Amalia
don't make a shadow of yourself, always shutting out the light
"I was born Accepted. I only became Attuned last year." Amalia shrugs slightly, an unsaid statement left within, an invitation for her to pursue now or at another time. The baker cannot help but hurt for the fire haired girl alone in this world, the could the peal of a mournful bell, lost things ringing between the pair. "My mother could heal, too." It had been a point of contention between her mother and grandmother, the tension between Attuned and Abandoned, but it had been one of many in the end, a fight never resolved, left to die along with them both. Amalia is the only remaining piece, the only evidence of all those wars: scarred and shattered and alone, she keeps them alive in memories, for she has nothing else.
Except she does, doesn't she? Melita is right: the baker is less alone than she might think, unexpectedly surrounded by friends and family, new bonds blooming before she can realize it's happened. And Melita? Amalia watches through onyx eyes as the girl considers her question, another twinge of empathy slicing through her at the sight. But the firecracker youth is eager, enthused, quick to return to bright lights and happiness; Amalia admires the optimism, the way she laughs and smiles. An eyebrow raises at some of the names - Wessex especially gets her attention, and the baker wonders if the older woman is making a habit of collecting strays. The last declaration is a surprise, but a happy one, Amalia's face coloring brightly as she is included among the list. "And me," she agrees with a slight chuckle, reaching down with nimble fingers to tie off the last of her woven work.
Raising the semi-completed basket, Amalia regards it critically. "What do you think?" the baker asks, lifting it up to her face and peering through a particularly sizable hole, her voice wry with self-deprecating amusement. "Do you think I can catch the sun in this, or should I keep it as a mask?"
Except she does, doesn't she? Melita is right: the baker is less alone than she might think, unexpectedly surrounded by friends and family, new bonds blooming before she can realize it's happened. And Melita? Amalia watches through onyx eyes as the girl considers her question, another twinge of empathy slicing through her at the sight. But the firecracker youth is eager, enthused, quick to return to bright lights and happiness; Amalia admires the optimism, the way she laughs and smiles. An eyebrow raises at some of the names - Wessex especially gets her attention, and the baker wonders if the older woman is making a habit of collecting strays. The last declaration is a surprise, but a happy one, Amalia's face coloring brightly as she is included among the list. "And me," she agrees with a slight chuckle, reaching down with nimble fingers to tie off the last of her woven work.
Raising the semi-completed basket, Amalia regards it critically. "What do you think?" the baker asks, lifting it up to her face and peering through a particularly sizable hole, her voice wry with self-deprecating amusement. "Do you think I can catch the sun in this, or should I keep it as a mask?"
