Running out of air

Her cry froze him in place, a sound that he had never in his worst nightmares expected to be the cause of. He had broken mugs and plates at the farmhouse when his temper boiled over, but he had never come close to hurting Rory. He had hoped - assumed, prayed - that Amalia was safe from him as well. That he would control himself around her, hold the anger back and apologize as she deserved. But first the apology wouldn't pass his prideful lips and then his temper had risen, held back only by that same pride. When one broke the other was freed, but at what cost?

"Amalia..." he whispered, eyes so fixed upon the burns upon her skin that he missed the dawning horror in her eyes. Her words were softly spoken but they seemed to echo within the quiet bakery, dropping like a forge hammer against steel. He flinched from them, from her, fingers flexing his claws deeper into his flesh. The words could not be unsaid, though he still had not decided whether or not to tell her, to worry her... or to trust in her strength, as he had trusted in Rory's.

Like a marionette with its strings cut he collapsed back into his seat, unable to look at her as he curled forward, forcing his fox's claws to retract back to human nails and staring dully at the damage he had done to himself and the black-streaked blood that pooled in his palms. A shudder wracked him as he nodded, unable to deny the evidence he had unintentionally let loose.

"I'm sorry, Ama," he said softly, sweet tenor turned rough and thready. "I... for everything. I'm sorry. I can't even help you tend the burn..." Not with blood on his hands like a red-stained accusation of his sins. Though if it had truly represented his mistakes he would have been awash in it up to his shoulders. "I should..." He hesitated, then looked up at her at last, guilt and anguish a match for the simmering anger still in his eyes. "I should go. But... I don't want to leave you again. Not like this."

She watches him fall into the chair, collapsing as though all that held him together was denial of the truth she aired. And she lets him, slowly stepping into her own actions, dousing a cloth in water and wrapping it around her arm before grabbing a dry one to mop up the spill. Work is good; work is routine; while muscle memory fuels her actions her mind is free to race. She comes around to the front of the counter, still cleaning up what would have been tea, wincing slightly as damp fabric rubs against her skin. Amalia does not look up as Jigano apologies, not at first, afraid of what he might see in her face. He offers to go, and she considers agreekng, sending him away. How can she carry his burdens today, when she is already drowning beneath her own? Amalia does not turn him away. It is not in her nature: the Shielf of Safrin is too involved, unable to step away from a friend. Swallowing down her hurt and tears and fear the girl softly sighs, rising to stand and face Jigano, her expression quiet, her black gaze soft. "If you want to continue living in the past and feeling sorry for yourself, go. "If you want to move forward, if you're ready to stop waiting for the world to punish you and make the hard choice to do better, stay." a m a l i a You were young and you'd stare With a reverence unimpaired Searching in your dark eyes to find the stars already there

He could hear her tending to herself as he sat and shook with the black anger that still gripped him, even as he had turned it inwards upon himself. How had he lost sight of how she had tried for him? How many times would he fall apart in front of her? How many times before it was too many? He could feel the ache of his hands and knew that Rory would give him that reproachful, worried blue stare again when he got home again; the one that hurt far worse than the physical wounds did. Even so it was Amalia who was with him now, and the weight of her gaze was almost more than he could face.

He had to, though. He would leave if that was what she wanted, but he feared if he did that it would be draw the strings between them too taught to bear. He had already strained them to limits he'd had no right to ask of the gentle baker, and though part of him resented this need to prove himself, to grovel and abase himself, it was a black, vicious part that he fought to overcome.

The eyes that met his were gentler than he had any right to expect, but her words were still forged of steel. He flinched back from them but held her gaze. She couldn't know, of course, that he had already received similar admonitions from Edrei and Ludo. That Edrei's last words to him had been no less harsh, but they had been lost in the trauma of her death. He drew in a shaking breath, nodding slowly. "I will stay," he agreed quietly, focusing on Amalia's burn to quell the rage that still flickered in his breast. "I came here because I wanted to see you again. That has not changed. Will you tell me what you have been doing while I have been..." He hesitated, a plethora of words leaping to crowd his tongue, each of them a partial truth, but none fitting quite right. "...hiding?" he chose at last with a faint wince.

