{SEASONAL EVENT} Arc Toward the Sun

AMALIA Flowerbirth is the time for baking. The yeast is wild in the air, the herbs bloom rampant in the yard, and Amalia's arms are full of stalks of rosemary, thyme, and lavender as she walks into the shop, her hands damp from the moist earth. She deposits her bounty on the counter top and wipes the dirt onto her apron: she has never been particularly neat, and her grandmother would have chided her for this, she thinks with a dull pang. Leaning her hands on her work surface she sighs, inhaling the scent of herbs and flour and trying to ignore the lump in her throat. Flowerbirth is beautiful, but it is also hard, and every flower is a memory of the people who are not there. There is much to be done in preparation for Fiat Lux: starters to set out, flour to grind, milk to barter for, herbs to dry. Never mind that after the bustle of Rathskeller has left her shop feeling empty and bare; never mind that the thought of cleaning it up alone fills her with a quiet dismay. Long Night was not kind to the bakery, and things are still a mess from her hasty trip to Rory's house. Another dull pang, though this one is stranger, sharper, harder to look upon. She misses Rory, and Jigano, and the comfort of their presence through the Long Night. She has tasted friendship, and the absence of it is like frostbite in spring. She sighs again, resolutely this time, pushing herself back from the counter and rubbing her hands together. There has been time for grieving, and there will always be more: now, as her mother would have said, is the time for work. Amalia has been lonely for years- why should this new return to isolation have a sting so much sharper than ever before? Stubbornly she begins to tie the herbs with twine, humming as much to fill the silence as to enjoy the sound. Here and there, a word slips out: odes to spring, to Rae. And it works, in a way: before she realizes she is lost in her work, and an hour has passed or more. A loaf of bread makes it into the oven. "Let the light come in and the shadows fade... let the spring wind blow through the sunlit glade..." She does not notice the door swing open, but when the man speaks Amalia spins around, dark eyes wide in wild surprise, song dying quickly on her tongue. "H-hello!" the baker replies, flushed with warmth from the blazing ovens. The man is familiar, a memory of time past, and she smiles at him, shyly, as he enters the story. "Welcome to Devas Bakery. I... what can I do for you today?" I tend to avoid getting emotional I'm not shutting you out It's just the way I'm born But I see myself next to you until we're old