Healing Hands

amalia i'll light a f i r e in your new shoes Get your boots. Get your staff. Get out of here. Thus was the mantra Amalia repeated, a quiet chant in a disquiet mind. Lantern. Boots. Out. Her staff, though broken, felt familiar between her fingers. Reassuring. Don't think about the role you played in freeing an abomination, setting a new God loose upon this world. Her boots, warm, slip onto moist feet. She hadn't realized her toes were so  cold, hadn't felt them until they began to thaw and tingle, pins and needles a welcome distraction Don't think aboutt the betrayal this might have been. Think about the pain. In stunned silence she followed Desmond, completing tasks and making her way out of the cave. She was grateful for his leadership, content to let him lead her back to his home once she'd collected her wayward possessions. His house was not far, thankfully, tucked away in the domiciles. Amalia paused as they entered the threshold, darkness suddenly filling the periphery of her sight. A wave of nausea tipped through the baker; she gasped quietly, stumbling to sit in the nearest chair, her head tucked in between her knees.  The bloodloss from her shoulder combined with shock made for a triggering cocktail. "Just a moment," Amalia gasped through clenched teeth, willing her brain not to lose consciousness, willing her body to keep it together.