Amalia
The Infirmary.
Amalia groans weakly as the familiar ceilings come into focus, dark and oppressive as they have ever been. She hates this place, always has. As a child her mother would drag her here, forcing her to sit through lessons on science and medicine, tonics and herbs. But the body never interested Amalia: it was the mind, the soul, the spirit which captured the girl's thoughts, held her captive by its vast promise of something grandiose and unattainable. While her mother preached of broken bones the girl dreamed of memory and myth, history and starlight and parchment and ink.
Things only soured as the girl grew older, hormones and loss sewing bitterness, discord. The grandmother who kept peace was lost to the pair, leaving Amalia and her mother to fend for themselves, both too heartbroken to empathize, to stubborn to yield. Who can say what truly drove them apart? In time the fruitless lessons stopped, as Amalia began to spend more time in the library and the loss of a medic bound Rishima to her patients.
Despite being relatively uninjured, the girl finds it hard to stir: there is an exhaustion in her bones unlike anything she has ever known. Everything hurts, from heel to head. Letting out another weak groan she tries again to rise, and succeeds only in rolling onto her side, a deep sigh of defeat escaping her lungs.
Why is she here? The memories are unclear. Something about Long Night... is it the Long Night now? Of course, that makes sense: she must have come to spend it with her mother, despite her loathing of this place. Where was Rishima, now? Probably tending to a patient: she always has more time for others than her daughter, or so Amalia thinks bitterly, shaking her golden head.
With one last burst of energy she manages to prop herself into a seated position, legs swinging over the side of the bed, head dropping into her hands as she gasps for air, panting through the pain which grips every fiber of her being. What happened to her? Snippets form in her puzzled mind: a perch. Fire. Fish. Nani? No, that is not right- her grandmother is dead.
Or is she the one who died?
Is this death?
It hurts so much, everything hurts. Fear grips her heart like a vice, clawing at her lungs. "Ma?" she calls softly into the silence, head in her hands, hair in her face, a lost child, yearning for someone to guide her. "Mama, are you there? I- I'm scared."
Rory
Amalia groans weakly as the familiar ceilings come into focus, dark and oppressive as they have ever been. She hates this place, always has. As a child her mother would drag her here, forcing her to sit through lessons on science and medicine, tonics and herbs. But the body never interested Amalia: it was the mind, the soul, the spirit which captured the girl's thoughts, held her captive by its vast promise of something grandiose and unattainable. While her mother preached of broken bones the girl dreamed of memory and myth, history and starlight and parchment and ink.
Things only soured as the girl grew older, hormones and loss sewing bitterness, discord. The grandmother who kept peace was lost to the pair, leaving Amalia and her mother to fend for themselves, both too heartbroken to empathize, to stubborn to yield. Who can say what truly drove them apart? In time the fruitless lessons stopped, as Amalia began to spend more time in the library and the loss of a medic bound Rishima to her patients.
Despite being relatively uninjured, the girl finds it hard to stir: there is an exhaustion in her bones unlike anything she has ever known. Everything hurts, from heel to head. Letting out another weak groan she tries again to rise, and succeeds only in rolling onto her side, a deep sigh of defeat escaping her lungs.
Why is she here? The memories are unclear. Something about Long Night... is it the Long Night now? Of course, that makes sense: she must have come to spend it with her mother, despite her loathing of this place. Where was Rishima, now? Probably tending to a patient: she always has more time for others than her daughter, or so Amalia thinks bitterly, shaking her golden head.
With one last burst of energy she manages to prop herself into a seated position, legs swinging over the side of the bed, head dropping into her hands as she gasps for air, panting through the pain which grips every fiber of her being. What happened to her? Snippets form in her puzzled mind: a perch. Fire. Fish. Nani? No, that is not right- her grandmother is dead.
Or is she the one who died?
Is this death?
It hurts so much, everything hurts. Fear grips her heart like a vice, clawing at her lungs. "Ma?" she calls softly into the silence, head in her hands, hair in her face, a lost child, yearning for someone to guide her. "Mama, are you there? I- I'm scared."
