It started in the hold of the war rig.
Max was driving, Furiosa trusting him not to kill them but still not enough to be around the girls. He had given her one of his commandeered guns and she'd checked it five times. It would fire.
Max didn't mind her protectiveness. He saw how it was. Mentally, the Wives were still back at the Citadel—no freedom, no celebration, not when pursuit was so close. They needed someone whose strength they knew. Trusted. They needed bedrock.
Furiosa? She was what was beneath bedrock.
Cheedo was the most scared. She'd been close to Angharad, and losing her had shaken all her courage loose. It would take her time to find it again, but it was somewhere out there. She'd left with them, after all.
For now, Furiosa took hold of her, rocking her gently, trying to provide a counterpoint to the noise and fury of the war rig. They weren't used to it, and the only thing about it that didn't scare them was that it wasn't home.
Finally, the little wheedling sounds of Cheedo's fear faded. Asleep. Furiosa hoped she was dreaming of Angharad, and not her death.
Toast offered herself up next, as Furiosa shifted Cheedo down onto her lap. Toast sat sweetly beside Furiosa, smiled nervously, then laid her head on Furiosa's shoulder. Her good one. The Imperator put her arm around Toast, not knowing quite how she knew what to do—more used to getting a read on predators like Max than knowing prey like the Wives.
But something inside… a long-dead memory of the Vuvalini, like a half-remembered childhood lullaby… compelled her to rub her hand on the dark skin of Toast's arm. Unlike most, she had been born looking sun-bronzed—one of Joe's exotics. Furiosa half-expected her to be warm to the touch, at least warmer than the others, but she was chill and cool, nervous sweat just waiting to pour from her. As she relaxed, Furiosa rubbed the proper warmth into her.
Toast gestured to Capable, who was half-watching and half-looking away, but more than half-saw the beckoning. She went over, laying down beside the sleeping Cheedo with her head on Furiosa's thigh, looking at her friend. Furiosa didn't know if she wanted reassurance or to protect her. Probably both.
The Dag came last. Moved between Furiosa's spread legs, put her back to Furiosa's front, settled down to sleep with her arms around her fetal legs. Toast reached over, patted her. Capable reached over, patted her. The slender muscles of her arms flexed as she tightened them around her shins. Her head bowed and Furiosa saw the brand of the Immortan, blaring from the back of her neck.
Toast reached over and played Dag's hair back behind her head, covering it. "I should grow my hair long too," she said gently.
"Go to sleep, Knowing," Dag replied.
Furiosa was careful to position herself so she didn't touch the Dag in her sleep. She got it. The Dag wasn't like the others. Didn't want to be comforted. Just wanted to be close. Furiosa guessed she would've been the same way, her age, if she'd had anyone to be close to.
Before she'd left, she'd planned what she would need, what she could take—how she could hurt Joe. She hadn't taken any of the bloodbags or war pups, but that wasn't the reason. The Wives were about the only thing left delicate for a thousand miles—might as well be the whole world. Even Joe knew their value; though he would crush them trying to have their delicacy on his terms.
Furiosa, she knew better. They had to be saved because they were proof the whole world had been gentle, once, or at least it could've been. And as annoying as they could be, she was glad they weren't like her.
And she was glad she was enough like them to be a comfort.