when water is as thick as blood

Amalia

'Cause she's just like the weather
Can't hold her together
Born from dark water
Daughter of the r a i n and s n o w

"Lanoch..." She remembers something, distantly, about the woman and the glass-maker's father, though at the moment she cannot exactly place what the rumor was. Infinitely curious she tilts her head, the question escaping before she can catch it, born on soft wings into the wind. "What kind of pieces?" But it is enough: Wessex is seated now, an invitation extended, the ground now their even playing field. Ever obedient (was she ever obedient?) Amalia steps forward, closing the gap and then lowering herself, her cross-legged posture mirroring the blonde's. Her fingers dig nervously, picking up stones and bringing them to her lap, anxiety pattering in her chest. Amalia has never minded dirt and mud, does not fear to dirty clothes that long ago were ruined by the follies of youth. She is more afraid of what Wessex will say, returning to the role of pupil, of child, ready as ever to be chastised or taught.

Instead, another invitation: to speak as equals, as both adults. Amalia's head flies up abruptly, surprise in almond, onyx eyes. She wants to say she is not an adult, but that isn't true, has not been for years- only she wants it to be desperately, wants to trust in the wisdom of others and return to childish ignorance. Some small part of her had hoped this would be that, that Wessex would offer absolution, relief, slip into the role of babysitter-cum-mentor and let her once more sit at her knee.

Part of her knows that this is better. Part of her wishes it wasn't so.

"You didn't," Amalia replies simply, her dark gaze not leaving the woman's blue, even as her hands continue to fidget, picking up stones and sifting through sand. It is an old quality, this restlessness, but the attentiveness is too. What is new is the simplicity of the acceptance, the unspoken invitation for her to go on. There was a time when Amalia would be bold and impetuous, would not want to hear the blasphemy of why any would want to Ascend.

But that was before the world broke open, and her perception broke with it, and she learned there was more than her small, simple life. Before she fucked gods and fell in love with an Outlander, before she watched the Spire shatter and stepped beyond the circle of decay. The Amalia Wessex meets today is older, milder, a little more cautious but open as well. She does not hide behind absolutes; she is willing to listen, to hear other sides. She wants to know the woman better, as surely as she wants to be known.