The Spark Divine

a m a l i a The red antler shifts within her hands; she clings to it, pale-knuckled, her dark eyes hooded as they trace its subtle glow. She does not dare to look at him, cannot bear to see the reproach she is certain to find. There is no amount of disappointment he can feel in her to surmount the shame she feels for herself, and she is tired, so tired, too tired to pretend. She shakes her head as he speaks her name, a wince crossing over her face at the movement. Her head hurts. Her heart hurts. She is tired. The change in lighting is subtle, at first, subtle enough that in her weary state Amalia does not register as the shadows shift. It is only when the sconces illuminate that the baker raises her head- and, indeed, her entire body, starting and stiffening in sudden alarm, her dark eyes wide and wild with surprise. Fear blooms readily in her chest: she looks to Jigano for some sign of how to proceed, but the man seems preoccupied by a creature in his care. But understanding comes quickly to the pious child, and she quickly blinks away her fear, replacing it with awe. Clutching tighter at the antler, Amalia squints against the light and falls down to her knees, her head dropping down in automatic reverence as the deity appears. Young, feminine, pretty and mild, the deity is recognizable only by its porcelain mask, and even then, only because she has studied and learned. "Ludo," she murmurs, a frown on her brow. She has ever been an acolyte of Vi, not Mort. Why would this vassal come to her? Ah, but of course: to take what is owed. Amalia exhales a shuddering breath, shivering once more at the being's quiet speech. If that is what you want- Is it what she wants? Child of daylight, of morning and life, destined to yearn but never to fly? Jigano's voice sounds distant in her ears, muffled and distorted as though by water. How can he possibly understand? How could he know what she has endured, how closely she came to tasting release, only to be returned to her lonely kingdom of failed dreams? She clutches at the antler, as though it might protect her from her own mind. "I nearly led people to their deaths," she says to him, to it, to nobody by herself, "For nothing but my own stupidity." I died. I was dead. For nothing. Black eyes raise to meet the god's, the smile met with confusion, pain. She is so tired, so cold. "Why am I alive?"