The sun is strange. She's expecting to suddenly dissolve into nothing, but it never happens.

How does she know where she's going? It's hard to trust that girl's word. Of course, all she's done is help, the walking girl has no reason to think ill of anything she's told her. But it's hard to stay steady after everything's flipped over. All promises were tables bolted to the floor, like in the eating place—supposed to stay put. It's almost as if Amaranda had pushed them over.

But she's unable to help that she somehow she feels she was responsible for all this, after all, she let the little one dream, she let the little one dance around. She raised her like that. Unready to be a mother, she raised her. She'll never touch any with youth's eyes again. Her touch is rejection.

"Go to the cathedral," the helping girl had slipped a piece of paper into Amaranda's trembling hands made of tears. "You can stay there."

"But Ami, w—" she had taken it and slipped it in the pocket that wasn't covered by the black haired head, buried in Amaranda's stomach. She pulled the little one closer to her, not wanting her to see anything at all, ever, so she would never remember. "I can't stay in one place."

"There's other Fairlies in Orlando," Amilina nodded. "Just us. None of the others. You're safe."

"There's other kinds of evil in other parts of the world," Amaranda swallowed bawls.

"None of them a threat to you," was the response.

There sure are evils, and Amaranda feels cheated that her whole life there's only been one thing wrong with the world and that thing's prying beyond what you're allowed to speak, what you're allowed to breathe. Now, there's feelings like not knowing and seeing this whole world in front of you and you feel like you've gotta look at it all and what you've would've been doing then you're not doing now and and and…

The whiteness of the walls that's surrounded her since memory are no longer walls; they're prison bars, even though she has no clue about how she knows that word. She guesses, the words will be a flood for know on. They're cackling and scheming and all the while being totally silent. It's not that she cares about those still left—not at all—but to think they can be ruined like she was…

Amaranda sees it in the distance—a building with slightly bulging material making the outside, like someone forgot to smooth it down while building it, and a domed cracked white something at the top, standing like it's not permitted to be there, and a window, such a strange, strange thing, catching the light and trapping it like all bad things in the world. It has different colors. There's something innocent in the middle, something she only knows the name because of how it stuck in her mind when she first heard it, like she would need it later. The angel looks like her. She has that look, same as the little one, stolen from above, and put on Earth, and bringing unending illumination and pain to life.

She's lost both of them now. She's lost both of the lights.

Amaranda knows she can't be Amaranda anymore, but it's so darn hard to not be. It's going to be a new life. It's going to be a new life. It's going to be a new life.

Those words are poison, each time it's thought, her eyes burn.

Amaranda stumbles to the steps by her new home, still so young, but feeling old enough to die. She hides her face from the world, hands running through her hair, making supressed sounds to the ground.

"Jes," she whispers in strangled sobs, tears cascading down. "Jes…"