[ She unfurls through the child's eyes she saw it once in: the fort of Amra. The Sheesh Mahal, splendid in the morning sun. Patterning outwards in rows and rows, thousands upon thousands of mirror that make it all at once as if stepping into the light of the sun itself. The arches and clipped edges covered. Some simply to be panelled in light, others form mirror patterns of flowers in bloom, animals at play. A majesty of a fading empire, the beauty of the Marathi's to whom she first was no more a servant of, and then a ruler of. Making each movement roll in unreality reflection where they ceiling was built to move like the heavens and the dancers she remembered as a child, seemed as many as the wives of Krishna himself, and just as lovely. They move a step out of divinity themselves, the room a removed heaven of beauty. Here, great love was born, here, great sadness too. Here, a empire rose and fell all of itself.
It is, to her child's observation, a overwhelming feeling. ]
(Even shards create beauty, Misato. Even the pieces that slice us deepest. )
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It is, to her child's observation, a overwhelming feeling. ]
( Even shards create beauty, Misato. Even the pieces that slice us deepest. )