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The hope in the air is palpable. It's a bubble filling the room, expanding into contagious laughter, banter, shoulders relaxing. People start to disperse into their own small clusters, talking, bright grins on their faces.
Janai stands alone. The hope brushes up at the edges of her heart, hammers to be let in, but the grief's too heavy. It stifles the spark, crushes it down into nothing, into grey.
She'd felt the hope, briefly, with Amaya's hand in hers. She tries not to think too hard about that. Tries not to let her eyes keep drifting to where Amaya stands with the ginger-haired man, all bright brown eyes and quick moving hands. He signs something to her and she laughs, shoulders shaking, thumps him in the arm.
Distantly, Janai wonders what they are to each other. Feels ashamed for the wondering, because it's nothing to do with her. Because Khessa's gone, Khessa's gone, how can Janai care about some human stranger right now?
But the thoughts distract her from the heavy grief. Maybe that's reason enough to have them.
She wishes she could talk to Amaya the way the man does. Understand her language, use it fluidly and fast. Wishes they could have a real conversation without Kazi's help.
Amaya signs something to the man, a quick right-handed motion, then winces. Shakes out her fingers. The man's face shifts concerned. Amaya shakes her head, dismisses it, the same signs Janai recognises from when she was thrown on the battlefield. I'm okay, Janai guesses. I'm all right.
But her glove's burned right through, patches of blistered palm showing in the gaps, and it hits Janai like a punch to the face, sends her reeling. Janai did that. The burns came from her skin, her Heat-being; the burns came from Amaya holding her down, holding her back, saving her life.
The life of a stranger who held her prisoner, and Amaya had let her skin burn for her without a second thought. Not just her skin, her hand. Janai imagines burning her lips and tongue to save a stranger who'd tried to kill her just a few days before. Imagines standing in an enemy city and jeopardising her own communication for them.
Sick guilt crawls and floods. She hasn't even said thank you. Her own pain's drowned it out. Grief ate her alive the whole flight over here, and Amaya had used her hands so normally. Janai forgot the burns.
She swallows shame, swallows an absurd, quaking anxiety. She's a warrior, a Golden Knight. She's the queen of her people, now. She shouldn't be afraid of a conversation. She shouldn't be scared at the possibility of fracturing whatever careful friendliness has grown between her and this human, shouldn't fear seeing anger or hatred cloud those bright brown eyes.
Janai curls her hands into fists and marches over, sets herself squarely in Amaya's field of vision.
Amaya looks up at her, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. Signs something.
“Golden Knight,” says the ginger-haired man. No, says Amaya, Janai realises, tracking the way he watches her, speaks along with her signs.
Janai bows, extends her hands in the sun salute. “General. Apologies for the interruption.”
Amaya's grin widens. “I don't mind if you don't.”
“I don't, either,” the red-haired man interjects. “Your... Excellency. I'm Gren. Amaya's lieutenant, interpreter...” He cuts off as Amaya signs something, interprets, his tone shifting for her words.
“And best friend.”
Best friend. Janai tries not to show any flicker at that, some strange relief settling onto her shoulders.
Janai nods. “It's an honour, Lieutenant.” She turns back to Amaya, meets her eyes, faces her head-on. “I've come to apologise.”
Amaya frowns, eyes darting from Janai's lips to Gren. “Apologise? Why?”
“Your hand,” Janai says, gesturing towards the burns on her palm. “You saved my life, and I caused you pain in return.”
Amaya shakes her head. “It's nothing. It'll heal.”
“But I hurt you,” Janai says, feels desperate, urgent. She doesn't understand this woman at all. “I burned your hand.”
Amaya grins. “I have two.”
“Amaya,” Janai says. She's never said it before. Feels it crack over her lips, half-incredulous.
A shrug. “Janai. I burned my hand. I grabbed you.”
“To save my life,” Janai says, feels drowned in shame and confusion.
And still, that grin. “Worth it.”
“Why?” Janai asks, implores, really. “You were my prisoner.”
Amaya hesitates, then, smile fading, signs more slowly. “Kazi told me you intervened for me. In your court. I would've died there without you.”
Janai shakes her head. “You had already spared my life once. And I was the reason you were in our court. You risked yourself for me. You didn't even hesitate. You...” She swallows, darts a glance towards Gren. He's impassive, but Janai still wishes she knew Amaya's language; wishes they could have this conversation alone. Resolves to start learning as soon as she can. “You held me afterwards.”
Amaya exhales, her shoulders sagging. Signs slow, pain lining her face. “Years ago, there was a mission into Xadia to steal a Magma Titan's heart.”
Janai nods. “I remember it.”
“The queen of Katolis died on that mission.”
“I heard that, too.”
