Amalia
For my part, I know nothing with any certainty
It is a near demand, a requirement, an order for them to do something productive, something good, something other than spiral and crumble into the vast abyss of hopelessness and letting the darkness win. Standing is a victory; cooking is a victory; eating is a victory, and she will take all she can get, cling to them greedily like rays of sun on a winter's day, warming them all with all the radiance she can possibly muster, all the light she can produce. Every shred of joy she has she has because of them, this strange and makeshift net of family and friends, strangers a mere year ago now close to her as kin. They have given her so much, and she will give it all back, again and again and again.Kiada's hand is cold in hers, but the baker does her best not to notice. She has seen the littering scars before, heard the stories behind many of them, tended to wounds of body and mind. She has seen Kiada crumble before, but never seen her weak, and it is agony to the ardent Shield, sharp wounds like ice on her breast. Still Amalia holds her smile, glancing at Deimos as he maneuvers toward the kitchen, a flash of uncertainty in her face. She watches him sidelong from the corner of her eye, noting his stiff movements, the set of his jaw; another thing she cannot fix, but can try to at least outshine.
But it is Kiada who saves the mountain, four words that mean the world breathed into the air. Amalia pulses a return of affection to the harpy across the bond, wordless affirmation and return of the love that is offered, protective and paternal, steadfast and endlessly deep. She snaps up, though, when the same is said aloud, turning to Deimos to see how he will take it, if her will reply. The whispered reply is enough to bring a true smile to her face, followed by something shattered; she glances away before the tears can rise, before they can see the agony that has suddenly gripped her heart.
Amalia has everything she has ever wanted. And it is all about to be lost.
The baker busies herself with collecting supplies, letting Kiada and Deimos carry the conversation as she begins to fix up lunch. Rexanna's marriage is news, her choice of bridegroom unsurprising (theirs is a small community), though the baker raises a skeptical brow. "Isn't he an Ascended?" Amalia asks, biting her lip a moment and shaking her head. To each their own, but the baker could never tether herself to someone who chose to exchange the gifts that Vi had given and become something less than whole.
but the sight of the stars makes me dream
