First, this: being ill. Being very ill. Being ill enough that you couldn't get out of bed for at least a week (at least, not without falling over, gracelessly staggering from support to support as your feverslick fingers slipped over worn wood), and then mostly useless for another week or two.
Then, this: trying to catch up on everything you'd left undone, while keeping up with everything that still needed doing.
A relentless tide of labor. Sure, day by day he regained his strength and chipped away at the mountain of duties and obligations, but... you know. There were other things, too, like his friends getting kidnapped and.. and barely-dodged wars, the flurry of change, the slow seep of poison through brittle veins, bubbling in the tired and bruised chambers of his heart.
But there was light, too: sunlight spilling over Jigano's bare shoulders, fingers tracing spines, stupid songs invented together in the warm, light Longheat nights.
It was a whirlwind and a hurricane, and Rory wondered when he'd catch enough of a break to process any of it.
He had come to help not because of the notice (Rory still didn't read rather well, and it was a touchy subject), but because of course he would; and because of course he knew about it, and there had never been any question about whether or not he'd be there. Jigano had mentioned his plans and just like that, Rory was going to help, because while he might not be loreseeker material he was strong (now that he had been healthy a while again and worked himself back into shape) and willing and a hard-working animal.
He lingered next to Jigano, belonging like a shadow did, laying no physical claim to the bard yet fitting the space. His arms were crossed over his chest, because they needed somewhere to be, and though he looked pensive and distant he did not look sullen.
Once Melita arrived he nodded at her (and, of course, at any other arriving helper he knew), watching the sole surviving little vampire gourd on her heels with a faint and thoughtful smile. No doubt thinking about fox-eating calabash, or perhaps just wondering at how peculiar and flighty life was: Fangorn's kin had been mercilessly slaughtered in droves, and yet here he was. Accepted, and loved.
Rory gave his head a small shake once the instructions were done, trying not to think about how monumental a task it was; the rubble was no small pile. Still, with persistence, most things could be worn down.. achieved... So he picked at the stones, slowly and methodically moving the lift-able ones to the cart.
Then, this: trying to catch up on everything you'd left undone, while keeping up with everything that still needed doing.
A relentless tide of labor. Sure, day by day he regained his strength and chipped away at the mountain of duties and obligations, but... you know. There were other things, too, like his friends getting kidnapped and.. and barely-dodged wars, the flurry of change, the slow seep of poison through brittle veins, bubbling in the tired and bruised chambers of his heart.
But there was light, too: sunlight spilling over Jigano's bare shoulders, fingers tracing spines, stupid songs invented together in the warm, light Longheat nights.
It was a whirlwind and a hurricane, and Rory wondered when he'd catch enough of a break to process any of it.
He had come to help not because of the notice (Rory still didn't read rather well, and it was a touchy subject), but because of course he would; and because of course he knew about it, and there had never been any question about whether or not he'd be there. Jigano had mentioned his plans and just like that, Rory was going to help, because while he might not be loreseeker material he was strong (now that he had been healthy a while again and worked himself back into shape) and willing and a hard-working animal.
He lingered next to Jigano, belonging like a shadow did, laying no physical claim to the bard yet fitting the space. His arms were crossed over his chest, because they needed somewhere to be, and though he looked pensive and distant he did not look sullen.
Once Melita arrived he nodded at her (and, of course, at any other arriving helper he knew), watching the sole surviving little vampire gourd on her heels with a faint and thoughtful smile. No doubt thinking about fox-eating calabash, or perhaps just wondering at how peculiar and flighty life was: Fangorn's kin had been mercilessly slaughtered in droves, and yet here he was. Accepted, and loved.
Rory gave his head a small shake once the instructions were done, trying not to think about how monumental a task it was; the rubble was no small pile. Still, with persistence, most things could be worn down.. achieved... So he picked at the stones, slowly and methodically moving the lift-able ones to the cart.