He says he will stay, and within the three words she sees an implicit promise, an oath that she will hold him to. Oh, he has been sick, he had been scared, he has been hurt- but who isn't, these days? Ronin still makes his way as King, Kiada still fights, Melita still dances, Phoebe still works. It is not that she lacks sympathy for him - she feels it in spades, aches and wishes it could be her, that she could take their burdens upon herself and free them from this plight - but she wants more, expects more. Needs more, for who is she to model herself upon if not the ones she loves? Slowly, silently, Amalia nods, slipping into the seat across from him and pulling at the strings of the starwhale apron, the first gift given to her by Deimos, as much a suit of armor as anything else she has. What has she been doing? So much, and yet so little. "The cloisters, but you were there." She'd conceded to Kiada, seeing the need for triumph in her eyes, an aching place where purpose once was that needed to be filled. And after? "We killed the plants in the Spire. It did nothing, but the tower is crumbling now." It will need to be brought down, before it topples and takes them with it. Another task on an ever growing list. "I heard from Vi. The Ascended caused the Blight, exploring at the Voice's behest. It... It turns living things mad. Like the spire demon." She glances sidelong at him, remembering how he smashed the kettle, the fire of his rage. "We are going to speak to Delah and Adruinna about keeping the Ascended from the woods. I don't think they knew, but they do now." Jigano is close to Sam, and now she watches him carefully, wondering how he will reply. She knows about the bookmaker's ventures into the woods, that he had been the catalyst to this destruction. It makes her shudder with rage. "And you? Have you learned anything?" a m a l i a You were young and you'd stare With a reverence unimpaired Searching in your dark eyes to find the stars already there

He watched her join him across the counter, the physical divide an echo of the emotional one that still existed between them, and would likely remain for some time. The wounds he left on his friends would not heal in a day, any more than his own had. And besides, until he wrapped his hands he wouldn't be touching anyone any time soon. He hadn't brought his medical bag today, not expecting to need it, but he rested his hands palm-up on his thighs so they would scab faster.

"I shouldn't have been," he conceded with a faint grimace at the memory of that day, all cold anger and sharp-edged violence. "I didn't know then why I was so angry... but even so, I had no business pushing myself that hard for a title I was in no place to uphold." Guardian? Coward, more like, with far more in common with Ianto than he had ever wanted to admit. Nor was one sick with the blight any fit guardian for a Wood dying of the disease, though perhaps there was a certain bitter irony in it.

He listened as she mentioned the Spire, his throat tightening as he remembered the planning he had done, the people he had intended to bring together for that assault, the conversations and the work to make it happen as the Tulmhainar had suggested. Had Deimos led it after all, making good on that strange, sharp-edged threat that he would do so only if Jigano did not come?

And yet Amalia had gone, no more mage than he.

Jigano felt the anger try to rise again, and he held his jaw shut tensely, afraid to speak for shouting again, lashing out at the baker who had not known. It wasn't her fault, she hadn't known, she had only wanted to help - would have helped him if he'd asked.

He said nothing as she continued, dragging a deep breath through his nose as talk turned to Vi, the great god of Life, and finally the wonder of that statement drew his eyes to her again as she so casually mentioned a name that he doubted any other in the Hollowed Grounds would let fall with such familiarity. He didn't have the energy to smile, but there was a softening in the tension of the corners of his eyes, a dull light of pride that rose past the rage as he looked upon his pious heart-sister, truly Safrin's Shield in deed and spirit.

If only what she had to say had been less painful. He drew in a breath to speak and then held it, biting his lip against the aching threads of 'I told him so' that twisted and writhed in his stomach like so many worms. Had he not confronted Sam over that very thing at the wedding? At the time he had only suspicions, no proof, but if Vi said that it was true... He nodded slowly, exhaling at the plan and trying to put his thoughts in order. "Sam had no idea," he said first, however weak a defense of his friend it was. He blamed the Voice for his current affliction, not the gentle bookmaker. "The Voice took advantage of him, and he's going to be devastated when he learns that he was involved in spreading the blight. For the rest..." He shrugged a little helplessly. Isla was long dead by now, he wasn't particularly close to Lucas, and he and Wessex hadn't yet managed to be civil to each other. But there were others, and especially the newest of the Voice's flock, who he had no desire to see used or harmed by any side in the brewing war. "Rex and Bastien in particular, now that she's newly Ascended..." This news would likely put a damper on the upcoming nuptials, to say the least.

And what had he learned, as the leaves fell and the rage built beneath his ribs, erupting out at inopportune moments and at all the wrong people? "I found a journal in the Atheneum. The Demon and the Prince were both experiments, unique as far as the writer knew. It was a journal written by a family that studied the Voice, so the Prince likely had Ascended roots as well. I learned something about the abilities of the Ascended in it as well... they aren't magical, but rather mechanical in nature. Items that can be removed from one and implanted in another." He met Amalia's eyes, his own haunted with the horror he had already discussed with Remi. "They are often related to stealth and spying... and altering memories." He looked down at his hands and the drying blood there, watching them tremble as he gathered himself.

"The Voice... experimented on things or people, Amalia. She had to, to develop these 'upgrades' to her Ascended. And to learn how to move them between her children. I am afraid... afraid that many of those experiments were not pursued with regard for the people she was tearing apart and rebuilding. Maea once told me about a vision the Voice gave her, of an experiment on an Abandoned that failed to turn them Ascended. Of the pain and horror of it. What if... what if the monsters of Long Night are the souls that the Voice twisted in pursuit of her experiments? Like the Spire Demon, but because they aren't physical they can only come out when there is no light in the sky to drive them back? No sun or moon or stars." He shivered, and not just from his illness as he met her eyes again. "There is no proof," he cautioned, "only a wild guess on my part. And I hope to all the gods that I am wrong."

