Amalia
"Well, I know who I'll ask the next time I need help." The comment is lighthearted but also sincere: the idea of a protege fills Amalia with strange pride, purpose in leadership, in guiding another as she once was led. Who would the girl have been, if not for the guiding hands of her grandmother, the firm direction of her grandmother, the soft acceptance of her gods? Once she had nearly fallen into ruin, and even now she can feel it at her edges, threatening always to creep in closer, fill the empty gaps of her soul.
It is why she needs the ones like Kiada: to keep in light where the darkness would touch, to remind herself that there is more to life, that she is not alone.
Amalia cannot besmirch Kiada her darkness, her mistakes. Who is she to judge another: broken and ill-formed herself, guilty of her own set of sins? Besides, she decided months ago that the histories of the Outlanders are just that: histories, stories that do not define, do not make them who they are.
She must judge them by their actions now, rather than who they were.
As Kiada continues to work on the scones, Amalia limps her way toward the back of the shop in search of balms for the bruises. The mention of Melita sends a flicker of surprise across the baker's face, making her pause, her eyebrows drawn together. Could that be the one who left these bruises, the bright, fiery girl with a demon queen's mask? Biting her lip, the Shield composes herself carefully, wanting to hear Kiada's side, to support and soothe, to be a friend.
She makes her way back, comfrey salve in hand, and pulls up a stool behind the counter. "Would you like to tell me about it?" An open invitation, an eagerness for stories, a promise not to judge too harshly. She takes some cool goop on her fingers, gesturing for Kiada to show the worst bruises, that Amalia might tend to them as the harpy speaks.
It is why she needs the ones like Kiada: to keep in light where the darkness would touch, to remind herself that there is more to life, that she is not alone.
Amalia cannot besmirch Kiada her darkness, her mistakes. Who is she to judge another: broken and ill-formed herself, guilty of her own set of sins? Besides, she decided months ago that the histories of the Outlanders are just that: histories, stories that do not define, do not make them who they are.
She must judge them by their actions now, rather than who they were.
As Kiada continues to work on the scones, Amalia limps her way toward the back of the shop in search of balms for the bruises. The mention of Melita sends a flicker of surprise across the baker's face, making her pause, her eyebrows drawn together. Could that be the one who left these bruises, the bright, fiery girl with a demon queen's mask? Biting her lip, the Shield composes herself carefully, wanting to hear Kiada's side, to support and soothe, to be a friend.
She makes her way back, comfrey salve in hand, and pulls up a stool behind the counter. "Would you like to tell me about it?" An open invitation, an eagerness for stories, a promise not to judge too harshly. She takes some cool goop on her fingers, gesturing for Kiada to show the worst bruises, that Amalia might tend to them as the harpy speaks.