Slower, heavier. “The queen of Katolis was my sister, Sarai.”
It hits Janai in the chest, head-on. Sarai, Queen of Katolis, and Amaya, her General. Khessa, queen of Lux Aurea, and Janai, her Golden Knight.
Amaya holding her back, holding her down, shaking her head, eyes full of a heavy knowing sadness.
Amaya, losing her sister and her queen in one stroke.
Amaya's grief, an echo, a mirror of Janai's.
“I know what it's like,” Amaya signs. “Losing your big sister. Losing a part of you.”
Janai swallows. Feels tears burn her throat. Remembers screaming on the ground, sobbing as her heart cracked open, as her world fell away beneath her feet. Remembers Amaya's steady hands. She wants to say I'm sorry. Wants to say, it was still no small thing. Wants to say, thank you.
But what comes out instead, small and cracked, is: “Does it ever stop hurting?”
Again, that heavy, aching sadness. Amaya shakes her head. “It gets easier to carry,” she signs. “But it never goes away. There's always a gap where she should be.”
Janai digs her nails into her palms. Tries to keep from sobbing. Amaya has already seen her cry, but Gren hasn't. The others, still scattered and laughing around them, have not. If she has her way, they never will.
“Thank you,” she says, stilted. “For saving my life. And I'm sorry that it hurt you.”
A shrug. “You were in pain. I know that pain. This is nothing in comparison.”
“Nevertheless.” Janai swallows. “Wait here a moment.”
She crosses to a cluster of soldiers, hers and human alike, mingling with hesitant cordiality. Draws herself up to imperious height, slides on a careful, distant friendliness, asks around until someone gives her what she's looking for.
When she finds Amaya again, Gren's gone, slipped into the crowd. The General's alone, thoughtful, her eyes on her nephews, who laugh with Azymondias and the Moonshadow girl.
She smiles as Janai reaches her, a little sad, a little mischievous. Signs something.
Janai swallows senseless frustration at herself. Of course she's had no reason to learn Katolian Sign Language before now, but she wishes she had, somehow. Hates the fact that all she can do is smile hesitantly back.
“Can you hold out your hand?” she asks, tries to remember what Kazi said: shape the words carefully, face Amaya straight-on. “The burned one.”
Amaya frowns, eyes intent, then extends an open palm to her without a second thought. Janai peels back the glove, careful. The fabric's half-melted, sticking to her skin. Janai can't meet Amaya's eyes, can't bear it when she glances up, sees her face so stoic, only the smallest wince escaping.
Glove off, she reaches into her armour, draws out the pot of salve she borrowed from the soldiers, smoothes it carefully over the burns scored into Amaya's palm.
She looks up when she's done. There's a faint flush in Amaya's cheeks. Janai tells herself it must be the cold that creeps over the top of the spire, the cold she can feel on her skin even as the sun in her veins warms her.
“Do you want it bandaged?” she asks.
Amaya blinks, starts a little, like she's coming out of a dream. Frowns. Signs something quick with her free left hand, mouth shaping the word again.
Janai repeats herself.
Amaya shakes her head. Draws her hand carefully back from Janai's. Signs something quick and fluid, then mimes bandaging her palm. Repeats the same signs, slower, clumsy.
“A bandage would get in the way?” Janai guesses.
Amaya nods.
“I'm sorry,” Janai repeats, helpless. “I won't let it happen again.”
Amaya smiles, shakes her head, looks fondly exasperated. Reaches for the shield on her back, clangs her vambrace against it four times.
Janai stares askance for a moment, till Gren emerges from the crowd.
He starts signing something as he reaches them, darts a glance at Janai, belatedly speaks along. “We haven't used that signal for years.”
Amaya rolls her eyes. “This is important.” She looks at Janai. “I'd do it again.”
Janai blinks, takes a moment to piece it together. Gren's voice, Amaya's face and hands, the change in who's addressing who, the conversation they were trying to have before Gren rejoined them.
Understanding dawns belatedly. She feels her cheeks flush, shakes her head. “I won't let that happen.”
“But if it did,” Amaya signs. “I want you to know I'd do it again. To save you.”
Janai turns to Gren. “How do you sign thank you?”
Gren smiles. Touches his fingertips to his chin. Brings his hand forward and down.
Janai turns to Amaya, repeats the sign. “Thank you.”
Amaya's grin is brighter than the sun. The pain in Janai's chest lifts, just a little.
“And thank you for telling me,” Janai says. “About your sister.”
Amaya nods.
They stand together a while longer. Janai breathes. Khessa's dying scream still echoes in her head.
But there's Amaya's bright eyes, the warmth in her smile. And Janai thinks maybe she can survive this pain, if she doesn't have to carry it alone.