(Stars—)
His breath was white, puffing in, puffing out, little strained clouds as the pain made it hitch in his throat. One hand remained closed around Esaia's lead rope, like he had forgotten it there. The pony eyed him with worried, anxious eyes; the black one was shying away towards the edges, wanting to get away but too spooked by the things lurking in the dark to break through them for a getaway.
Rory was a fool with silent nerves. They sang in frozen shock, and on his back in the snow he thought it was pleasant—numb, distant, like a whiteout, blackout, the border between wakefulness and sleep.
Until they came alive again.
Until fire seeped in the broken nerve endings.
Until fire ran in his veins.
At first, it was simply his lips and face twitching, sweat breaking out, heart racing; then there was snow, and Rory's scream was a weak and hoarse thing as he struggled beneath Amalia. His mind was blank: his heart was dark.
He felt the agony. He felt the rage, hot and harsh, boiling in his blood, until his teeth bared in a snarl and his free hand waved ineffectually towards Amalia. Hatred such as he had never felt before—limitless, unbound, primal, hungry—surged through him, and he struggled, as if to sit up, as if the need to murder something could power him through the pain and onto his feet and into the night—
Small, sharp teeth sheared through leather and wool and skin. Through veins and nerves and tendons. Blood pooled and Rory's eyes rolled back as he collapsed backwards again, writhing and screaming, though not very loudly.
Gods how he wanted to murder them all—
That bitch, for throwing fire at him. That pious idiot who lured them into the dark with her Spark Bird bullshit and poured snow on him. And that fucking fox attached to his shoulder.
That fucking fox who did nothing except fox around.
He didn't achieve much murdering in his current state, though.
Just bled into the snow, his breath shallow and too fast, his moans weak and bubbling from between chapped and blistered lips.
There were stars: not in the pitch black sky arcing somewhere above him, but stars in his mind, stars somewhere else. There was the light he was named for, calling him away into a sky not as dead as his.
But between murder and stars, murder still won out; Rory's soul remained within his weakening body, snarling ineffectually.
His breath was white, puffing in, puffing out, little strained clouds as the pain made it hitch in his throat. One hand remained closed around Esaia's lead rope, like he had forgotten it there. The pony eyed him with worried, anxious eyes; the black one was shying away towards the edges, wanting to get away but too spooked by the things lurking in the dark to break through them for a getaway.
Rory was a fool with silent nerves. They sang in frozen shock, and on his back in the snow he thought it was pleasant—numb, distant, like a whiteout, blackout, the border between wakefulness and sleep.
Until they came alive again.
Until fire seeped in the broken nerve endings.
Until fire ran in his veins.
At first, it was simply his lips and face twitching, sweat breaking out, heart racing; then there was snow, and Rory's scream was a weak and hoarse thing as he struggled beneath Amalia. His mind was blank: his heart was dark.
He felt the agony. He felt the rage, hot and harsh, boiling in his blood, until his teeth bared in a snarl and his free hand waved ineffectually towards Amalia. Hatred such as he had never felt before—limitless, unbound, primal, hungry—surged through him, and he struggled, as if to sit up, as if the need to murder something could power him through the pain and onto his feet and into the night—
Small, sharp teeth sheared through leather and wool and skin. Through veins and nerves and tendons. Blood pooled and Rory's eyes rolled back as he collapsed backwards again, writhing and screaming, though not very loudly.
Gods how he wanted to murder them all—
That bitch, for throwing fire at him. That pious idiot who lured them into the dark with her Spark Bird bullshit and poured snow on him. And that fucking fox attached to his shoulder.
That fucking fox who did nothing except fox around.
He didn't achieve much murdering in his current state, though.
Just bled into the snow, his breath shallow and too fast, his moans weak and bubbling from between chapped and blistered lips.
There were stars: not in the pitch black sky arcing somewhere above him, but stars in his mind, stars somewhere else. There was the light he was named for, calling him away into a sky not as dead as his.
But between murder and stars, murder still won out; Rory's soul remained within his weakening body, snarling ineffectually.
