i think you saw me confronting my fear
it went up with the bottle and went down with the beer
That had been one of the most unpleasant encounters in Rory's life, which hadn't exactly been free of them, either. He was a dark and brooding thing, jaw set, nerves quivering, as he watched Roana and Edrei turn and finally—finally—leave.
So, so far, Rory's life and the lives of those with him were still worth more than getting into the Spire. He supposed he should consider it a victory, or perhaps a mercy, but he would not soon forget the inhumanity of Roana's eyes as she condemned him, or the anger and the hurt in Ashetta and Edrei's faces.
Those, he could understand, even though he was not too keen on forgiving them. But Roana... her arguments, her self-righteous anger.
That was something for his brain to pick apart in hours and days and years to come, but it was the other two that had his heart still racing, his gut turning over, poison in his veins and snakes under his skin. Never before had he been threatened so vividly, so furiously, by someone so capable of killing him.
He felt cold, soul shivering, body numb. He bit down on what he felt, set his shoulders, his jaw, left his followers to disperse back to their friends and cookfires, disappeared to the edges of the gathering. He just wanted out. Away, from this stupid, monumental task he had set himself.
How long would he have to try and guard it? How many times would he have to risk his life, just because the Gods were silent? How long until Roana lost her patience, and set Edy upon him?
His skin was not longing to be reunited with her flame.
Just the thought of it made him want to vomit.
He was tense and taut, a dark bird on the outskirts of his flock, when Amalia found him. His eyes were dark, a black curtain drawn, trapping every emotion and fraying nerve behind a wall of sheer desperation: a survival instinct to not show the wolves just how badly he bled.
If she spoke, he did not hear, his eyes glassy like beads. If she touched him, he did not notice, his muscles tensed and unresponsive. His skin was pale.
But when she got him to move, he followed, led towards the lush green infringing on the Spire.
[Jigano Amalia || Set directly after {PQ} His Dying Wish ]
it went up with the bottle and went down with the beer
That had been one of the most unpleasant encounters in Rory's life, which hadn't exactly been free of them, either. He was a dark and brooding thing, jaw set, nerves quivering, as he watched Roana and Edrei turn and finally—finally—leave.
So, so far, Rory's life and the lives of those with him were still worth more than getting into the Spire. He supposed he should consider it a victory, or perhaps a mercy, but he would not soon forget the inhumanity of Roana's eyes as she condemned him, or the anger and the hurt in Ashetta and Edrei's faces.
Those, he could understand, even though he was not too keen on forgiving them. But Roana... her arguments, her self-righteous anger.
That was something for his brain to pick apart in hours and days and years to come, but it was the other two that had his heart still racing, his gut turning over, poison in his veins and snakes under his skin. Never before had he been threatened so vividly, so furiously, by someone so capable of killing him.
He felt cold, soul shivering, body numb. He bit down on what he felt, set his shoulders, his jaw, left his followers to disperse back to their friends and cookfires, disappeared to the edges of the gathering. He just wanted out. Away, from this stupid, monumental task he had set himself.
How long would he have to try and guard it? How many times would he have to risk his life, just because the Gods were silent? How long until Roana lost her patience, and set Edy upon him?
His skin was not longing to be reunited with her flame.
Just the thought of it made him want to vomit.
He was tense and taut, a dark bird on the outskirts of his flock, when Amalia found him. His eyes were dark, a black curtain drawn, trapping every emotion and fraying nerve behind a wall of sheer desperation: a survival instinct to not show the wolves just how badly he bled.
If she spoke, he did not hear, his eyes glassy like beads. If she touched him, he did not notice, his muscles tensed and unresponsive. His skin was pale.
But when she got him to move, he followed, led towards the lush green infringing on the Spire.
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