Amora

A character description, possibly even the start of a new story, about a new character in my life. Amora Lightwell.

Out in the forest surrounding the small town of Hawk's Haven was the home of a young woman named Amora Lightwell. She was the village baker, making everything from treats for the village children to special breads for the birds that were the village's main source of income. Every morning, a few hours after dawn, when everyone is awaken and the day's business had begun, she would ride into the village proper on her beautiful blond mare, the hood of her dark purple cloak down as she smiled and greeted everyone, with a small cart filled with her creations being drawn behind.

 

The children would come to her first, marveling her dark green eyes and wavy gray hair as she gave them each a cookie or a brownie. She made each child promise to be good for their parents, or she would know and they wouldn't get a treat the next day. Every one of them would go, as soon as their baked delight was eaten, to their parents or older siblings to beg for something helpful to do. This always made the parents smile or laugh.

 

Next the bird owners would come for her special loaves of bread for their charges. None of the villagers could ever figure out what it was about the ordinary looking bread that their winged creatures adored. The trainers didn't mind it, though, because Amora's prices were fair and individualized. If one hawk raiser was having trouble, she would charge him less. If a falconer was making more than usual he was charged a little bit more. This, also, didn't bother anyone because it was a small village and everyone were friends with or related to everyone else. If one was charged more so another wouldn't be pressed harder than they were happy to help.

 

After the tradesmen left Amora set up a comfortable spot outside the village inn. She tended her horse and arranged her cart in the shade of the large building and sat right on the ground while she worked on some small creation in her lap. She greeted everyone by name with a smile and laughter in her melodic voice. She would chat and gossip with anyone who had the time to spare. She would share funny stories from her childhood, which she seemed to have a good deal of, or listen as someone retold a trouble, worry, triumph, or wonder.

 

On some days someone would ask her to sing something. Amora would smile and agree and a violin or flute or drum was brought and a small party would start right there outside the inn. Some days the children would ask for a story full of adventure and magic and danger and the young woman would hold their attention for hours with her tales. Some where true, right out of the old history books she studied from as a child and some where pure fiction, made up on the spot to make the children giggle from the ridiculousness of it and some were myths and legends whispered by scholars and investigated by seekers of the truth. The adults sometimes listened to her stories, as captivated as the children by her beautiful voice that was always perfectly pitched and her small, dainty hands which sometimes left her work and moved with her telling.

 

All the while, through chatting, singing, and story telling, Amora worked on little charms in her lap. Around her she would have little baskets of feathers, threads, beads, rings, and stones. She hardly looked at what she was doing. Sometimes she would stop, mid sentence, and dig through a basket looking for a certain something that she needed for the charm she was working on. Sometimes she explained what she was doing, telling an eager ear a little something of her other craft. She would tell the properties of a certain stone or bead or feather and explain what color threads meant what. A few lucky older children were even allowed to learn to make a simple charm, usually one for good luck or good fortune.

 

Always, as the sun began to raise and her shade disappeared, she would prepare to head back home to begin her baking for the next morning. On her way out of the village she would seek out a certain someone and give them the charm she had made that day. It would be a pretty thing to be hung in front of a window or over the head of a bed. She would explain what it would do, whither it be to scare away evil spirits or help speed the healing of an ill family member. She would never ask anything for these charms except to know if they had helped the family at all. After seeing her charm delivered she would mount her horse and go back to her home in the forest.

 

Amora was the talk of the town's young men in the evenings. Many young men would get together and moon over her beauty. Her smooth pale skin the longed to touch, her jewel like eyes they could stare into for hours and not grow bored, her long, gray hair they compared to the baby feathers of the hatchling bird they helped tend. They commented on her grace and elegant manner and small size, perfect for any bride of a lord, prince, or king. One brave young man, the son of the village's dove raiser, even asked her if he could court her properly as a fine lady should be courted.

 

“I so sorry,” she said with a serious and gentle look on her face, “but I am betrothed to another. I would take great care to not let your thoughts be know, sir, for my future husband tends to be rather jealous and ill tempered. I would not what to see you or another threatened for I do not like being cross with him.”

 

After that was repeated to every person in town, Amora was asked again and again by everyone who her mystery man was. Unfortunately for them, this was the only subject she would not go into detail about. She said so little that even today no one knows who her betrothed is. She only gave a straight answer to one question.

 

“Why,” asked Mrs. Lyman, the wife on the inn owner, one morning as she brought a glass of water out to Amora, “my dear, aren't you married to your betrothed and living with him?”

 

The young woman gave a sad smile, the most heartbreaking look the older woman had ever seen because it was on a face that never frowned. “I am waiting for him to grow up.”

 

Several villagers thought, after that was said, that she was to be married to some boy child who had not yet grown. Many of them didn't like that she was betrothed to a child and started to wonder what kind of parents she had. It was Mrs. Lyman, though, how didn't think that was it at all. She voiced one night, in the middle of a heated discussion in the inn dining hall, that her future husband must be a child on the inside, immature and irresponsible, like most young men. The other wives nodded and agreed to this, knowing well the heartache that comes with being in love with a man who acted like a little boy. The husbands grunted and muttered things about not being childlike and the town discussion ended there. Every now and then the wives would wish Amora luck with her man and say they hoped they could be together soon.

 

For five years the young woman lived in the forest outside Hawk's Haven, baking treats and breads and making charms for those who needed them. For five years everything in the village ran smoothly and everyone was happy and well.

 

It was then, soon after spring had came and the eggs were being laid in the nests of the town's birds, that the town met Amora's betrothed.

Author's Note

Just tell me what you think, k?