[Mini Event] who tells your story

RORY

Though Jigano had expressed his understanding—and his support—Rory worried: worried, because as they parted in the restless crowd, the other man had not yet heard his words. What if he would change his mind during the speech? What if they had somehow misunderstood each other? What if—what if...

What if he was about to lose everything in this one, mad moment?

As he walked with his people to the Spire he scanned the skies for signs of white, but it wasn't until things had settled that he was rewarded. The white raven swept in, landing gently on Rory's shoulder. At that point he was alone, and he found his breath sticking in his throat even as tears of relief glistened in his eyes.

He had been so, so afraid, and it could be heard as his uneven breath slipped from between parted lips into the cool Flowerbirth night.

He just stood like that for several seconds, eyes skyward.

Then he swallowed. Licked his lips. Blinked to clear his eyes; dashed what tears had escaped from his cheek with the heel of one hand. "Thank you," he whispered, curling the same hand around the white bird, stroking the feathers along his neck. "For understanding."

~ * ~

He did not sleep much that night; he slept as much as he could, but he paced among them too, not talking nearly as much as he listened. He was no leader. Power was not something he desired. And as he wandered in the dark he found it strange to think of how easily it had come to him, at least on that night. For now, they still adhered to his will and his word.

Rory was not a fool. He knew that his spell would be broken sooner or later.

Evie found him in the dark, and Rory's gaze sharpened. Amalia wasn't here? That was true, he hadn't seen her, but also .. odd. "Maybe she'll show up," he murmured to her, but it was clear from his tone that he shared her concern.

And he could only hope that he was right. Just like the white raven on his shoulder gave him strength, so would Amalia's presence. He needed her, needed her guidance, her fervor, her piety. Rory had so very little of it himself.

~ * ~

It was approaching the hour of high noon when Nathaniel sought him out. Rory looked resolute, if a bit worn; he had re-done his braid after sleeping for most of the morning, and the fire and fervor of his eyes had cooled to embers. Nate asked a relevant question. "I'm hoping we'll talk," he said calmly, but nothing about his tone suggested he was naive enough to believe that was the only way it might go. "And if not, well.. then this would've happened sooner or later anyway, wouldn't it?" His voice was sad, and he spread his arms helplessly as he shrugged and looked meaningfully towards the Spire. "But is it worth dying for?"

Rory could not ask anyone to die for this. For him.

Maea added hers to the morning air. "I—" he began, but another voice spoke up, and Rory fell back on old habits, and stayed silent.

He didn't know this man, and everything about him had Rory's gut turning over on itself. He felt cold, and the words.. were everything Rory had learned to hate, to fear, to run from, and he tensed.

It was Wessex who came to his rescue, answering in his stead, and she said what had been on his mind anyway. Rory was both mildly relieved and annoyed, but he didn't stop up to examine it further. There was no time for introspection, no time for feeling left out in a conversation that had never really been about him or his plans anyway. The people had needed a voice, a uniting factor, and Rory had merely stepped into that role.

That was when a third joined the cadre of Ascendeds he had in front of him. Wessex was the only one he knew, but as the words of the most recent spilled out—oddly deferential to Rory's sham power in the situation, though he suspected it was just a facade to placate him—he found himself wondering where her allegiance truly laid.

And at last, the Ascended asked to be let into the Spire.

Rory was not a brave creature. Rory was known in certain circles to be an easy target; he did not run, he did not defend himself, he merely curled up and took his beating. Rory was mellow and non-confrontational. Rory did what you asked, if you were scary enough, and three Ascended, one who had confessed to being centuries old, were scary.

And Rory said: "No."

He did not get further, did not get into his justifications, how if they entered the Spire it was to be together, all races, all nationalities, and only to learn. He meant to say more, but Amalia's voice finally joined theirs.

Nothing else in the world mattered: it narrowed to merely him and the raven and Amalia, and the words she spoke first chilled him to the core. Stilled him. The Spire had been made to keep the Ascended from getting to the rest of the world? But why? What had they done? And he thought of the stories he had heard, of how some had blamed it all on them, had called them monsters and abominations, how at some points in history they had been hunted, as if purging them could reverse this curse, but nothing had ever come of it and Rory had never believed it.

And now Amalia was telling him that Safrin had said that it was true. That they couldn't let them out. And the third Ascended's words twisted in his memory; was the Voice itself within the Spire, sealed into an eternal tomb?

But none of that mattered anymore.

He saw the world in her eyes.

Everything stopped.

His heart was tight and painful, his head, his thoughts, his plans, in shambles; he felt the memory of the wind across his skin and the scent of spring flowers and the feeling of a horse sweating beneath him as it ate up the terrain at a gallop under a harsh summer sun. He was fifteen again, wanting nothing else but to break through the barrier, and into the world beyond.

But the moment fractured, pierced by Maea's biting, bitter words, falling to pieces like a rain of glass shards around him. Bold, he thought, of her to speak like such in front of three of them.

"We talk," he said calmly—too calmly, too recently damned. "All cards on the table. No dishonesty. No trickery. Can anyone invite the gods?"

as if you were on fire from within,
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.