Silvers and Stars

You grunt, leaning back in your seat. You never quite knew how to talk to Amica, even after all this time. You especially had no clue when she was a cub, adopted in the last years of your grandmother's long, long life. She never stopped looking at you with those wide green eyes though, like you were something to be admired.

"...Well..." You glance aside. She was like looking at the sun sometimes. Bright and happy, and you were just...

"What's done is done. Jus' gotta work around the damn thing an' keep it outta trouble." There's a pause as Amica leans down to scratch the smokescale at her heel... and then giggles again.

"...Do you remember? That year for Ma's birthday," she says, "Where I tried helping you and Klara hang those garlands?"

You scoff. She was about six then, full of energy and always bouncing from person to person.

"...You were un'erfoot," you recall, "An' you kep' snaggin' yer claws on the ribbons."

Amica laughs, brightly. "Klara was so patient with me... She sat me down and distracted me long enough to show me how to tie a bow, while you and Magnús threw the rest up as quick as you could...!"

You didn't know how to deal with kids. You were never sure what they could handle at which age, and they took every little detail in, absorbing everything you said or did and taking it into themselves.

It was a miracle Amica turned out right if she ever looked up to you.

"Ah... I miss her," Amica says, a little more gently. You suppress a wince. You instead give a silent, even nod as an answer, bracing yourself for the direction this conversation was headed.

"Do you... ever talk to Mag n' Eddy?" She asks after your siblings. Your lips press into a thin line.

"...Nah," you answer.

"Anybody?" In the family you and her shared, she means.

"Nope..."

Her ears fall slightly, her brow furrowing. "...Not since Ma's funeral?" You clench your teeth, but force yourself to relax.

"Kid." A warning. "This ain't... I'll talk with ya. Jus'... not this."

Amica gives you a puzzled frown. "But why me, an' not them?"

"You know why," you snap, "I said leave it."

Amica sighs, leaning back in her chair too. She glances down to her smokescale, who looks up at her inquisitively, sensing the shift in tone. Amica's quiet for a minute, but you speak first.

"...Kid, I--"

"Amica," she insists, firmly. "I'm not a child." You still aren't good at talking to her.

"Amica." You're trying. "I know whatcher... tryin'a do. I jus'..."

Amica's watching you, with that look of concern you knew so well from your own childhood. It's almost as bad as the switch you got from your own Ma.

You look away.

"I jus' need more time ta... figure out what ta say to 'em," you lie.

Her gaze hardens ever so slightly. You feel some deep, old part of you bristle in response, but you pin that instinct down before it can bite.

"...I'm sorry," you offer her. "...Maybe this w's a damn mista--"

"No," Amica insists, "no, no. Gytha..." She crosses her arms on the table, leaning forward.

"If you need time, you need time. I won' push you to do anything you ain't ready for." You feel the tension in your body leave, and a wave of shame rolls in to replace it. "But I know that everyone's... missin' you, still. Okay? I jus' worry, is all."

"'Bout them?" You know what she means.

And she knows you know, because she doesn't answer.

You sigh. You stand. "Gonna... grab some drinks from Sig," you tell her, and leave the table.

Amica sighs too, and as you leave you hear her claws scratch through her smokescale's mane, and under her breath you can hear her say,

"Oh, Smokey... What are we gonna do with 'er?"