Amalia;
She has learned something new.
Slipping into the leopard form is like slipping into her skin. It has been there waiting in the recesses of her soul since that encounter with Safrin, a song half-remembered, a story still untold. But it is her weakness, her convalescence which brings it to the surface, awakens a need to be something other than herself. This human body betrayed her, once, failed and collapsed and faded into nothing. Amalia wants to be stronger, faster, better, closer to the Gods.
And so she becomes the leopard, and the leopard becomes her, and at once she is attuned.
On padded feet she does not make a sound; through thick, layered fur, she does not feel the cold. She retains none of her human characteristics: she is other, and it is liberating, a world of weight relieved from her shoulders, a barbell lifted off her heart.
So she is when the infirmary door opens and a pair of figures slips inside. Soundlessly she slides beneath her cot, gold eyes gleaming in the low candlelight as she watches their feet shift across the ground. A woman, a stranger, and as she falls against the wall Amalia's heart aches in time. She can smell the grief, hear the sobs before they rise. Should she offer comfort? Flee? Continue to hide? It seems cruel to intrude, rude to remain, and so she thinks perhaps she will slip away-
But the luxere stops her as it approaches, spindly legs clipping softly on stone. Amalia cannot help herself: she is entranced by the animal, drawn to it, emboldened. She has always aspired to be more like the luxere, the selfless creatures who protect and guide. Human Amalia would hide in anxiety, but Leopard Amalia is brave and kind. On quiet paws she emerges from hiding, head tilting beseechingly as she regards the dark haired girl. She knows what it is to mourn, to yearn, and so she takes a careful step closer, ready to stop should the woman rebuff her, a deep purr emerging from her feline lungs.
Slipping into the leopard form is like slipping into her skin. It has been there waiting in the recesses of her soul since that encounter with Safrin, a song half-remembered, a story still untold. But it is her weakness, her convalescence which brings it to the surface, awakens a need to be something other than herself. This human body betrayed her, once, failed and collapsed and faded into nothing. Amalia wants to be stronger, faster, better, closer to the Gods.
And so she becomes the leopard, and the leopard becomes her, and at once she is attuned.
On padded feet she does not make a sound; through thick, layered fur, she does not feel the cold. She retains none of her human characteristics: she is other, and it is liberating, a world of weight relieved from her shoulders, a barbell lifted off her heart.
So she is when the infirmary door opens and a pair of figures slips inside. Soundlessly she slides beneath her cot, gold eyes gleaming in the low candlelight as she watches their feet shift across the ground. A woman, a stranger, and as she falls against the wall Amalia's heart aches in time. She can smell the grief, hear the sobs before they rise. Should she offer comfort? Flee? Continue to hide? It seems cruel to intrude, rude to remain, and so she thinks perhaps she will slip away-
But the luxere stops her as it approaches, spindly legs clipping softly on stone. Amalia cannot help herself: she is entranced by the animal, drawn to it, emboldened. She has always aspired to be more like the luxere, the selfless creatures who protect and guide. Human Amalia would hide in anxiety, but Leopard Amalia is brave and kind. On quiet paws she emerges from hiding, head tilting beseechingly as she regards the dark haired girl. She knows what it is to mourn, to yearn, and so she takes a careful step closer, ready to stop should the woman rebuff her, a deep purr emerging from her feline lungs.
dry your smoke-stung eyes
you can see the light
you can see the light
