She had seen the raging beast, not the ragged man-shape, when he had attacked her at the Spire. Bastien could have told her about how his clothing had been torn and black with blood and whatever passed for it in his body, the fabric stiff and providing no defenses against the cold. Rory had helped him clean himself up, and had burned those clothes. At first glance the bard almost looked like his old self - white hair clean and brushed smooth before it had been carefully braided by the farmer's deft fingers, clothing warm and nearly spotless, his warm cloak of white furs wrapped around his shoulders - but closer inspection showed that his hair was still lank, his eyes were sunken and his face haggard. Shadows still trailed through his eyes and darkened his mouth, but there was blue within the black again, and the blight's tar was thinning. He looked like he had towards the end of Leafchange rather than the mad, rabid beast that had stalked the first week of Deepfrost.
He heard her rise and dared to look up. She was beautiful, was this woman who had fit within his heart as neatly as Rory had. Jyoti haloed them both in stars and for a moment Jigano looked like he might smile at the sight they made together, but there were tears in Amalia's eyes and he ached with the need to wrap her in his arms and hold her close, offering the sister of his heart every reassurance and promise that would fall from his lips.
Instead he held up a shaking hand, and swallowed the lump of bitter emotion in his throat as he gave a reluctant shake of his head. "Sometimes," he admitted quietly. "For the moment. Not... not entirely. Not enough." He hesitated then, afraid to give her false hope but desperate to find something to hope for himself. "But more than I was. A little more every day, I think." I pray, he added silently.
He heard her rise and dared to look up. She was beautiful, was this woman who had fit within his heart as neatly as Rory had. Jyoti haloed them both in stars and for a moment Jigano looked like he might smile at the sight they made together, but there were tears in Amalia's eyes and he ached with the need to wrap her in his arms and hold her close, offering the sister of his heart every reassurance and promise that would fall from his lips.
Instead he held up a shaking hand, and swallowed the lump of bitter emotion in his throat as he gave a reluctant shake of his head. "Sometimes," he admitted quietly. "For the moment. Not... not entirely. Not enough." He hesitated then, afraid to give her false hope but desperate to find something to hope for himself. "But more than I was. A little more every day, I think." I pray, he added silently.
