Amalia
only lonely hid the morning from the stars
✩
Jyoti coos adoringly at the acknowledgment, her love of the starlit goddess who reminds her of home knowing no bounds. She does not need words to communicate clearly, the weight of her affection infinite, cosmic. Similarly Amalia does not need words to speak: adoration is written neatly in her eyes, onyx gaze reflecting the starlight that flickers in the lantern. What neither of them loves is the effect it seems to have on the goddess, her already incorporeal form flickering with the effort of performing the magic, becoming less tangible, unsteady and insecure.
At least the stars restore some of her strength, celestial bringing light to her figure, making the goddess appear closer to whole. A smile eases her hesitant face, reverent, delighted, awed and entranced. She does not anticipate Safrin's embrace - cannot, will not, never expecting to be wrapped and bedazzled in a goddess' touch. Electricity crackles through her skin; he blood is a hymn, her breath held in wonder, as she hesitantly reaches up to lightly, carefully, return the embrace. "Anything," she avows again, not needing gratitude, not needing praise. All she has ever sought is purpose, and Safrin has given it time and again.
Even if she were not pious, Amalia would love her for that alone.
But oh, how quickly the most wonderful of moments can flip and turn and drop her stomach out. If Safrin's embrace was a balm her next words are a wound, a slap in the face of all she has accomplished, dashing down her fleeting feeling that maybe something has gone right. "The blight..." is in her. The baker can feel her knees threatening to buckle as the air leaves her lungs and her body grows limp, her head spinning wildly, blinking in shock. The blight is in her. The blight is in her. The blight is in her.
She is going to die.
Suddenly Zariah is the least of her troubles. Suddenly nothing else matters at all. "We'll stop it," she says, an echo of Ronin, just as reverent, just as determined. "Is there... is there nothing Vi can do?"
At least the stars restore some of her strength, celestial bringing light to her figure, making the goddess appear closer to whole. A smile eases her hesitant face, reverent, delighted, awed and entranced. She does not anticipate Safrin's embrace - cannot, will not, never expecting to be wrapped and bedazzled in a goddess' touch. Electricity crackles through her skin; he blood is a hymn, her breath held in wonder, as she hesitantly reaches up to lightly, carefully, return the embrace. "Anything," she avows again, not needing gratitude, not needing praise. All she has ever sought is purpose, and Safrin has given it time and again.
Even if she were not pious, Amalia would love her for that alone.
But oh, how quickly the most wonderful of moments can flip and turn and drop her stomach out. If Safrin's embrace was a balm her next words are a wound, a slap in the face of all she has accomplished, dashing down her fleeting feeling that maybe something has gone right. "The blight..." is in her. The baker can feel her knees threatening to buckle as the air leaves her lungs and her body grows limp, her head spinning wildly, blinking in shock. The blight is in her. The blight is in her. The blight is in her.
She is going to die.
Suddenly Zariah is the least of her troubles. Suddenly nothing else matters at all. "We'll stop it," she says, an echo of Ronin, just as reverent, just as determined. "Is there... is there nothing Vi can do?"
