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You're Abandoned?!

Hush, one of them had said, hush, no one is Abandoned anymore. A mixture of mockery and fear and reverence; so easily someone had come into their lives and changed things, said that this was how it was, and people listened. Everyone for their own reason, but everyone heard it, everyone knew it. Some cared. Some didn't. Some embraced it. Some didn't.

Rory! Why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you tell me? And his wolf's eyes sliding sideways, a pack member shamed, ears back, trying to restore some form of peace.

This was the part he hadn't anticipated: that in his anger over having his label changed he had revealed to the whole town what he truly was. His entire life had been lived with one (well, two) lies—a ruse, a sham, that Rory was merely an Accepted who chose to not leave his path.

(But if he had truly been Accepted, there was no way he could not have chosen.)

And now .. the truth was out there: Rory was Abandoned. Rory wielded magic. Was this the reason he never spoke of encounters with Safrin, with Ludo, with Frey? Oh yes, baby, because that's why we're Abandoned.

He didn't say that part out loud, though.

Instead he found himself patiently explaining that he had wanted to avoid the social stigma of it, and that his magic had never been very useful either, so what was the point of telling anyone? Wearied by the encounters he went back to the farm, sat in the cool early hours of the night and watched as a small flame flickered and danced above his outstretched hand. It lived on nothing but his intention.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it. With a sigh he allowed it to go out, and later retreated to bed, sliding into the sheets. Sleep came quickly, as it always did, a dreamless bliss.

[ for Jigano, set after his shrine visit! ]

Amalia had found him in the dark, when Isuma had gone for help and on her way to the farm had encountered a woman and a whale and brought them to her companion's side. She had never experienced Jigano at his worst. Oh, he had bad moments, bad days, when he hadn't seen the ones he loved recently enough, when the guilt they drove away returned to slink around the edges of his thoughts and pick at the scabs growing over his heart. But not since he had arrived in Caido had he fallen apart so completely, not simply bending but crumpling under the weight that he had continued to shift onto his shoulders.

A martyr complex, Safrin had said, and she wasn't wrong. He had made so many mistakes in his past life, sins he couldn't wash clean, and though he sometimes forgot that, and though the burden of them had lightened as he had begun to unbind himself from the shackles he had placed on his heart and soul, they still had teeth and claws with which to tear at him in his weakest moments.

Tonight was one of those moments, and he was still reeling from what had happened. At the Shrine, in his head... but most of all, that someone had known he was in pain. Isuma, small but fierce, had not let him fall apart alone, and when she had been unable to comfort him she had found another. And after Amalia had held him and let him wear himself out with a fox's whimpering despair in her lap he had realized that, for the first time in years, he had a home to return to. A sanctuary from all demons, but most especially those in his own mind.

More importantly, he had been reminded that he didn't have to face them alone. And... he trusted Rory. Ashamed though he was of showing the man he loved his weakness, he knew beyond any doubt that the hunter would not turn him away for it.

It was a fox and a weary gryphlet who came on foot to the door of the farmhouse, but it was a man who opened the door and carefully locked it behind him. Isuma paced at his side as they made their way to the bedroom, and she hopped up onto the bed and curled up on the pillow as he slipped out of his clothing, baring skin and scars alike to the moonlight that peeked through the window, still and silent as a dream.

Even in the depths of despair he couldn't help but pause to appreciate the beauty of the man already in the bed, handsome and strong, fierce and stubborn, gentle and vulnerable. He fell in love again every time he saw him, and tonight was no different, his breath catching in his throat. Silent feet took him closer, close enough to slip beneath the sheet and wrap an arm tenderly around Rory's waist, pressing against his back with a shuddering breath. He buried his face in the tumble of blond hair and warm skin between the hunter's shoulder blades, and something inside him seemed to unwind with a soft, shuddering moan as the familiar scent washed over him.

He was home. He was safe.

And now the tears began to fall, silently at first but steadily as his body shivered with the reaction of all the deep, twisted emotions that had flowed through him that night and he held Rory as if afraid the hunter would disappear with the morning light.

The sound of the door opening—a soft and subtle thing in a house where creaks were eradicated once a year—woke him, as it always did. He was a wolf, sleeping with one eye open, a surge of awareness as he listened in the dark: steps with a known, familiar cadence, the patter of Isuma's claws on the floorboards. It was only Jigano, slipping in long after sundown, as he often did. Rory's mind let go of its wakefulness, began to drift back into the murky depths of sleep, though he lingered in the borderland for a time longer. No sense in falling asleep until Jigano was settled in bed.

Though if the other knew he was awake—if he knew that Rory always woke—he didn't know. His breathing never changed, his eyes never opened, but had he had mobile ears, one of them would've been a dead giveaway, turned in his direction.

Oh, well.

