acres of longing, mountains of tenderness
Some days she's in Torchline. Some days she's in the Grounds. She feels like her body lives without her mind, bouncing between moments and portals from place to place to place. Only sometimes does she go with it; the rest of the time she is flying through stars, searching for the sun.
This is not the sun. This is a bright light that burns and pierces, cutting through the darkness at a pulsing interval and leaving shadows crisp and fleeting to spread across the ground. She wants to catch it, to bask within it, to watch her shadow dance behind her, to finally feel warm.
On hands and knees (or paws and feet?) Amalia chases the light, running in a wide arc through the rocks and grass. It's only when she sees her shadow that she stops-
Except the shadow doesn't move as the light slides by, leaving Amalia blink at it in abject surprise.
This is not the sun. This is a bright light that burns and pierces, cutting through the darkness at a pulsing interval and leaving shadows crisp and fleeting to spread across the ground. She wants to catch it, to bask within it, to watch her shadow dance behind her, to finally feel warm.
On hands and knees (or paws and feet?) Amalia chases the light, running in a wide arc through the rocks and grass. It's only when she sees her shadow that she stops-
Except the shadow doesn't move as the light slides by, leaving Amalia blink at it in abject surprise.
Amalia
