{SEASONAL EVENT} Arc Toward the Sun

THERE ARE CASTLES FOR KINGS,

THERE ARE BIRDS WITHOUT WINGS

The only downside to Nathaniel's current living situation was a lack of information from the settlement. He considered this a positive, most days. But he worried about the other Naturals from time to time. They probably didn't want to see him, but even reminding himself of this did nothing to ease his concern. Longnight always claimed casualties. The sight of the Valair family farm still hung fresh in his mind. And things... things changed.

The bakery, for example. Nathaniel remembered a bakery somewhere in the same area during years past, but he also remembered the owner was dead. He had never visited often, at any rate. He had wasted most of his youth skulking around the outskirts instead, breaking things and harassing wildlife. He was grown, now, though. Grown and repentant and lonely which was an emotion in direct contradiction with his usual self-image. But there it was: a hole like a sore in the back of his mind. He wanted to know the other Naturals were safe. Some kind of pack instinct awakening too late, like he was only just becoming aware he'd no family to speak of.

Not... not real family.

So Nathaniel appeared on the doorstep of Devas Bakery with no real action plan in mind. Just a (sizeable) basket of eggs under his arm and a thin, faltering hope that he might make a good impression on the current owner. Who may, he conceded, be an Outlander after all. But he had heard otherwise in the market, and he had more eggs than he knew what to do with anyway, so here he was. About to make a fool of himself, probably. Almost assuredly.

He stuck his head in the door, anyway.

The smell hit him first: that unmistakeable, yeasty warmth of bread and baking. Something Nathaniel hadn't encountered in a long time, and as he stepped inside he inhaled deeply. "Hello?" he called, scanning the room.

AMALIA Flowerbirth is the time for baking. The yeast is wild in the air, the herbs bloom rampant in the yard, and Amalia's arms are full of stalks of rosemary, thyme, and lavender as she walks into the shop, her hands damp from the moist earth. She deposits her bounty on the counter top and wipes the dirt onto her apron: she has never been particularly neat, and her grandmother would have chided her for this, she thinks with a dull pang. Leaning her hands on her work surface she sighs, inhaling the scent of herbs and flour and trying to ignore the lump in her throat. Flowerbirth is beautiful, but it is also hard, and every flower is a memory of the people who are not there. There is much to be done in preparation for Fiat Lux: starters to set out, flour to grind, milk to barter for, herbs to dry. Never mind that after the bustle of Rathskeller has left her shop feeling empty and bare; never mind that the thought of cleaning it up alone fills her with a quiet dismay. Long Night was not kind to the bakery, and things are still a mess from her hasty trip to Rory's house. Another dull pang, though this one is stranger, sharper, harder to look upon. She misses Rory, and Jigano, and the comfort of their presence through the Long Night. She has tasted friendship, and the absence of it is like frostbite in spring. She sighs again, resolutely this time, pushing herself back from the counter and rubbing her hands together. There has been time for grieving, and there will always be more: now, as her mother would have said, is the time for work. Amalia has been lonely for years- why should this new return to isolation have a sting so much sharper than ever before? Stubbornly she begins to tie the herbs with twine, humming as much to fill the silence as to enjoy the sound. Here and there, a word slips out: odes to spring, to Rae. And it works, in a way: before she realizes she is lost in her work, and an hour has passed or more. A loaf of bread makes it into the oven. "Let the light come in and the shadows fade... let the spring wind blow through the sunlit glade..." She does not notice the door swing open, but when the man speaks Amalia spins around, dark eyes wide in wild surprise, song dying quickly on her tongue. "H-hello!" the baker replies, flushed with warmth from the blazing ovens. The man is familiar, a memory of time past, and she smiles at him, shyly, as he enters the story. "Welcome to Devas Bakery. I... what can I do for you today?" I tend to avoid getting emotional I'm not shutting you out It's just the way I'm born But I see myself next to you until we're old

THERE ARE CASTLES FOR KINGS,

THERE ARE BIRDS WITHOUT WINGS

He knows her. This should not be a shock. Still, it is: the golden-haired girl with the dark slanting eyes, the remarkable cheekbones. Nathaniel cannot recall a name, but he knows he has seen her before. Maybe in this very building. Maybe in a scene like this one, years ago. He feels so much larger now.

Almost offensively so. As if he's bout to knock something over with an elbow any second. Straightening up, Nathaniel shuts the door behind him, never turning his back on the young woman behind the counter. He ought to speak; he is aware he ought to speak.

"I — remember when this was a bakery. Before." His eyes skirt the room, landing anywhere but her face. What is her name? It refuses to come. "I, uh, heard it had been reopened." Does she remember him? A younger version of Nathaniel would have covered the hole in his memory with anger. This version is dumbfounded. "Nathaniel," he offers, and holds out the basket of eggs like a shield. "A baker can never have too many eggs, right?" Moving forward, he places them carefully on the counter. His eyes manage at last to find her face. "I think we've met, but..."

AMALIA His body fills the small bakery, invading like a shadow, a breath of warm and humid air. She wonders if he will break something; part of her wants to dart forward, to catch him before he has the chance to disrupt her carefully crafted space. But her space is already altered; it shifted as soon as he walked in the door, transitioning from the quiet of one to the duet of two, and there is nothing to do but adapt along with it. Worrying her lip between her teeth, the baker waits for him to turn, to free that face from shadow and hopefully douse it with familiarity's light. "Yes," she answers his statement simply, watching his face as his eyes dart around as though looking for secrets in the dust. The lines of it are a dream recalled, as faded as the walls of her shop. As soon as he speaks she remembers his name- I know, she manages not to say, but nods instead. "Amalia." The basket of eggs cuts the tension like a knife through cloth: grateful for the distraction of productivity, Amalia exhales a frown and dons a smile. "Thank you." Her slight body moves with quiet purpose, a stark contrast to the bulk of him, as she rounds to counter to retrieve the basket, her slender fingers wrapping around the handle as though to steal his defenses, strip him bare. She lets them rest there, for a moment. "I think so, too. Before my nani... when the shop was still open. I would have been much younger, then." The laugh she produces is strained and apologetic, a tightness in her throat that she struggles to swallow. It is hard to be merry in the face of heartache, and her heart has not stopped hurting for some years. Still, the girl tries. I tend to avoid getting emotional I'm not shutting you out It's just the way I'm born But I see myself next to you until we're old