Rory didn't mind. He always fell asleep again when Jigano was settled between the sheets. The few minutes he lost over it didn't matter. If anything, it was rather nice, to be in that situation at all, where he had someone to wake him in the middle of the night by slipping into his bed (though it had led to Rory finally moving on, and moving into the bedroom that had belonged to his mother, because that bed was actually made for two, and he still didn't know how he felt about that).

Only this time, something was different. Jigano didn't just slide into bed and settle, but wrapped a night-cool arm around his waist, pressing close. Rory could feel the outline of his face pressing against his spine, and after a moment—Jigano began to shake, shiver, shudder, something warm and wet touching his skin.

More than halfway asleep again, it took Rory a moment to understand that Jigano was crying, but once he realized that, he pulled his tired mind from the depths and surfaced—clear, concerned. He brought one hand up to rest against Jigano's forearm, afraid of scaring him off by turning around and facing him. "Jigano," he said—his voice roughened by sleep, more of a deep murmur than anything else. "What's wrong?"

He had always hoped that Rory slept through his late-night arrivals, not wanting to deprive his lover of much-needed rest. It was better when he could come back to the farm before full dark, share a meal with his friend, and then retire together to the room that Rory had inherited as the master of the farm, but the nights he performed at the Tavern or was caught up in Loreseeker duties kept him away until long after his lover had turned in. He still spent some nights in the Guildhall, falling asleep in his office over a particularly tricky tome, and even more in his den in the Glade, especially in the nicer weather, but more and more often his feet or paws or wings brought him back to the Farmhouse door, even if only for a few hours spent next to the hunter who had earned his heart.

Those nights usually came with a sense of healing contentment, a feeling of peace and belonging that his complex, quiet partner brought him just by his nearness. The fleet-footed wanderer's curiosity still burned bright and coaxed him far afield at times... but more and more often he found himself returning to the place person who made him feel whole and worthy of being loved.

But never before on Caido had he broken like he had this night, desperate gambits failed and the pressure of too many crises at once sending fractures through his heart and soul along the old lines of weakness and despair, self-loathing and guilt. Amalia had soothed the raw edges of those shattered wounds and brought him back to himself once more, but in spite of her love and care he had not been able to break down the final barrier and let fall the tears that would let him begin to heal again.

Rory's voice might have been rough from sleep, but it was a welcome sound in the darkness as a warm hand slid against his arm, offering comfort in the night as the bard shook his head slightly against his lover's back. It took him a few long minutes before the overwhelming emotions filling his heart subsided enough to let him speak, his tears slowing and the shivering of his muscles loosening as he snuggled closer now that he knew Rory was awake.

"A hard night," he said quietly at last, loosening his grip and willing to shift if the hunter wanted to turn over to face him. "And hard truths I was not strong enough to bear. I'm sorry for waking you." He nuzzled his lover's skin apologetically, but he was selfishly glad that Rory's voice and touch provided more anchors for his wounded psyche, and he wanted nothing more than to be wrapped in the other man's embrace until the last of the emotional storm had passed.

He did not get his answer immediately: just the ongoing shivers and shudders, the occasional warm dampness of tears against his skin. Rory didn't know how long they stayed like that, trapped in that liminal space between wakefulness and sleep. He did not quite dive into the latter again, the worry keeping him awake, but he saw no reason to rouse himself completely until Jigano was ready to talk.

Finally his lover settled against his back, quieting, stilling. Rory's hand had kept up its absentminded stroking, fingertips trailing over the honeyed skin of a forearm. The time between that calm and the words seemed hours long—but surely that was just his mind bending reality to fit the lateness of the hour.

"A hard night," Jigano finally said, and Rory began to pull himself more firmly into the present. "Don't worry about it," he responded, sleep still weighing on his voice, but his eyes had flickered open. Most of his body still felt like lead, but his eyes were awake. They flitted from thing to thing in the night-dark room, and after a moment, Rory heaved a sigh. It was the kind of sigh that meant giving up more of his sleep, but there was no resentment in it.

He turned over in the bed, one arm curled beneath his head and the other reaching out towards Jigano. Using his thumb he wiped the tears from his face, and combed back his pale hair from his face. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

It was a night for worries and fears to catch and claw at him, to hunt his waking thoughts and devour his dreams. Even if Rory told him not to worry the part of him that was so freshly attuned to his guilt couldn't help but twinge at the thought of ruining his lover's night, and of dragging the tired farmer down with him. That was the part that had snarled and torn at his heart after the knife had been dug in beneath the scarring, releasing fresh blood from wounds both old and new. He had walked with guilt for too long for it to be so easily brushed aside now. And yet...

And yet it was Rory speaking the words; quiet and gentle, honest and kind. In all of Caido, Jigano trusted him more than any other, and if he said not to worry... well, it was not so easy to do, but the bard nodded silently against the other man's back, determined to at least try and not let that one extra portion of guilt settle onto his already-heavy heart.

