Amalia
only lonely hid the morning from the stars
✩
Of all the faces Amalia expected to see, Maea's is not among them.
Granted, most of her visitors have come as a surprise - but none moreso than the pale girl, whose absence these past seasons (year?) had led the baker to fear that Maea had joined the ranks of those lost to the world. Seeing her now is not unlike seeing a ghost; for a moment Amalia can only blink as the figure drifts toward her, wondering if perhaps she's hallucinating.
Or dead.
A blanket lays over Amalia's lower body despite the warmth of the infirmary, as though by hiding her broken appendages she can make them disappear. Struggling to pull herself up in the bed, her useless legs dragging across the scratchy sheets, the Shield regards her childhood friend with a listless, blinking stare. "Maea? I thought you were dead."
There is no celebration, relief, or resentment in her voice. Amalia's rich, expressive alto is entirely devoid of inflection: a tired, observant monotone, stating the obvious because she lacks the will to muster anything more.
Granted, most of her visitors have come as a surprise - but none moreso than the pale girl, whose absence these past seasons (year?) had led the baker to fear that Maea had joined the ranks of those lost to the world. Seeing her now is not unlike seeing a ghost; for a moment Amalia can only blink as the figure drifts toward her, wondering if perhaps she's hallucinating.
Or dead.
A blanket lays over Amalia's lower body despite the warmth of the infirmary, as though by hiding her broken appendages she can make them disappear. Struggling to pull herself up in the bed, her useless legs dragging across the scratchy sheets, the Shield regards her childhood friend with a listless, blinking stare. "Maea? I thought you were dead."
There is no celebration, relief, or resentment in her voice. Amalia's rich, expressive alto is entirely devoid of inflection: a tired, observant monotone, stating the obvious because she lacks the will to muster anything more.
