And so he went back in there, into that place of death and fracture. His spirit, already a flickering light burning low, cowered within its walls, going out with a hush: only embers smoldering behind his blue, blue eyes.
He was the injured wolf coming back for more, the flighty stag unable to keep itself from laying its throat in the carnivore's mouth.
He rolled the flimsy justifications over and around in his mouth, tasting their shapes and sharp edges and wrongness. He told himself he did it because it was their history being written—their future being laid out, and as little as he had wanted it to go this way (hells, even be a part of it at all) it was happening. He told himself that he had broken his every rule already, that he had debased himself until he was no longer worthy of calling himself a Natural, going against everything he had ever known, so he might as well mire himself deeper in the bog before finally drowning.
If it didn't matter anymore, he might as well go, to help Jigano look for Sam.
If he had already lost his soul, what did it matter if he pushed it further into the dark?
His lungs burned, and his eyes did too, a soft and silent weeping for all that he had never been, and he did not even bother trying to hide it. It's just the dust, he could say, it's just the lingering effects of the poison air. Just his eyes cleaning out the filth—
(his soul, those tears)
—as they ascended towards more misery and ruin; what else laid in this old and haunted tower? So he coughed and he ached and he supported Jigano up the many flights of stairs, worrying about jostling his shoulders, worrying equally much of anything short of carrying him up, until they were finally at the top, where a small group had formed.
Guiltily Rory hung back, unwilling to let Wessex see that he had come, unwilling to let anyone see that he had come: he was too broken, too different from the leader of the pack that had snarled under the midday sun.
He was defeated, so he melted towards the shadows along the walls, eyes wide and wary as he beheld the almost-child strung up, here at the top of everything. She made even Maea look healthy, some sickly imitation of the pale girl whose bloodslick sword he still carried, as if unsure of what to do with it.
He was the injured wolf coming back for more, the flighty stag unable to keep itself from laying its throat in the carnivore's mouth.
He rolled the flimsy justifications over and around in his mouth, tasting their shapes and sharp edges and wrongness. He told himself he did it because it was their history being written—their future being laid out, and as little as he had wanted it to go this way (hells, even be a part of it at all) it was happening. He told himself that he had broken his every rule already, that he had debased himself until he was no longer worthy of calling himself a Natural, going against everything he had ever known, so he might as well mire himself deeper in the bog before finally drowning.
If it didn't matter anymore, he might as well go, to help Jigano look for Sam.
If he had already lost his soul, what did it matter if he pushed it further into the dark?
His lungs burned, and his eyes did too, a soft and silent weeping for all that he had never been, and he did not even bother trying to hide it. It's just the dust, he could say, it's just the lingering effects of the poison air. Just his eyes cleaning out the filth—
(his soul, those tears)
—as they ascended towards more misery and ruin; what else laid in this old and haunted tower? So he coughed and he ached and he supported Jigano up the many flights of stairs, worrying about jostling his shoulders, worrying equally much of anything short of carrying him up, until they were finally at the top, where a small group had formed.
Guiltily Rory hung back, unwilling to let Wessex see that he had come, unwilling to let anyone see that he had come: he was too broken, too different from the leader of the pack that had snarled under the midday sun.
He was defeated, so he melted towards the shadows along the walls, eyes wide and wary as he beheld the almost-child strung up, here at the top of everything. She made even Maea look healthy, some sickly imitation of the pale girl whose bloodslick sword he still carried, as if unsure of what to do with it.
