You are trying your damndest to stay focused, but doing so is nearly as hard as studying for your anatomy exams once were. Your mind keeps flitting around, wanting to scrutinize every new sight that there is to say, wondering of every face that passes you by, have you come from another world? It makes your stomach flutter and your feet itch, wanting to _run run run_. You aren't even sure where you'd run to (not to mention that you're definitely not any sort of athlete), but duty holds your course.
You're here to bring back Finn.
Finn, and Finn alone.
You stand in front of a building that you're fairly sure is the Inn where he's staying. The description you received from Dorian was helpful, but seeing as you've never known anywhere other than Stormbreak, you're having quite the time orienting yourself to the landmarks you were given.
She comes back again and again, but he is never there.
Today there is a woman, unfamiliar and tall. She stands uncertainly in front of the inn, some sort of sentinel, a seeker, though of what? Amalia is far too tired to guess, her brain as soft as over-fermented dough. She's sick, she knows that now, though sometimes she forgets.
She's forgotten how she got here. She's forgotten where he (Deimos? Finn? Adam? Rory?) went.
The woman is steady, upright, bright. It is a poor time indeed for her to be in the Grounds, though Amalia cannot put her finger exactly on why. She's far too thirsty- maybe if she drank something it would wash the cobwebs from her mind?
[say]"Do you have any water?"[/say] Amalia wonders, to the woman and to the world which fees so parched and dry.
You turn and see Amalia. Now, it is not your jurisdiction to know the details of the demigods, but their names have been offered up in meetings often enough that you're familiar with them. Of them all there are three women: the near-child, the one-of-death, and the one-of-Vi. Despite Amalia's current appearance (and unless you're very much mistaken), there is only one person that this can be.
[say]"Yes, of course."[/say] You reply, your voice far more confident than your unsteady heart is. Reaching into your bag, you pull out a canteen of water. It's made of insulated metal such that when the water hits Amalia's lips, it will be as crisp and cool as it was when you filled it from the spring back home.
You do your best to smile and regard this woman as a body, and not as the mystical figure she is in your mind. She's just flesh and bone, who seems to be dehydrated. That's all. No reason to let your heart run away with you.
The canteen, like the water inside, is cold. Amalia winces at the chill upon her fingers, closes her eyes in pain as the liquid touches her lips. It burns like the ice in the cave where Adam died, searing and scorching its way down her throat, but she craves it like a dying woman craves the mercy of death.
Some of the water drips down her chin, onto her shirt, but most reaches her gullet. And it does clear her mind, if only for a moment. Lowering the now nearly-empty canteen from her lips, Amalia eyes it blearily. [say]"Thank you,"[/say] she murmurs, throat still burning from the cold. A shiver wracks her fevered body.
She doesn't meet the woman's eyes as she offers the container back. [say]"I... you should clean this. I think I may be sick."[/say]
[say]"Do you think you'd like to sit?"[/say] Her cheeks are hollow (you've no way of knowing that this is almost her normal state, anyway), and the way she guzzles the water despite showing no signs of exertion suggest that this thirst might be a symptom of something other than physical effort. Then there's the obvious shiver, but you're trying not to jump to conclusions, given what you know. [say]"How about here? I'm a bit tired myself."[/say] You say with a bright smile, moving to a rock wall and perching yourself upon it as if Amalia would be doing you a favour by obliging.
[say]"Not a problem at all. I carry these wipes with me that help with things like this."[/say] You reply casually, fishing into your bag and pulling out what, in modern terms, we could call disinfectant wipes. [say]"How long have you been feeling sick for?"[/say]
Sitting sounds heavenly. If Amalia had the presence of mind to be grateful she would be; as it is she can barely manage to totter over to the designated wall, pulling her feet up to curl up in her customary chin-on-knees position. The ground below her falls away, leaving only the line of stone upon which the pair of them balance. [say]"Be careful of your toes,"[/say] Amalia cautions, eyeing the feet that still dangle down off the edge of the fence warily. [say]"The ground bites."[/say]
The duration of Amalia's sickness is a very difficult thing for her mind to quantify, but she places her forehead on her knees and attempts to do the math. [say]"Mmm... maybe forever,"[/say] she murmurs unhelpfully, closing her eyes as the world sways. [say]"Maybe a day. I don't remember. I'm sorry."[/say]
Suddenly her head pops back up, dark eyes peering earnestly over her kneecaps, eyebrows furrowed in worry. [say]"Do you think I'm going to die again?"[/say]
She could just be strange. Maybe she's even just talking about Landsharks. Honestly, it could be the flu, still. There's a very naive and un-doctorly part of you that wants to somehow believe Cian is wrong. That Finn's brain—and Amalia's by extension—isn't melting away. This isn't what it seems like.
[say]"No that's alright. I can work with that range."[/say] You chirp, your concern remaining stowed firmly in your belly. It isn't like Amalia is in any position to read into your nuances anyway, but it's an old habit that'll you'll never break.
[say]"One day, yes."[/say] You say, your cheeks puffing into circles as you smile. Maybe it's a morbid way of replying, but it has always brought you comfort. You try not to think about the last time you spoke to Finn, when he asked you nearly the same thing. [say]"We're all going to die, but just think how pleased Mort will be to see us?"[/say]
She's got this sort of steadying presence that Amalia vaguely recognizes as both comforting and upsetting. It reminds her of someone long since gone, who also had dark hair and dark skin and the ability to ask pressing questions in a way that should make people panic but weirdly sets them at ease. [say]"Mama?"[/say] she wonders in a whisper, barely audible, brow still furrowed.
