[se] woven web of dreams

Amalia

don't make a shadow of yourself, always shutting out the light

"Me neither." Perhaps they are more alike than they know, daughters of healers, burdened by loss. Never meant to follow in their mother's footsteps, they have forged their own pathways through the world, traced the fault lines of discord and dissonance and tried to do their best. "I never had the patience for healing. But my mother was relentless. She taught me to fight, too. Said I needed to be able to defend myself, in a place like this." A far-off smile floats over her lips, tainted by nostalgia, sadness. Amalia had never valued her mother, never appreciated the efforts she made, the strength she possessed.

She hadn't even been there when she died.

Sighing, the girl shakes her head, as though to clear out cobwebs of the past. Her mother would not want her to dwell, to live her life in anxious remorse and regret the things she had done. Another difference between them, another point of contention- but that doesn't matter now. Putting a smile back in place, Amalia looks fondly at the fire-haired girl, delighting in her giggles, her easy amusement and joy. Together they wear their baskets like masks, shields against the difficult parts of life, the terrors and losses that haunt their steps. "Demons?" she asks, raising a brow, invisible behind the woven reeds. "More likely the demons would think we're two of them. Maybe we could infiltrate their ranks, become their leaders." She laughs, low and rich, enjoying the moment of childish mirth. It is a good relief from the daily discord, the woes and anxieties put aside.

MELITA

The words were remarkably similar, a rush, a dash of heartache, though where Amalia’s mother might have pressed, Melita’s had not; quiet and patient, a smile, a laugh, a beatific melody amidst the confusion and obvious disregard for any soothing, assuaging abilities. Had she been given enough time, it might have happened – but her mother had always been the sort of individual too gentle and too easygoing to bristle or grate upon her daughters, loved them as they were, no matter how foolish or silly. “I taught myself to fight. Do you have any weapons?” She twisted her head around to face the baker again, the blistering smile on her face promising fangs and monstrous intentions, impish and wild; somewhat proud, somewhat convinced in her voracious, vehement convictions. “It wasn’t much. But I had to defend my sister and my friends.” She shrugged, as if she hadn’t been a damned, bestial little shield in the plights of the world, covering Clementine’s frame with her own as lightning scorched and rankled down her back, as ghosts threatened to consume and destroy them all. “My mother sacrificed herself for us.” Then her eyes dropped, back to her basket with its devilish contortions, never quite away from those bestial, barbaric qualities surging through her skin.

But then they were back to fiends and heathens - be the bigger one - a clamor in her brain, and she immersed herself into the mirth instead of the melancholy, yearning to burst from those terrible, treacherous intonations, to stretch her limbs, her hands, her fingers, her toes, into delight. “I always wanted to be a monster,” she declared, uncertain of which venue to press, uncertain of how large the dream, the wish, the inspiration would grow: “So the rest would be too afraid of me, so they’d never come after anyone I cherished.” The hope was in her eyes, in her smile, in the beats of savagery underlined and coating her soul, her essence, her presence. Amalia’s laughter was rich and poured off the distant clouds and the unholy discourse, and the girl hungered to become part of the wilderness again. “Demon queens sound perfect.” Her voice was a hum, a reverent croon shaped out of upheaval and insurrection; because monsters had claws and so did she.

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight

Amalia

don't make a shadow of yourself, always shutting out the light

"I have a staff." She meets Melita's smile with one of her own, less impish than wry, aware that in many circles a staff would not be considered particularly useful or fine a weapon. But for Amalia it is perfect, an easy tool with which to dance, an extension of her arm which serves more purpose than combat, which people in this land need. Nobody here has one job, one role, so why should their constructs not be the same, malleable and serviceable for a number of causes, giving back to a community knit by the closest of ties?

Her smile fades as the story goes on, snippets of a history swathed in black, darkness painted upon the scene, a series of sadnesses belied by brilliance. "I'm sorry." Soft, sincere, she offers the apology on behalf of a world which is cruel and avaricious, no matter whose it is. The place the girl comes from sounds hard, painful and mercilessly, not unlike here. Loss is a blemish on Melita's luminous face, a scar Amalia knows too well, recognizes when worn. She has a litter of them across her own fragile heart, silver slices in the remnants of her childhood, leaving her youth in ribbons, her innocence torn.

But Melita is still vibrant, still young and spry and full of joy, or so it seems to the girl. So Amalia rallies, her starlit smile returning once more, a mask to shield the child from pain, a hope that there is hope for her still. She is grateful for the basket over her face, another thing to hide her wounds, the way the little soldier's statement makes her flinch. "Demon queens it is," she echoes in response, inclining her head to her fellow monarch, a little laughter in her voice. "We will make the wood our kingdom, and the greatest tree within our throne!"

MELITA

Amalia’s weaponry compromised and composed the broadest smile Melita could maintain, as if lingering from the heavens, ambrosial and vivid. “A staff?! Me too!” Her excitement pulsed and pervaded, louder and louder, forgetting she should be hushed amidst the clamor of these woods, when anything and everything could be watching. “I have a bow. And sometimes I just use whatever’s at my disposal, like rocks and things.” The staff had always been her favorite because she’d been able to whittle one from broken tree limbs and crashed boughs, always available, within her hands, driving straight into jaws and skulls with maddening ease, a long extension of her rage and voracity. She’d never been able to get her hands on a sword: but the notion was a compassionate thing, yearning to grab hold of whatever she could, learning, contemplating, experimenting with what she could utilize to become more powerful, what she could apply and wield to better protect her brethren. “We should train sometime!” She winked, glowing and barbaric, twisting and turning the plait-work in her hands with a renewed vigor.

Even as Amalia’s soft, dulcet apologies came across, they couldn’t polish away Melita’s resurgence. “It’s all right,” she murmured back, fingers quicker now, on the edge, on the fringe, of something better and brighter. “It’s not your fault.” A sudden boldness ran over her, chiseled, refined, torched, and she might’ve been a flame along that threshold, jaw clenched and then loosened, the smile disappearing, then re-emerging, eyes staring into the space of stardust and vampire gourd hisses, then settling back on her basket, becoming something other than molded catastrophe in her wake. Just like everything else: eventually, she’d become something too. “I wasn’t strong enough. Or fast enough.” It was a constant shade over her stare, but not now, not when it was scathing and coiling, deep in the denizens of her heart. “But I will be.” Her gaze settled on Amalia’s with that same illustrious grin, not wicked or callous, not regretful or mournful, something between heavenly and unholy, corded and wrapped in the middle, waiting for the right time to strike.

Perhaps that will make her a demon queen, lush and in the wood with her monstrous sister Amalia, and they’ll share the broken paths together, sculpting and carving new emblems and memories in the dust. Her laughter rang, high and lilting, a bewitching, alluring sort of craft, missing the way the baker flinched at her words: maybe they were too haunting, too desperate, or already too forsaken. “They’ll tell legends of us: the great beasts of the trees!”

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight