Ah, the Festival of Lights. One of her favorite days of the year, the Festival brings out a rarely seen social side in the girl, who basks with pleasure in the gentle lantern light, the flickering shadows of countless candles softening her features into a soft facsimile of their usual severity. On quiet feet she floats through the festival, dark eyes sparkling with pleasure and pride. Her delicate lanterns are strung on twine, and she seeks the perfect place to display her work.
There- an empty stake, just waiting for an offering to be made. The girl lifts her collection of lanterns, arranging them carefully along the stake. They are made of thin paper, parchment found in the Atheneum - she collects the loose leaves that have lost their books, recycling them annually into delicate art. The candles within shine radiantly through, illuminating lost and beautiful language. The girl loves her careful creations, and though it pains her to see the pages separated from their books, she hopes the beauty of them is a suitable second life.
As she strings the lights, she recites her prayers, her alto voice a melodious hum. "One for Vi, who created the world," the girl sings, hanging the first.
"Two for Rae, who preserves the world,
"Three for Mort, who destroys the world,
"Four for Caido, who holds the world."
There are some who would argue that the Old Gods are not the ones to be remembered, but the girl has been honoring them all her life. Still, from her bag she pulls one more lantern - smaller, simpler, not of ornate paper but still lovingly crafted from thin glass, hand-spun and well cared for and clearly old. The bottom filled with oil and set aflame, she secures it carefully upon the spike, her fingers lingering on the lip of the globe before falling away to hang by her side. There is no sung prayer for this one, no whispered word of love; only a single sharp tear and a quickly subdued tremble passing over her face like a shade. But the dark unhappiness is quickly banished, for shadows cannot linger in the glow of so much light. Amalia sniffs and looks around, inspecting the lanterns others have hung nearby. She is determined to enjoy herself, to be friendly. That is what they would have wanted, after all.
amalia chandrakant
There- an empty stake, just waiting for an offering to be made. The girl lifts her collection of lanterns, arranging them carefully along the stake. They are made of thin paper, parchment found in the Atheneum - she collects the loose leaves that have lost their books, recycling them annually into delicate art. The candles within shine radiantly through, illuminating lost and beautiful language. The girl loves her careful creations, and though it pains her to see the pages separated from their books, she hopes the beauty of them is a suitable second life.
As she strings the lights, she recites her prayers, her alto voice a melodious hum. "One for Vi, who created the world," the girl sings, hanging the first.
"Two for Rae, who preserves the world,
"Three for Mort, who destroys the world,
"Four for Caido, who holds the world."
There are some who would argue that the Old Gods are not the ones to be remembered, but the girl has been honoring them all her life. Still, from her bag she pulls one more lantern - smaller, simpler, not of ornate paper but still lovingly crafted from thin glass, hand-spun and well cared for and clearly old. The bottom filled with oil and set aflame, she secures it carefully upon the spike, her fingers lingering on the lip of the globe before falling away to hang by her side. There is no sung prayer for this one, no whispered word of love; only a single sharp tear and a quickly subdued tremble passing over her face like a shade. But the dark unhappiness is quickly banished, for shadows cannot linger in the glow of so much light. Amalia sniffs and looks around, inspecting the lanterns others have hung nearby. She is determined to enjoy herself, to be friendly. That is what they would have wanted, after all.
we might be hollow, but we're brave
