Amalia
A deeper conversation is all I want from you-
She does not notice the unicorn, but Jyoti does, her senses keener (less embroiled, less obsessed, less blurred and crowded by the sight of him in the morning, his hair pulled back off of his face, his shoulders rippling beneath his shirt, his hands, his back, his arms-). Having greeted the human who owns her bonded, the infant starwhale coos a curious call, swimming off toward the edge of the garden where the tantalizing presence of a new friend lurks. Jyoti is not afraid – fear is not something she ever learned, growing up among the cosmos, a child of time and infinite stars. So she hums and croons, calls and serenades, swimming off on invisible tides to greet this newest family member, entice and entrance her closer to kinship, an infinite affection in her cetacean heart.Amalia, too, would be infatuated, were she not absorbed in the sight before her. A note of displeasure is hummed as he leaves, her body growing cold once more without his blazing heat. It would be easy to throw aside their purpose, abandon productivity in favor of play: they have done it before, more than once, entangled themselves within each other and let the world spin idly on. Selfishly, she wants more moments like that, to forget about the roaring seas of society, the debts and burdens and responsibilities she wields, carried on her shoulders as Atlas wields the world. Except hers is not a punishment; she has willingly taken it upon herself to always uphold others, been blessed with purpose and expectation, given stars to coax into glorious life. How could she shrug off that burden, lay it aside in favor of wanton pursuits? Yes, she longs to run away, to escape the confines of a crumbling world - but the world will still be there, still crumble, and those still within will have a greater challenge with fewer hands.
So she lets him leave and sets to work, looking down upon the weapons with a mixture of fascination and dismay. Is it wrong for her to want to use these tools, enemies of life and wielders of pain? Not to kill, to maim, to slaughter, she thinks- to protect, defend, be a better shield. Biting thoughtfully at her lip, the baker lays her staff down gently, her long fingers tracing over shafts and steel, iron and glass, until at last they settle on the hilt of a dagger and she draws it up, inspecting the weapon through unreadable eyes. "This one," she murmurs, glancing back at him, the knife extended for him to inspect. It is a personal weapon, defensive and close: to hurt someone with it you would have to know, to truly intend to inflict the wound. And then, on a silly, foolish whim, the girl adds with a crooked grin: "Do you have any shields?"
- I want the words you're afraid to say:
the lonely ones you keep hidden
between the folds of your heart
