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.
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.
