Amalia
only lonely hid the morning from the stars
✩
Tilting her head back to look among the boughs, Amalia cannot help the blushing smile which breaks across her face. "Safrin," she murmurs reverently, gratitude and respect lilting in her voice. Wonder and affection fills her heart: the pious child doubts that she shall ever grow accustomed to these responses to her prayers, the attention from deities who have shaped her world. To be praised for both her baking and singing is nearly more than the girl can bear, filling her with a strange, bashful pride, making her squirm. "You honor me, but it is my grandmother who was skilled" Amalia is nothing but an echo, a hollowed reminder of a half-forgotten chord.
The stars Safrin paints with are reflected in her eyes, glittering within their inky black as she watches, enraptured by the scene above. Amalia nearly wishes Jyoti was awake, that she could see the beautiful creation, the reflection of her family written in the sky. "I had never thought anything so incredible could exist. Are they yours?" A gift from Vi, perhaps, or a song of the goddess' own spun dreams.
She listens as the deity speaks of Jyoti's fall, looking back down at the peaceful whale who sleeps within her lap. "I don't know why she chose me," Amalia admits, shaking her golden head. "And I do not deserve her. But I will do my best take care of her, until she is strong enough to go home." That the starwhale should ever leave her is an aching terror in the girls' heart, the very prospect of her absence playing a strain of loneliness deeper than any she has previously felt. But the baker will not keep a star upon the ground, will not be the chain that shackles something so perfect to an imperfect world.
The stars Safrin paints with are reflected in her eyes, glittering within their inky black as she watches, enraptured by the scene above. Amalia nearly wishes Jyoti was awake, that she could see the beautiful creation, the reflection of her family written in the sky. "I had never thought anything so incredible could exist. Are they yours?" A gift from Vi, perhaps, or a song of the goddess' own spun dreams.
She listens as the deity speaks of Jyoti's fall, looking back down at the peaceful whale who sleeps within her lap. "I don't know why she chose me," Amalia admits, shaking her golden head. "And I do not deserve her. But I will do my best take care of her, until she is strong enough to go home." That the starwhale should ever leave her is an aching terror in the girls' heart, the very prospect of her absence playing a strain of loneliness deeper than any she has previously felt. But the baker will not keep a star upon the ground, will not be the chain that shackles something so perfect to an imperfect world.
