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!"
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!"
