"Thank you, Caritas."

Amalia hasn't the strength to exhibit her gratitude other than with words, her skull still steady in its persistent beating, its puls only felt more at any movement of her eyes. And the priest must've sensed so, for he drapes the extra blanket over Fionn in Amalia's stead.

"Rest." He suggests, voice hushed for the sake of the other children in the room. "The gods will watch over him tonight."

He lingers, his stance and candle-lit expression carved into the shape of concern. But even with the late hour, he has to take his leave and check the other rooms. The warm weight on Amalia's shoulder is temporary, taken out the door with him.

What should be a room designed and meant only for comfort that lulls one to sleep turns into a silent prison for the dame with every ticking minute. She looks to Fionn's resting face for some relief from her throat-constricting guilt only to feel twice as horrible. No matter how she lets her body tense or slack, it hurts. The lazy sword leaning against her chair would feel less useless if she rid herself of her own head, if only to stop her mind from running the same thoughts over and over.

The moon is higher in the sky than she last left it by the time sitting still becomes unbearable. Amalia moves urgently, a speed that her legs don't allow yet. Fionn, whose rest barely came in the first place, stirs at the clumsy noise of her getting up for the door. Luckily, Amalia makes her escape before his eyes open to another scene of someone leaving him.

With no true goal in mind and no real obstacles in her wandering, Amalia drags herself through the church of family, passing carved and painted depictions of parents with their children. A place her brother would shed a tear for, certainly. If he wouldn't find himself as a subject in the art first.

Though rather than share such enthusiasm or finding any familiarity in the familial scenes shown around her, the burden pressing Amalia's heart begins to feel even heavier under the eyes of kinship. She thinks of her lord. Of her lady. How they resembled the stained glass pictures around her when they'd share breakfast in their garden or dress up for a night out. How being an observer to such times felt so far away suddenly. How such times may not happen again.

There were no knights in these paintings. What is a knight to a child left on their own? When Helena woke up, screaming about a bad dream, she didn't run to the guards. She cried and pushed her way into their parents room. But Fionn had no room to run to. Not his parents', not his own. Not until they get back home, at least. And what then? Will the house be empty or full with survivors waiting for their son?

The questions plaguing her bandaged head force her to sit down again. She steals a place in the back row of the pews, the shadows offering respite for her sensitive eyes. Having her armour off has made her more vulnerable than she would've liked, both physically and mentally. She recalls her old prayers, not learned in knighthood but the ones her father used to teach them whenever their mother was on a long trip. Pleading for a safe return, a fast reunion.

Her arms clasp together without her noticing, forehead bowed as she recites what she remembers and improvises what she doesn't. "Spare the kingdom of losing its citizens."

She hears footsteps, their ease striking a tender nerve. Only someone who is free of future worries can move through life in such a way.

"Save me the pain of losing loved ones." The image of her lady appears behind her closed eyes, but to refer to only one loved one would be too cruel, too revealing. Especially to the curious and medllesome figure watching her.

"Have mercy on young Fionn..." Because that matters most. She protected him— so gods, protect his father. His mother. Her lady.