i sat with my anger long enough she told me her real name was grief
After the meeting, Amalia gets lost.
It is both literal and figurative, in this case. She intended to flee back to her apartments, to lock the door and hide from the world and the roar of panic that presses at her ears. But the Tower is labyrinthine, and at some point a wrong turn leads her in entirely the wrong direction. Instead of her apartments she finds herself in crowded halls, trying desperately to avoid eye contact, to keep herself from falling apart in front of an audience. One foot goes in front of the other, leading her wherever it is she's going to wind up. She focuses on that, gaze trained to the ground - because otherwise the things inside her head might be able to get out.
Maybe it's some cosmic trick of the universe that she winds up in a library. Years ago Amalia had endured another trauma, and instead of finding strength to move on, lost herself to books. Now as she wanders through the stacks of silent ghosts she is reminded of those days. The scent of parchment, the soft whisper of pages, the towering shelves of history and dreams - she'd let herself be buried beneath it all, blinded herself by the shadows they cast, hidden from the cruel light that illuminated an unforgiving world.
Slender fingers travel idly over lovingly bound spines. She is aimless, lost, trying hard to keep from thinking, and it is thus that she finds herself sinking deeper and deeper into the recesses of the Archive. Until at last the Archangel finds herself cornered, unable to flee any further as the marble pillars of the library close around and shut her in. She stops then, alone in a shadowed corner, and leans her forehead on the cold wall.
It is both literal and figurative, in this case. She intended to flee back to her apartments, to lock the door and hide from the world and the roar of panic that presses at her ears. But the Tower is labyrinthine, and at some point a wrong turn leads her in entirely the wrong direction. Instead of her apartments she finds herself in crowded halls, trying desperately to avoid eye contact, to keep herself from falling apart in front of an audience. One foot goes in front of the other, leading her wherever it is she's going to wind up. She focuses on that, gaze trained to the ground - because otherwise the things inside her head might be able to get out.
Maybe it's some cosmic trick of the universe that she winds up in a library. Years ago Amalia had endured another trauma, and instead of finding strength to move on, lost herself to books. Now as she wanders through the stacks of silent ghosts she is reminded of those days. The scent of parchment, the soft whisper of pages, the towering shelves of history and dreams - she'd let herself be buried beneath it all, blinded herself by the shadows they cast, hidden from the cruel light that illuminated an unforgiving world.
Slender fingers travel idly over lovingly bound spines. She is aimless, lost, trying hard to keep from thinking, and it is thus that she finds herself sinking deeper and deeper into the recesses of the Archive. Until at last the Archangel finds herself cornered, unable to flee any further as the marble pillars of the library close around and shut her in. She stops then, alone in a shadowed corner, and leans her forehead on the cold wall.
Amalia
