Amalia
A deeper conversation is all I want from you-
So. We're in an army now.There is a great part of her that regrets her actions, believes that signing up to enlist in an army is the paramount of many foolish decisions she has made. Who is she, a baker, to learn to fight, to try and defend them from some unknown danger? And what danger could exist that is greater than what they face within, the tumultuous world they currently inhabit which curls in upon itself, threatening to devour them all whole?
What does an army even do? Will they be asked to abandon their jobs, their homes, to devote themselves to a march of meaningless carnage, training by day and camping by night in service of a queen they do not believe?
In truth, Amalia has no intention of fighting anybody, except perhaps Zariah herself. She has no intention of letting her friends fight, either, of seeing them set off on some foolish mission to overtake an unknown and invisible let foe. The only conceivable enemy they might face are the Fae, and the girl knows better than anyone else how woefully unprepared they would be, how easily they would succumb to the magic and blades of the small, superior people. Delah could evicerate them all without a thought; Adruinna has already laid Remi's sight to waste.
But they are in an army now, plotting to kill the serpent from within.
If they do not implode, first.
Sighing, the girl continues to clean, to make the basement more hospitable, more hidden. Their first meeting had ended in raised voices and harsh dismissals, the wrong people interested in power and control. Their second meeting, they need to be better: she needs to be better, because she has built this budding disaster, gathered them all on a childish whim. And meanwhile they are in an army, Outlander and Natural, farmers and bakers. She wonders if she ought to run away, to leave the Hollowed Grounds and live with Ianto, lean herself further on the Fae's goodwill. There is no part of Amalia who wants this reality.
There is no part of her that could leave it to her friends alone.
She is stretching, preparing to train again, when Jyoti announces another's presence, her call of warning cutting through Amalia's reviere. She tenses, suddenly awake, unsure (because that is what they are, now: frightened animals, afraid to find their neighbors at the door), before relaxing as a familiar figure descends into view. Amalia relaxes, but does not smile: Rory presents a new wealth of conflicts, insecurity and embarrassment itching beneath her skin. "Hi, Rory," she greets him softly from her place in the cleared out side of the basement, a makeshift training area where she sits upon the floor. She does not stand but stares up at him, dark eyes curious and uncertain, hair pulled back in a long gold plait. "Is everything ok?"
- I want the words you're afraid to say:
the lonely ones you keep hidden
between the folds of your heart
