The Spire was breached.
The Voice—the Core—released.
The barrier had fallen.
And Rory was free of his burden: free of his lonesome and furious vigil, free of the distasteful pack he had cobbled together from the pious and the bloodthirsty and the bitter. The Gods did no longer need their self-appointed knight, if they ever even had. He was free to go, to leave that tall and winding dark tower and its oppressive shadow, to slink back to his farm and his bullshit, where cowardly farmboys belonged.
Back to his ponies, the only place where he had ever been safe. Love, written in their pricked ears and bright eyes as he returned in the morning light, comfort in their warm breaths, warm muzzles, running his hands through their fur and working out the loose hairs. Throwing sticks for Ella. Telling Vaya what a good girl she was.
Whispering into Talys's ears how much it hurt, and how afraid he was.
But life went on, didn't it? Just as it did after Long Night. It was just a matter of staying alive, so he forced smoked meat into his mouth, trembling as his body, wound tight around its anxiety, struggled against it. He thought he would choke on the bland and stringy meat, thought that he would vomit it all up again with how uneasily it sat in his stomach.
And he fell into habits he had never had before, frightened by the world he had seen and what it would do to people. He worried some idiots would see the worth of his ponies and try to take them, so he would lock them in the barn each night. Not leave them out if he had to leave the farm. What's a lock and chain going to do if someone is hellbent on stealing them he asked himself as his fumbling fingers closed the door on their questioning faces, but at least it should keep them safe from temptation.
Otherwise, he tried to pretend that nothing had happened.
It was the only way he could cope.
And he had things to catch up on, so he was out in his lands, sowing kale and onions and potatoes and whatever else it was he used to live off (dust, all dust) with trembling hands. Row after row, his mind keeping up its savage and biting commentary, of all the time lost to guarding a tower that ultimately had not wanted to be guarded—he was so behind on his spring duties—Fiat Lux preparations—
He was a dark thing underneath the afternoon sky, as small and meaningless as the dust from which he had been born.
The Voice—the Core—released.
The barrier had fallen.
And Rory was free of his burden: free of his lonesome and furious vigil, free of the distasteful pack he had cobbled together from the pious and the bloodthirsty and the bitter. The Gods did no longer need their self-appointed knight, if they ever even had. He was free to go, to leave that tall and winding dark tower and its oppressive shadow, to slink back to his farm and his bullshit, where cowardly farmboys belonged.
Back to his ponies, the only place where he had ever been safe. Love, written in their pricked ears and bright eyes as he returned in the morning light, comfort in their warm breaths, warm muzzles, running his hands through their fur and working out the loose hairs. Throwing sticks for Ella. Telling Vaya what a good girl she was.
Whispering into Talys's ears how much it hurt, and how afraid he was.
But life went on, didn't it? Just as it did after Long Night. It was just a matter of staying alive, so he forced smoked meat into his mouth, trembling as his body, wound tight around its anxiety, struggled against it. He thought he would choke on the bland and stringy meat, thought that he would vomit it all up again with how uneasily it sat in his stomach.
And he fell into habits he had never had before, frightened by the world he had seen and what it would do to people. He worried some idiots would see the worth of his ponies and try to take them, so he would lock them in the barn each night. Not leave them out if he had to leave the farm. What's a lock and chain going to do if someone is hellbent on stealing them he asked himself as his fumbling fingers closed the door on their questioning faces, but at least it should keep them safe from temptation.
Otherwise, he tried to pretend that nothing had happened.
It was the only way he could cope.
And he had things to catch up on, so he was out in his lands, sowing kale and onions and potatoes and whatever else it was he used to live off (dust, all dust) with trembling hands. Row after row, his mind keeping up its savage and biting commentary, of all the time lost to guarding a tower that ultimately had not wanted to be guarded—he was so behind on his spring duties—Fiat Lux preparations—
He was a dark thing underneath the afternoon sky, as small and meaningless as the dust from which he had been born.
