Rory had lit a fire and some candles, as much for the comfort it offered as to stave off the first of the Leafchange night chills. There was much on his mind, much on his heart, and he found that evenings and nights were less lonely with the company of fire. It crackled and popped, and he was sunk down on the floor in front of it. His vacant stare went right through the dancing flames as his mind twisted and turned like a restless sleeper.
Zariah had turned his world into a nightmare.
Jigano had played a risky and high game by refusing to enlist and now he was gods knew where (Rory preferred not to know). And what would the Queen do if she caught him? Make an example out of him? Keep him in jail until he enlisted? Turn him into a slave? Rory's thoughts swirled and swirled, worry about Jigano (and a slight frustration with his wild ways; why not just bow his head and be safe until the time was right?) mixing with mental images of the blight. The Undine, her beautiful and haunting and sad voice skirling through his memories, the black rot slowly eating away her flesh—and the radiant light cleansing her.
And Wessex... His Wessex: where was she? He normally saw her more often than he had as of late, and he worried for her, too. He didn't doubt her; he never did.
But he worried all the same.
If he had been doing anything, perhaps he would not have heard the protesting noise of the barn door sliding open. Had he been more occupied with his thought he might've written it off as another snap of the fire in his hearth, but on that night—the flames hushed and whispered but that sound was different.
Shortly after—"Rory?"
He raised his head. Came to his feet. He knew that voice, would know it anywhere, and as he crossed to the door he began to wake up (and found that he was a little hungry). Over the threshold and into the dark and yes, there she was, by the barn, a tenacious, ferocious blond ghost, strong in so many ways that he was not.
"Wessex!" he cried happily, unaware of the fact that he was running towards her, showing no regard for her personal space as he tried to give her a strong, but brief, hug before stepping back. "Where have you been?"
Zariah had turned his world into a nightmare.
Jigano had played a risky and high game by refusing to enlist and now he was gods knew where (Rory preferred not to know). And what would the Queen do if she caught him? Make an example out of him? Keep him in jail until he enlisted? Turn him into a slave? Rory's thoughts swirled and swirled, worry about Jigano (and a slight frustration with his wild ways; why not just bow his head and be safe until the time was right?) mixing with mental images of the blight. The Undine, her beautiful and haunting and sad voice skirling through his memories, the black rot slowly eating away her flesh—and the radiant light cleansing her.
And Wessex... His Wessex: where was she? He normally saw her more often than he had as of late, and he worried for her, too. He didn't doubt her; he never did.
But he worried all the same.
If he had been doing anything, perhaps he would not have heard the protesting noise of the barn door sliding open. Had he been more occupied with his thought he might've written it off as another snap of the fire in his hearth, but on that night—the flames hushed and whispered but that sound was different.
Shortly after—"Rory?"
He raised his head. Came to his feet. He knew that voice, would know it anywhere, and as he crossed to the door he began to wake up (and found that he was a little hungry). Over the threshold and into the dark and yes, there she was, by the barn, a tenacious, ferocious blond ghost, strong in so many ways that he was not.
"Wessex!" he cried happily, unaware of the fact that he was running towards her, showing no regard for her personal space as he tried to give her a strong, but brief, hug before stepping back. "Where have you been?"
