Amalia tucks the cup against her palms almost without conscious thought, staring, blankly, into the empty vessel, as though the porcelain might hold some answers, as though she can magically will the thing to fill itself up with tea. Where had it come from, this old piece of pottery? Cracked lines and broken pieces suggest he did not make it, that it comes from a time before he arrived, fractured enamel and absent shards. Who had held it before her- a child, a family? A grandfather with weathered and gnarled hands as he whispered stories to eager listeners, told of spirits both light and dark?
What did they worry about, except for Long Night, the coming harvest, the scorching sun?
Amalia misses the absent days when demons were the greatest part of her worries, when her trials were, at the least, predictable, manageable in their approach. Once she understood the dangers: they were dismal, terrifying, but they were hers. No knowledge was far from her fingers, no information quite outside her reach. She understood the Hollow Grounds and her place within them, as small and insignificant as that might be.
Now, though, the girl is lost, adrift in a sea of mistaken choices. She does not look up at his pacing, still too caught in her own unsettled, useless thoughts. What had she been thinking, putting up that notice, trying to correct another issue far larger than herself? Of course she botched it - of course there were consequences, far greater and worse than where she started, dismal and dangerous, painful and vast? She does not look up when Deimos speaks, but something in her stiffens and shudders, the lines of her body growing taut. You are welcome to stay here- because he is leaving, because he cannot bear to be here.
Because at last she is too much.
Of course - of course - but what was she thinking, bringing him this latest evidence of her foolishness, another mistake? The last of her shatters, breaks apart. Of course she has managed to ruin this, too.
A choked laugh rings from her throat, strangled, halfway to a sob; she is shaking as she rises abruptly from her chair, palms splayed out upon the table, her head swaying dangerously in denial, despair. "No, I'll go," the girl exhales, reaching out to snatch up the note, trying and failing to hide the tremble that strums and taunts the edge of her voice. "I'm sorry. I should get back- there's a lot to do- the bakery, and- and- and Jyo will need to stay somewhere- and- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have bothered you, I just- "
I just wanted someone to hold me. I just wanted to be told that things would be okay.
She isn't crying. She isn't crying.
But oh, god, she is close.
What did they worry about, except for Long Night, the coming harvest, the scorching sun?
Amalia misses the absent days when demons were the greatest part of her worries, when her trials were, at the least, predictable, manageable in their approach. Once she understood the dangers: they were dismal, terrifying, but they were hers. No knowledge was far from her fingers, no information quite outside her reach. She understood the Hollow Grounds and her place within them, as small and insignificant as that might be.
Now, though, the girl is lost, adrift in a sea of mistaken choices. She does not look up at his pacing, still too caught in her own unsettled, useless thoughts. What had she been thinking, putting up that notice, trying to correct another issue far larger than herself? Of course she botched it - of course there were consequences, far greater and worse than where she started, dismal and dangerous, painful and vast? She does not look up when Deimos speaks, but something in her stiffens and shudders, the lines of her body growing taut. You are welcome to stay here- because he is leaving, because he cannot bear to be here.
Because at last she is too much.
Of course - of course - but what was she thinking, bringing him this latest evidence of her foolishness, another mistake? The last of her shatters, breaks apart. Of course she has managed to ruin this, too.
A choked laugh rings from her throat, strangled, halfway to a sob; she is shaking as she rises abruptly from her chair, palms splayed out upon the table, her head swaying dangerously in denial, despair. "No, I'll go," the girl exhales, reaching out to snatch up the note, trying and failing to hide the tremble that strums and taunts the edge of her voice. "I'm sorry. I should get back- there's a lot to do- the bakery, and- and- and Jyo will need to stay somewhere- and- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have bothered you, I just- "
I just wanted someone to hold me. I just wanted to be told that things would be okay.
She isn't crying. She isn't crying.
But oh, god, she is close.
Amalia & Jyoti
WE MIGHT BE HOLLOW, BUT WE'RE BRAVE
