RORY
What if, what if, what if: one of Rory's hands was on the tabletop now, swirling in little circles, painting patterns in dust that wasn't there. What if Zariah took a child hostage? Would it endear her to anyone, if word got out? What if she did it in secret, what if she got Ronin to backstab them all, what if, and Rory felt that too-often-kicked wolf in his soul breathe a horrid answer: so what?It was not a lack of concern for Aoife, or Ronin, or any of those in the room: it was frustration at all these hypothetical scenarios being laid out like branching paths, when life would perhaps not walk any of them.
And technically, if Zariah was into threatening kids, she could strong-arm Ronin into anything even if he left their little rebellion. It was like they were discussing the fine print of a larger whole that was obviously broken, an elephant in the room that no one chose to comment on, and Rory's eyebrows drew together even as his hand squeezed Jigano's in return. Again he felt himself stand in the vexed crowd as Roana announced her assault on the Spire, and again he felt himself surprisingly frustrated that the crowd didn't surge into fire of its own accord.
At least Deimos tried to move them forward, away from the downward spiral of trying to patch up holes that hadn't even been poked yet: Rory's finger kept tracing the wood grains, his mind dancing along the edges of something dangerous that had no name, no shape, because it hadn't existed yet in him.
So Ronin leaving came like a blow that was both unexpected and .. not. Rory watched, his eyes dry and dark, his heart fleet and wicked. He did not think that Ronin was afraid (at least, not for himself) but he knew what it felt like to have something to lose. Something that couldn't choose. In silence, he watched as Remi left too, with words of wisdom that Rory was not sure how to apply. Talk to her, and.. what? Ask her to step down? Tell her what a major ass she was?
But this thing was falling apart and now that it was it bothered him.
His heart was trembling because the monster he knew had been taken from him and could never be returned, so his choice was Zariah or to make a monster of his own.
"Look," he began, quiet and heavy, "the nature of this thing we're discussing makes it unsafe. There's always risks and it's impossible to safeguard against every eventuality. If we wanted to be safe, we'd keep our heads down and do as Zariah says, and not sit in this basement and plot rebellion. At some point we just have to agree that we'll be taking risks that might cost us our lives or loved ones, and either accept that, or don't—like Ronin. But we can't just keep going in circles of 'what if Zariah finds out...' because that's not going to help us right now."
The tips of his fingers were tapping against the table. "What would we even say to Zariah, though? That trying to call us 'Destined' is just offensive? That we'd rather she just let us live our lives as we pleased? And what if she says no?" He looked to Deimos again. "Better to gather and rise in the shadows, as you suggest. Would we even need a decoy? Wouldn't that just make her more prone to look, trace the smoke to the fire?"
But, perhaps the most important thing of all: "What does it even take to unseat her? Can't we just declare her a false ruler? Though I suppose we'd need our own for that..."
as if you were on fire from within,
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
