Let's talk about General Amaya. Let's talk about a woman who loves as fiercely as she hates. A woman who lost her sister to a dragon and her brother-in-law to the elves. Who thinks she has lost two nephews to them too and gets up every morning with that weight upon her shoulders because she thinks she should have been able to save them.
Let's talk about a woman who is distrustful, who sends her closest friend and her best interpreter to lead the search for Callum and Ezran, even though it leaves her vulnerable, because how many other humans know sign language? A woman who lights a candle for her long dead sister and lets Viren join her because maybe he rankles her but she still respects authority.
Amaya understands duty. She breathes it.
She's brave but not stupidly so. She knows when the battle is lost, knows when it is best to abandon an enemy fortress and flee on her horse, her men at her back. Years upon years of service have stripped her pride from her until all that is left is duty.
She looks across a rocky battlefield and meets the gaze of a woman who glows with power. This isn't personal; it is a fight like any other. Blades clash and Amaya is left holding the stump of a sword. Think about how brave she is, to stare into the eyes of the enemy and to know that this woman with that sunforged blade could cleave her apart like butter and instead of running she draws her shield and she dances with her own devil.
Maybe she's not afraid of death anymore. Maybe she has lost so much – her sister, her nephews, her king – that she doesn't think that she can sink any lower. Or maybe she stands because there is too much to lose. Maybe she draws her shield because she believes in the ground beneath her feet and if someone must die in the defence of it then, well, it might as well be her.
Think of how they meet again. Amaya greets a soldier in an eerily quiet fortress – not that she can tell, but there's an off vibe nonetheless and this is a woman who listens to herself – and she knows that something is wrong. Arrows fly and who does she see but a dark-skinned elf, dressed in armour and gold like this a ceremony and not a death-dancing fight. This time it is personal.
Amaya cannot sleep at night. She tosses and she turns but her body is alight under the gaze of an elf that she hates. It's a devastating kind of attraction: dangerous and tantalising. She gets up at night, restless, and stalks the battlements under the light of the stars, wondering what Sarai would think of her now. Would she be proud or ashamed?
Amaya isn't sure. It's been so many years since Sarai died. Every day her image fades more and more from Amaya's memory and sometimes days go by without thinking of her. When this happens, Amaya stalks the corridors of Katolis Castle, looking at the paintings of a woman who died too young. In too much pain.
Imagine being the one to survive, the one left behind.
Imagine being the little sister, the younger one, the deaf one, the one who leans on her older, loving sister and then suddenly you turn around and there is no one behind you.
Amaya reminds me of Susan Pevensie. Susan of the Horn, Susan the archer, Susan the Gentle, Queen of Narnia. Susan who tumbled out of a wardrobe one day and was a queen in the body of a child. Susan who grew up and grew old in a world that didn't recognise what she was. Imagine being twenty and getting a call that everyone you know is dead: your sister, your brothers, your parents, your uncle, your cousin, and your cousin's friend that you never met. Imagine your world collapsing around you in a single instant.
Now imagine that it isn't a phone call. Imagine you turn around and see your sister dying before your eyes, eviscerated by another people's god. You scream and you cry and sobs wrack your frame and you are a woman who can withstand an army, who can look death in the eye and defy it, but you cannot watch this.
What must that do to you? What must you become?
Let's talk about a woman who is nothing but strength. Have you seen her swing that shield around? Under her armour, Amaya is built like a tank, muscle upon muscle. Because when you cannot use your voice to shout you must find presence in other ways and what a presence she is.
I like to imagine that she walks the walls of her battlements and finds peace in the small moments. That she nods at her men with pride, and when she thinks that they are not looking she stops and breathes in the hot air and finds joy in it. I like to think she looks out at the river of lava that separates her from the Sunfire elves and thinks that there is a strange and fierce kind of beauty in it.
I like to think that she grows plants. There are rows of flowering Katolian plants in her rooms and she signs to them because although she cannot sing she believes in the power of love and communication. She attends formal events in her military uniform with flowers tucked into her closely cut hair and anyone who mocks her for it suffers the withering glare of Lieutenant Gren.
Amaya is respected, loved, feared. She stands straight: unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Imagine constantly being looked at. There is the threat of a war hanging over your head and some days you struggle to climb out of bed, like the darkness is weighing you down, calling you, and everyone is looking at you. Imagine your strength is not for you, but for others.
It has been so long since Amaya has known peace. So long since she has not had the weight of a sword in her hand and lives pressed into the curves of her shoulders. Perhaps she had a lover. Maybe she died, maybe she walked away. Maybe, maybe. Amaya is unmarried but beloved by those she commands and perhaps she sits alone at night and thinks that that is more useful than love.
Let's talk about a woman who is hard. Whose will is iron. Who is never seen without her armour because every day is a fight. Let's talk about a woman who is kind and soft and dutiful. Who loves with the same fierceness that she fights with.
Let's talk about General Amaya.
So I'm working on a reasonably-sized Amaya/Janai fic but I was having a bit of trouble because Amaya doesn't really have all that much screen-time. I wanted to get a sense of the kind of person I was writing about so I started jotting down some notes and it turned into this. With a bit of editing it turned into something readable