stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
The tale was not one he had expected, and he listened with both reluctance and great interest. It was Remi, god's sake, yet he wanted to cling to whatever shreds of inhumanity he had left, to wallow in his bitterness and keep his grounds on which to demonize the Outlanders.
But how could he, when he looked into those pale green eyes? Whenever that charming, disarming smile broke out? He was lost every time, ever since the first, when his startled mind screamed danger, danger and backed the pony up from the outstretched hand. He had wanted to trust him then, and he wanted to trust him now, but in the end, it was himself that he didn't trust.
So he sat where he was, his hands resting on his knees, his heart struggling against itself.
"..a dream perhaps."
And one Rory shared, but did not believe in. And when had he stopped? He, who always participated in building a perch for a bird they had not seen in forever; he, who always hung his lanterns looking for Ludo's favor; he, who always rode the Outskirts, looking for answers; he, who always rode by the Spire, never afraid, but ever watchful.
It was ritual, but at some point along the way, he had stopped expecting answers. He had stopped expecting change, and now that it was here, he found himself regurgitating the words of his elders: there is no way out. it is too dangerous. we have tried everything. you will die.
you will die.
He thought of his cage. He thought of Remi's cage, how the bars had bent and bowed but not broken; how it had expanded yet remained locked.
He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.
But he listened, as Remi spoke of what he made, of his father. Rory glanced his way, and found only the green of Remi's gaze.
Holding him. Trapping him. Searching him, looking for his soul in all that blue. Rory blinked, still and gentle, the way animals did to confirm their good intentions. Yet whatever answers the Alchemist looked for, Rory did not have them—believed himself not to have them—and even if he had, could not give them. He couldn't endorse a hunt for a way out when it was fraught with so much danger, would not encourage anyone towards risks that might cost them their lives.
"I never knew my father," he said, still helpless to look away from those eyes, yet wanting to. He felt shy when under his regard. "He died before I was born."
It was a worthless bit of information, yet the only thing that came to mind.
But how could he, when he looked into those pale green eyes? Whenever that charming, disarming smile broke out? He was lost every time, ever since the first, when his startled mind screamed danger, danger and backed the pony up from the outstretched hand. He had wanted to trust him then, and he wanted to trust him now, but in the end, it was himself that he didn't trust.
So he sat where he was, his hands resting on his knees, his heart struggling against itself.
"..a dream perhaps."
And one Rory shared, but did not believe in. And when had he stopped? He, who always participated in building a perch for a bird they had not seen in forever; he, who always hung his lanterns looking for Ludo's favor; he, who always rode the Outskirts, looking for answers; he, who always rode by the Spire, never afraid, but ever watchful.
It was ritual, but at some point along the way, he had stopped expecting answers. He had stopped expecting change, and now that it was here, he found himself regurgitating the words of his elders: there is no way out. it is too dangerous. we have tried everything. you will die.
you will die.
He thought of his cage. He thought of Remi's cage, how the bars had bent and bowed but not broken; how it had expanded yet remained locked.
He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.
But he listened, as Remi spoke of what he made, of his father. Rory glanced his way, and found only the green of Remi's gaze.
Holding him. Trapping him. Searching him, looking for his soul in all that blue. Rory blinked, still and gentle, the way animals did to confirm their good intentions. Yet whatever answers the Alchemist looked for, Rory did not have them—believed himself not to have them—and even if he had, could not give them. He couldn't endorse a hunt for a way out when it was fraught with so much danger, would not encourage anyone towards risks that might cost them their lives.
"I never knew my father," he said, still helpless to look away from those eyes, yet wanting to. He felt shy when under his regard. "He died before I was born."
It was a worthless bit of information, yet the only thing that came to mind.