Because if he wasn't, would it mean that he and Ronin and all the rest would become like the Demon? Like the monsters of Long Night? Filled with mindless rage and violence, their bodies technically alive but their souls unrecognizable even to Mort?

They sway, they bend, they nearly break- closer, closer every time. When will it become too much, she wonders, the burdens they carry, the worries they wear? Amalia does not look at Jigano as she speaks, not directly, though there are glances that punctuate her words, stolen and thrown between them. Her hands are busy worrying the apron, pulling pointlessly at loose strings, her expression tired and flat. Not until she finishes does the girl raise her eyes, watching as Bastien defends Sam, not surprised but not impressed, either. "The last time I spoke to him he seemed very firmly under the Voice's sway. Maybe he did not do it knowingly, but now that he does know?" Amalia sighs and drops her eyes again, shrugging. She does not know which side Sam will take. She does not know anything, anymore. It is Jigano's turn to share information, and Amalia listens intently, her expression growing thoughtful and serious as she tries to make sense of the revelations. She nods slowly as he mentions experiments, already knowing as much about the Demon, having seen it abandoned and fallen into disrepair. "It exploded when it died," the baker contributes. "A failsafe. I don't... think Ascended do, because the ones in the Spire did not. But blighted things... might. And Ascended blood is flammable." The idea that the Long Night monsters might be related is similarly unsettling but unsurprising, and Amalia sighs heavily, shaking her head, her dark gaze tired as she meets his blues. "Ludo seemed to think they were souls," the baker agrees slowly. "And they hate the light, just like Ascended. Though that begs the question- where do they go for the rest of the year?" Two more questions for every answer, three more locks for every opened door. Dropping her head onto her hands and wincing at the weight on her wounded arm, Amalia bites her lip. "We've already let the blight into the Greatwood. Trees are dying. Fae are sick. If there's anything we can do to protect them against the monsters..." They have to try. She has to try. These are the sins of her people, her fore-bearers, the Naturals of years and years before. It is not right for others to pay them. Delah was right: the barrier should have remained raised, and the Grounders trapped within it. All they have done with their newfound freedom is hasten the death of the world. a m a l i a You were young and you'd stare With a reverence unimpaired Searching in your dark eyes to find the stars already there

”It… was the same when I saw him last,” Jigano admitted reluctantly, his anger at the Voice threatening to rekindle his rage. ”I wish I knew whether it was of his own volition, or if she has done something to him, meddled in his head… He didn’t used to be like this. He didn’t used to trust her, or like her much at all.” Though the change could hardly be said to have occurred overnight. The erosion had been slow, gradual, as Jigano looked back along the lines that led to their current situation. How much of it was the meddling of memories, and how much a lonely young man reaching out desperately for love from any source that would give it to him? He looked up in time to catch Amalia’s shrug, and a part of him winced at the fractures that ran between his friends, not just himself but other weaknesses that had arisen as they all grew tense and frayed by the world’s trials.

He had seen the explosion himself, standing on the hill above the battle with the rest of them, though off to the side a ways from the main crowd as he and Rory had held on to each other and watched Ronin die. For once he had said nothing, contributed nothing except to the man he had been falling in love with, and so he could not blame Amalia for forgetting his presence there. Usually he made things far worse with his sly meddling and inability to keep his mouth shut when he should.

”I can still walk in sunlight,” he reassured her, but found a wan smile to back it up. ”I will try not to get myself lit on fire, though.” The Spark Bird feather had been turned into something far safer for him to carry, though possibly more dangerous for him to wield, given his penchant for seeking out trouble when it didn’t come find him fast enough. He did wince, however, at the thought that his blood might carry something of the Ascended in it. ”I would rather not share relations with that goddess though, if I am given any choice in the matter. Though I’m sure Ronin and Safrin feel even more strongly than I do about that.”

Her question left him smiling wryly, a hint of his old wit and humor laying like a shadow over the weariness that bowed his shoulders. ”Ah, but that is easier to narrow down. A place no light can ever reach, and if they are truly Ascended souls that have lost their way even to their own goddess… why, where do we know the Ascended have been? Two places spring to mind: the Underground, where we have yet to fully explore… and the Spire.” Which few entered willingly, and fewer left unscarred.

He tilted his head back, his smile turning sad and fading away at the pain and guilt in her voice – and the guilt in his own expression as the baker favored her burned arm. ”I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said again, more softly. ”I…” He could not say it, not with how fragile the scabs still were between them, ready to crack and bleed again if he pushed too hard. He had relied on her, fallen apart on her, too many times. He could not ask her to keep supporting him, not when it was his responsibility as her brother to support her. ”I will do what I can,” he said instead, gently. ”If we can just find a way to slow it down, at least, that will give us time to find a more permanent solution.”