and disappearing into her vibrant smile. "Thank you, Father," the girl whispers. "It is your work I do."
you're breaking your own heart
