such small hands

After the drama she seeks him out, their ill-begotten champion, their reluctant knight, their friend. She cannot deny the slice of jealousy which struck her when Maea sent invitations to her friends and not her, but the slight she feels it for her family above herself: her mother and grandmother had been pillars of their community, and though Amalia may be a quiet baker, she is all the legacy they have left. Jigano's presence was a slight balm to her wounded pride; and as Rory left to attend the first of many meetings, she squeezed his hand reassuringly, the sharp burn of rejection not spoken aloud, though it rings between her ears. It is not Rory's fault she has been forgotten. He is one of the few who remembers her, after all. She busies herself with watching the mob, quelling discontent and sitting with Jigano. They are not reunited until later, too much later, and when she does find him again she hates herself for leaving him to the wolves. She does not see Roana's vitriol, does not hear Edrei's hate: she does not have to, for it is written in his face, the gentle lines pulled tight and pale by bitterness and strife. She does not need to experience Maea's guilt-tripping, Evie's selfishness, Sam's reserve. What envy she feels drains away, replaced by deep concern for her friend and an even greater shame. One slender hand wraps around his; the other grabs his arm. Amalia does not speak as she steers him away, urging him through touch and look to follow her to the quiet. He has said and heard enough words, she suspects. There are no more needed, now. They do not go far. Their mob needs tending to, after all, and the day is far from done. But in view of the Oasis the outside world seems to dim, and so it is there Amalia leads the trio, out of sight of the world- for the time being, at least. Spreading her cloak upon the ground, she invites Rory to sit down and follows suit, her hands picking restlessly at daisies in the dew. Her pack sits beside them in the grass, full of bread, preserves, and salted meat. A glance at Jigano, and back to Rory: she wants to touch him, to lean him over, put his head in her lap and stroke his hair as her grandmother used to do. She wants to curl into Jigano's arms, Rory pressed against her chest. She wants to be a leopard, and envelop them both within her fur, soothing them with the purr from her lungs and snarling at any who dare threaten her family friends. Instead she reaches into the bag, and proceeds to prepare snacks. a m a l i a You were young and you'd stare With a reverence unimpaired Searching in your dark eyes to find the stars already there