Amara knows this routine, familiar even in this new place.  Over the last months, she's learned how to prepare to leave, quickly and smoothly, planning ahead almost unconsciously.  She takes a moment to gather her own few coins, to take stock of the little food left from what the two of them had gleaned earlier, then exchanges a few quick words with Arden.  It seems ridiculous, even cruel, to discuss funds or food, but with speed so much of the essence, there will be no time for foraging, less for hunger.  And she has no stomach for the search for other equipment, necessary as she knows this to be.<br/><br/>She turns, bracing herself to face the death again, and instead finds her gaze fixed on Marius' broad back, almost bisected by the thin snake of a scar, pale as the corpses around him.  She'd easily rediscovered something of the spirit of the boy she'd known, and had all but forgotten the change in his looks.  Now it strikes home.  As a little girl, she'd often escaped to the river and the pond, splashing fearlessly into the water wearing little or nothing, and she'd been there to see Marius do the same many times.  Now there is a stranger before her, just for an instant.<br/><br/>Then he moves, half-turning, and the spell breaks.  No one else in the world could move quite like that; not even the back of anyone else's head could look quite that way, and he was her Marius again, something no tattoos or muscles or years could change.  She watches as he dons the shirt, the padding, the armor, layer upon layer transforming him again into the soldier he had so lately been.  The rend in the armor makes her heart ache -- foolish to let such workmanship go to waste, of course, but for an instant she wishes with all her might that she would not have to see him wear the armor of a dead man.<br/><br/>More metal is piled near her, the strange, focused newcomer gathering steadily, unwaveringly.  Amara looks at the stack almost uncomprehendingly.  Her armor can hardly be dignified with the name: a padded jerkin; good, stout leather gloves and boots, but nothing else that might be called protective.  She picks up the gorget, tests it, marvels at the fact that it has been made to look attractive as well as tough.  The dagger is fine, it suits her somehow; the rapier is less familiar, but she realizes at once that it is as fine as its mate, well-balanced and surprisingly easy in her hand.  A helmet is something she's never possessed, and she wishes she still didn't need to, flinching at the life's blood that stains one edge.  Marius will protect her, but she still can't invite attack.<br/><br/>She armors herself slowly, glancing often at Marius as though for guidance.  She longs for a bow, always her most comfortable weapon after the long years of hunting and impromptu competitions, but all those in her sight seem ruined, and again she shrinks from the thought of looking more closely.  Unthinking as she is when dressing game, or someone's wound, or even shedding blood in the heat of battle, she feels suddenly a coward in the face of all this.<br/><br/>She takes a breath, forcing herself to look.  Then her eyes meet Marius', his transformation complete as well.  A sword waits near him, a monster of a weapon, perhaps as tall as she is, perhaps more than she could lift, let alone swing.  Only the eyes give away the fact that there is a thinking, feeling man inside the metal, and even that is something perhaps only Amara herself, in all the world, would recognize.  Even so, she hesitates, not so much uncertain as adjusting, relearning him for the second time in a day.<br/><br/>"Did you ever imagine you would see me with such a weapon?" she asks, with a hint of a wry smile, as she hefts the rapier and fastens its belt around her hips.  "With this, perhaps even bog-dwellers might be afraid of me."<br/><br/>But this faint humor doesn't reach her eyes, their clear blue studying him again for a moment.  "Can we do this?" she asks, a vague, careful question that begs many others.  She is already decided, nothing will turn her back now, but some part of her waits for that necessary confirmation from him, almost permission, almost a blessing.  She no more has words for the bond between them then he does, but it is the strongest, most vital thing she has.