Amalia
only lonely hid the morning from the stars
✩
For years, Amalia has hung five lanterns:
One for Mort, whose love protects;
One for Vi, whose life defends;
One for Rae, whose grace renews;
One for Caido, who watches all;
And one for her family, lost to the dark.
It is a ritual carried back as far as she can recall, Chandrakant to Chandrakant since the barrier fell. For three hundred years they set out lights for their wayward gods, ardently wishing to draw them back home, to light a path that they might be found and delivered at last from isolation.
This year, they have come.
The baker agonized over her lantern lights, wondering what to do in a changed situation. Should she still hang lanterns for the gods? It seems inappropriate with them returned, yet there is comfort in ritual, in finding familiarity amidst an unfamiliar world. Should she hang them for the countless lost, Palmer and Valair, outlanders and friends? She is used to making five lanterns, and it seems wrong to do otherwise. Everything feels wrong, sometimes.
In the end she makes five lanterns again, though this time none are for the gods. Clothed in black and a green wool cloak, the Shield walks through the woods alone, for this is a lonely task. At the edge of the gathering she finds a space, setting up her stakes and twine and hanging the lights one at a time:
One for the Tulmhainar, too big for the world;
One for the Outlanders, too new for the world;
One for the Naturals, too brave for the world;
One for Emmett, too good for the world;
And one for her family, lost to the dark.
She has crafter her lanterns carefully, working alongside Kiada and Deimos, sculpting with hands and prayer. The first is green with hints of brown, a globe to mean the world; the second is shades of purple and yellow, colors that should not work together but somehow meld to make something new. The third is blue and black, colored to resemble a sky at twilight, box-shaped with scattered stars; the fourth bears signs of family and plants upon a backdrop of red
The last is the smallest, but the loveliest as well, delicately wrought in glass and bronze with flecks of gold upon its walls, two candles within, one white, one black, their lengths coiled together in unity.
Standing at last, Amalia sighs, her eyes downcast upon her work. "Your time with Vi has come to an end, but you will never be forgotten. May Ludo guide you all into Mort's love."
One for Mort, whose love protects;
One for Vi, whose life defends;
One for Rae, whose grace renews;
One for Caido, who watches all;
And one for her family, lost to the dark.
It is a ritual carried back as far as she can recall, Chandrakant to Chandrakant since the barrier fell. For three hundred years they set out lights for their wayward gods, ardently wishing to draw them back home, to light a path that they might be found and delivered at last from isolation.
This year, they have come.
The baker agonized over her lantern lights, wondering what to do in a changed situation. Should she still hang lanterns for the gods? It seems inappropriate with them returned, yet there is comfort in ritual, in finding familiarity amidst an unfamiliar world. Should she hang them for the countless lost, Palmer and Valair, outlanders and friends? She is used to making five lanterns, and it seems wrong to do otherwise. Everything feels wrong, sometimes.
In the end she makes five lanterns again, though this time none are for the gods. Clothed in black and a green wool cloak, the Shield walks through the woods alone, for this is a lonely task. At the edge of the gathering she finds a space, setting up her stakes and twine and hanging the lights one at a time:
One for the Tulmhainar, too big for the world;
One for the Outlanders, too new for the world;
One for the Naturals, too brave for the world;
One for Emmett, too good for the world;
And one for her family, lost to the dark.
She has crafter her lanterns carefully, working alongside Kiada and Deimos, sculpting with hands and prayer. The first is green with hints of brown, a globe to mean the world; the second is shades of purple and yellow, colors that should not work together but somehow meld to make something new. The third is blue and black, colored to resemble a sky at twilight, box-shaped with scattered stars; the fourth bears signs of family and plants upon a backdrop of red
The last is the smallest, but the loveliest as well, delicately wrought in glass and bronze with flecks of gold upon its walls, two candles within, one white, one black, their lengths coiled together in unity.
Standing at last, Amalia sighs, her eyes downcast upon her work. "Your time with Vi has come to an end, but you will never be forgotten. May Ludo guide you all into Mort's love."
