A Cottage Somewhere In The Pyrenees, 1349
Dec. 31st, 2022 09:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amicia_the_amazonFour weeks.
Sophia's hands are gentle on Amicia's face. She can see the lines of the tattoos on Sophia's fingers if her eyes flick just so; but they're only there an instant, and then Sophia's hand falls to her shoulder, before going away entirely.
"Prends soin de toi," Sophia says, her mouth giving off that wry twitch it does when she's worried but she's trying not to say it but she's also not not trying to say it. "Amicia."
She responds with a little nod. It's quicker and more curt than Amicia would like, but with the tension in her body, this enduring energy she cannot dispel, it is the best she can do. "Je le ferai," she says. "Ne t'inquiète pas."
Sophia does not look convinced, but luckily for both of them, she says nothing. Well, nothing but the promise she's already made: that she'll be here as soon as she can if Amicia asks her to. That she will make sure Amicia is taken care of, if for whatever reason the family treasures run out. That she cares.
It is not that Amicia does not appreciate it. She really does. She just has too much tension to voice it properly. It feels as if, if she opened her mouth, either a million parts of her would come falling out, or nothing would at all. So she also says nothing of any value, and watches Sophia climb onto her horse, all scarves and gold and waves of dark brown hair.
She rides off.
Amicia goes for a walk. When she returns to Lucas, it is almost dark.
Four months.
"Es-tu sûr que tout ira bien?"
Lucas has asked her the same question at least a dozen times, just in the space of an hour. She really wishes he would stop: the answer will be the same. Yes, she will be all right, or at least she'll remember to eat her food, to drink her water, to prepare further firewood for the winter to come. She'll hunt, and go to the market, and pick the crops in their little garden.
She takes Lucas's hand and pulls it gently away from her cheek. She gives a nod, a small one. It's curt, but it's less-- sudden than she's felt for a long time. There is still too much tension in her body, something that makes her knee jerk and her mind fog up at the worst of times, but that is okay.
She will be okay.
"Va-t'en, déjà," she sighs, giving him a playful push. She doesn't feel playful - Lucas has been her anchor for these long months - but he deserves to leave her unworried. He has a path to follow, alchemy to learn-- he will be a great alchemist one day, she knows as much. Better still, he'll be one that cares.
A quicksilver smile comes over Lucas, but then it is gone. She can tell by the crinkling of his brow her gambit hasn't quite worked. But it is the best she has. They have to make do.
At least it is enough: he swings his bag over his shoulder and makes her promise to write. When his concerned eyes finally leave her, she feels relief; when his horse clops down the mountain path, she waits for the loneliness to set in.
It does not come. There is only that blasted restlessness, all that care with nowhere to go. So she does as she does: Amicia goes for a walk. She does not return until after dark.
Six months.
It is quiet here in the mountains. The air is fresh and smells beautiful, even with the biting promise of the cold to come. At times, Amicia even notices it, or catches sight of a butterfly, a rabbit not meant to be dinner, a beautiful flower.
It is the flowers that get her, every time. A blossom of appreciation in her chest, followed by a thin stab of hurt. She used to walk past them. Now she picks them and takes them with her, and watches them slowly shrivel away on her shelf.
She is still waiting for the loneliness to come. But there is none; just the relentless itch that seems to inhabit every fibre of muscle in her body, her mind, her eyes.
One morning, she packs her bag. She flings it over her shoulder, and steps outside the cottage. She takes in the mountains, the smell, the soft chittering of the birds, the relentless expanse of soft green peace before her.
Amicia goes for a walk. She does not return.
[[ establishy. ]]
Sophia's hands are gentle on Amicia's face. She can see the lines of the tattoos on Sophia's fingers if her eyes flick just so; but they're only there an instant, and then Sophia's hand falls to her shoulder, before going away entirely.
"Prends soin de toi," Sophia says, her mouth giving off that wry twitch it does when she's worried but she's trying not to say it but she's also not not trying to say it. "Amicia."
She responds with a little nod. It's quicker and more curt than Amicia would like, but with the tension in her body, this enduring energy she cannot dispel, it is the best she can do. "Je le ferai," she says. "Ne t'inquiète pas."
Sophia does not look convinced, but luckily for both of them, she says nothing. Well, nothing but the promise she's already made: that she'll be here as soon as she can if Amicia asks her to. That she will make sure Amicia is taken care of, if for whatever reason the family treasures run out. That she cares.
It is not that Amicia does not appreciate it. She really does. She just has too much tension to voice it properly. It feels as if, if she opened her mouth, either a million parts of her would come falling out, or nothing would at all. So she also says nothing of any value, and watches Sophia climb onto her horse, all scarves and gold and waves of dark brown hair.
She rides off.
Amicia goes for a walk. When she returns to Lucas, it is almost dark.
Four months.
"Es-tu sûr que tout ira bien?"
Lucas has asked her the same question at least a dozen times, just in the space of an hour. She really wishes he would stop: the answer will be the same. Yes, she will be all right, or at least she'll remember to eat her food, to drink her water, to prepare further firewood for the winter to come. She'll hunt, and go to the market, and pick the crops in their little garden.
She takes Lucas's hand and pulls it gently away from her cheek. She gives a nod, a small one. It's curt, but it's less-- sudden than she's felt for a long time. There is still too much tension in her body, something that makes her knee jerk and her mind fog up at the worst of times, but that is okay.
She will be okay.
"Va-t'en, déjà," she sighs, giving him a playful push. She doesn't feel playful - Lucas has been her anchor for these long months - but he deserves to leave her unworried. He has a path to follow, alchemy to learn-- he will be a great alchemist one day, she knows as much. Better still, he'll be one that cares.
A quicksilver smile comes over Lucas, but then it is gone. She can tell by the crinkling of his brow her gambit hasn't quite worked. But it is the best she has. They have to make do.
At least it is enough: he swings his bag over his shoulder and makes her promise to write. When his concerned eyes finally leave her, she feels relief; when his horse clops down the mountain path, she waits for the loneliness to set in.
It does not come. There is only that blasted restlessness, all that care with nowhere to go. So she does as she does: Amicia goes for a walk. She does not return until after dark.
Six months.
It is quiet here in the mountains. The air is fresh and smells beautiful, even with the biting promise of the cold to come. At times, Amicia even notices it, or catches sight of a butterfly, a rabbit not meant to be dinner, a beautiful flower.
It is the flowers that get her, every time. A blossom of appreciation in her chest, followed by a thin stab of hurt. She used to walk past them. Now she picks them and takes them with her, and watches them slowly shrivel away on her shelf.
She is still waiting for the loneliness to come. But there is none; just the relentless itch that seems to inhabit every fibre of muscle in her body, her mind, her eyes.
One morning, she packs her bag. She flings it over her shoulder, and steps outside the cottage. She takes in the mountains, the smell, the soft chittering of the birds, the relentless expanse of soft green peace before her.
Amicia goes for a walk. She does not return.
[[ establishy. ]]
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