She blinks and the face is who it is, not who it was, not Rishima. [say]"You act like a doctor,"[/say] the Shield mumbles. [say]"My mother was a doctor but she still got sick. That doesn't seem right."[/say]
There's comfort in knowing Mort will be glad to see her, or there should be at least. Shaking her head in swift denial, the girl curls up again. [say]"I was supposed to be something different. I wanted to belong to Vi. Is this my punishment for letting them die?"[/say]
[say]"Close,"[/say] You say reassuringly, tilting your head over your shoulder. The urge to reach across and soothe her is strong, and even though Cian has told you this disease won't spread, you are still hesitant. Though...you're close enough at this point that it hardly matters now. [say]"Tobi."[/say] You say instead.
[say]"I'm sorry she got sick."[/say] You offer, wishing you had more water to give the girl. [say]"Doctors make silly choices when they get sick. All they want to do is heal everyone else."[/say]
Outwardly you do little more than smile, but inwardly your stomach twists and flops, hanging itself as Amalia speaks. You are as pious as anyone else in Stormbreak, your relationship with Rae better than most. But to hear this demigoddess speak so is so...very very odd. [say]"No, I don't think so. Everyone has to die sometime. That Vi has not asked Rae to make us all immortal just shows his love for Mort. Those who died were perfectly ready to go to him. Gifts from Vi."[/say]
[say]"Tobi,"[/say] the girl repeats, rolling the syllables around on her tongue. She has no idea what the word actually means, whether it's a promise or a lie. More than ever Amalia resembles a child, reaching out desperately for some form of guidance and finding her hands empty again. [say]"I'm Lia,"[/say] she murmurs, as much to herself as to the other, a younger girl's nickname that rarely sees the light of day.
[say]"Do you know what's wrong with me?"[/say] Again the wide-eyed, hopeful look over knobby knees. Again she sees a face that isn't the one that's there, remembers darker eyes and angled features and an impenetrable, elusive smile. [say]"Can you help me? Please?"[/say]
Another shake of her head, golden hair moving limply on her neck. [say]"I don't belong to Mort,"[/say] she explains patiently, as though this were the most obvious thing. [say]"I belong to Vi. Safrin told me. He made me something else, but I don't know what it means."[/say] She rolls her shoulders in a shrug, and had October been behind her the doctor may have seen a ripple of feathers on a tattooed back, something else itching to break free.
[say]"It's a pleasure to meet you Lia."[/say] You say warmly, offering the dark-eyed girl at your side a bright and cheerful smile. As for an assessment of her illness? Yes, you do know what's wrong. Can you help? Oh...
oh...
[say]"You know how there are certain plants that like a lot of water, and then others that don't?"[/say] You explain, your voice sweet and melodic. [say]"What you have is a bit like that. You had too much of something that wasn't good for you."[/say]
Your eyes are on Amalia's face—more specifically her profile between her spindly knees—so you miss the delicate feathers that threaten to burst from pale skin. [say]"I know, Lia."[/say] You whisper, wishing you could tell her so much more than you're able to. [say]"It's a very special thing, to be changed by Vi. Rarely does he interfere in things. If he's chosen you, that must mean you're very special."[/say] Your voice holds nothing but pride and praise as you beam against the girl all but collapsing in on herself at your side.
[say]"I've had too much water?"[/say] This makes very little sense to Amalia, who frowns, licking her dry lips and parched mouth. [say]"Was it when I drowned?"[/say] Is she still drowning, watching the last firings of a desperate mind fire off and create scenes that cannot possibly be real, so beautiful and terrible they are? [say]"I'm so thirsty... have you had too much water, too?"[/say]
The pride that Tobi feels is lost on Amalia, whose attention has snagged onto this idea of drowning like a torn and wayward thread. [say]"My friend was drowning,"[/say] Amalia murmurs slowly, trying to picture exactly what happened. It feels important to tell this woman who is not her mother but is a doctor, because maybe she can help. [say]"We were on a boat, and then he touched me and it felt warm, but I was afraid. So I told him that I couldn't save him and then he... he drowned."[/say]
She tightens her grip on her bare knees, nails biting into skin. [say]"I tried to go in after him, but I must have gotten lost. Can you save him, Tobi?"[/say] If you can't save me?
[say]"It might be."[/say] You say with a sweet and sad smile, knowing that it won't make any difference what she says at this point. The narrative is in Amalia's mind and is only tangentially affected by the things you're saying. It's for this reason that you don't read into the lines between the things the Shield is saying. You don't think that it's Finn who she's touched, who fell, who drowned.
[say]"I can certainly try. I'm here to save someone too. He got lost as well, so you don't need to feel bad. We all get lost sometimes."[/say] It wouldn't do any good to chastize Amalia for how she lets her fingers bite into her knees, and so instead you reach over, your long and dark fingers smoothing across hers; an offer to hold hands, if she likes. [say]"You can't get lost, if we're together."[/say] You add with a small smile, wishing you could wipe away the half-crescent shapes in her skin as much as the sweat on her brow.
Amalia's head nods in agreement, though whether she truly understands or simply wants to feel that she does is a mystery, even to her. But the fingers on hers are hardly reassuring, nor the promise that she cannot get lost so long as they stay together. It implies that there is a future where this woman remains at her side, and she's already said she's going in search of someone else who needs her more.
Just like her mother had, time and time again.
Head on her knees, she shakes her head, chin bumping over the knobby bones. Tobi has taken her hands and Amalia doesn't fight it, her sweaty palms hanging limply between the not-mother-not-doctor's. [say]"Your friend needs you more than me,"[/say] she says sadly, smiling a little and looking away. [say]"But maybe after he stops being lost you can find me again. If I haven't drowned by then."[/say]
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