Amalia
"I..." Amalia is not sure what to say, how to reply to his unasked question. The pulse of affection, the memory, is haunting; something inside her chokes and crumbles, lonely and broken and a little bit lost. How much she would like to lay down her burdens, to let someone else help carry the load. How much has Amalia carried and wielded, worn like a lodestone around her neck? How close has she come already to breaking, shattering under that miserable weight?Remi's friendship is kind and welcome, but the boy has dealt with far too much - is dealing with too much to carry the girl's burdens as well. So the baker attempts a reassuring smile, though her face has never been good at lying, though a little prying would be more than enough to expose the fractures underneath. "I'm just tired," she tells the alchemist, squeezing his hand lightly in reply. "And worried about Safrin. I'll feel better when I know she's well."
/////
That the Launceleyn are basically royalty doesn't surprise the baker at all. Her tired sigh echoes his own, a bit of wry exasperation creeping into her face. "Of course they were." Had Remi reminded her of the time she met Loren - had he remembered it at all - the baker might have laughed and shook her head, remembering the dismal impression that mage had left on her, with his endless insistence at using fire around books.
She watches as Remi works his magic, ever fascinated by the ability to create. The last time left her prepared, however: as soon as he finishes Amalia is there, her hand resting, steadying, on his shoulder, a glass of water and pumpkin scone already sitting at the table. "Thank you," she tells him, taking the staff back into her hand, weighing the warmth of it under her palm. "Maybe next time you could make something to stop her magic entirely. Level the playing field a little."
she was like the moon-
part of her was always hidden away
part of her was always hidden away