He hesitated at the sigh, unsure what it meant even after so many nights spent together. He didn't tense, but there was a sense of waiting in his body until Rory turned over, and then Jigano let out his held breath with relief that needed no voice. He kept his arm curled over his partner's waist as he repositioned, finding comfort in the contact, and when a gentle thumb stroked across his cheeks and fingers slid through his hair he closed his eyes, tilting his head a fraction into the contact. From such small things he took strength.

Did he want to talk about it? Yes, for Rory deserved to know. And... no, because he did not want to admit that he had been to a Shrine, knowing that the farmer had received short shrift from the gods of Caido in his lifetime. "I... was reminded of my many failures tonight," he said instead, opening his eyes to the shape of Rory's face next to his on the pillow. The room was dark enough that he could see only the vague outline of his lover's features and the faintest glint of reflected starlight from eyes that lost their color in the shadows. "Berated for being a martyr, and reminded of my full portion of guilt for the things I have done... and the ones I couldn't stop from happening." He sighed, letting his eyes close again rather than shift them to his fox's sight. What mattered more was Rory's warm skin against his and the scent of him so close at hand. Jigano's pride was already in tatters, and he abandoned it completely to shift against to the hunter, seeking a closer embrace.

"I... did not realize how close I was to breaking," he admitted softly, reluctant even now to admit his weakness, even to the one he loved. "Trying to hold up the weight of this world and the ghosts of my old one. Not until it happened."

Such a strange and wondrous thing, really, to have Jigano there in the dark: to have him there, to be able to run his fingers through that long, white hair, to have his cheeks to stroke tears from, to be able to get out of bed in the morning and watch him sleep in the early sunlight... It had almost become routine, getting up early to start his work around the farm but leaving a kettle with hot water simmering on the stove, so that Jigano could make himself some tea if he wanted to when he woke up...

Being awake in the middle of the night to stroke those tears from his cheeks was a small price to pay for the rest of it, and honestly, Rory wasn't sure he considered it a price to pay either. That made it sound like something that needed to be endured, some form of suffering, something bad.

Getting to be there for the ones you love wasn't a chore.

Yes, it could be rough, it could be heavy, it could take it's toll, but.. it wasn't a chore.

He watched Jigano in the lack of light, how his eyes opened and closed, the shape his mouth when he spoke. And when he shifted closer, Rory pulled him close, his hand tracing soothing motions over that strong, warm back. "Then stop trying," he murmured in the darkness, kissing the top of Jigano's head. "Or, more like, stop trying alone." It was the middle of the night, and he was not at his most eloquent, this was true. "I know you blame yourself for what happened in Numeria, you don't need to blame yourself for what's happening here too, we fucked up long before you came along," like, three hundred years ago and more.

"You're not alone in this, Jigano."

When had he changed so much that seeking out another's touch was as much instinct as conscious desire? He, who had spent his adulthood keeping others at arm's length, who still treated hugs as awkward pleasantries he still stumbled through with anyone who wasn't Rory or Amalia. With Rory there was none of that self-conscious awkwardness; he curled against the blond hunter and was held close in a way that said without words that he belonged there, in Rory's arms, in Rory's home.

In Rory's heart.

The hand that had initially stroked his back when he had worn only fur did so now against skin that felt better bared to the other man than clothed. Fur or skin, both had required trust, but that trust had been chanced, been earned, and been nurtured until he could rely upon it even when he couldn't trust himself. And from that trust had grown love, a desire to protect... and a desire to be protected. To be allowed to be weak, to be allowed to seek and accept comfort. To be allowed to be worthy of those things, which all too often his guilt denied him, and tried to convince him that he did not deserve.

Rory had been teaching him, day by day and season by season, that he gave his guilt far too much power over himself. Sometimes it was easier to remember that than others. Tonight he had forgotten it for awhile, falling back into the pit he was still trying to climb out of. But once again Rory's hands reached for him, steadying him and helping him to find his footing and try again.

The kiss was a gift, one of the many moments of small intimacies that still could make his heart stutter with a combination of joy that he had found someone who loved him in return and awe that it wasn't all a beautiful dream, and he nuzzled against Rory's collarbone in return, nose and lips tracing unblemished skin and scarred with equal affection.

He wasn't alone.

A lesson his heart might know, but his head still struggled with. He slid his hand up to slip his fingers through blond tresses, feeling their silk and the heat of Rory's skin against him, and wondering anew that he had somehow earned the love of such a man.

"Thank you," he whispered, breath ghosting over night-shadowed skin he had memorized every inch of as he pressed a gentle kiss to the dip between his lover's collarbones. "For not letting me be alone. For letting me love you. For saving me from the worst parts of myself."