That the dogs were out were a dead giveaway of the fact that Rory had not perished during the night. Who would've let them out, if he wasn't around to?
And if he had died, who would've beat Jigano to his cold, dead body?
No, had Rory died in the dark, had he opened the door to his sister and instead been torn apart on his front porch, it would've been Jigano (or Amalia) who would've found the mess.
So come to think of it: had he died during the night, the dogs definitely would've been out, because he wouldn't have been alive to close the door once he let the monsters in.
He still sometimes thought of Wessex's body, torn apart by the Spire Demon and strewn around in the snow like bits of some dog's beat-up chew toy. Strips of flesh and cloth—
But no, Rory was still whole, at least on the outside. He sat on a stool in the kitchen area, and it could've been any other fucking morning: there was a fire going, he was warming up his feet in his thick, woolen socks, the smell of coffee in the air but there was a disarray with the mugs, he couldn't tell if there were too few or too many.
There was a knock on the door, a cruel reminder of another knock. How many hours ago had it been now? Rory?
(Am I here?)
His eyes slid to the door. He didn't find it in himself to get up.
This time, he did not want to be the strong one.
"Yeah," he finally said—not sure if Jigano would even hear it, for he didn't find it in himself to raise his voice.
He felt hollow.
And if he had died, who would've beat Jigano to his cold, dead body?
No, had Rory died in the dark, had he opened the door to his sister and instead been torn apart on his front porch, it would've been Jigano (or Amalia) who would've found the mess.
So come to think of it: had he died during the night, the dogs definitely would've been out, because he wouldn't have been alive to close the door once he let the monsters in.
He still sometimes thought of Wessex's body, torn apart by the Spire Demon and strewn around in the snow like bits of some dog's beat-up chew toy. Strips of flesh and cloth—
But no, Rory was still whole, at least on the outside. He sat on a stool in the kitchen area, and it could've been any other fucking morning: there was a fire going, he was warming up his feet in his thick, woolen socks, the smell of coffee in the air but there was a disarray with the mugs, he couldn't tell if there were too few or too many.
There was a knock on the door, a cruel reminder of another knock. How many hours ago had it been now? Rory?
(Am I here?)
His eyes slid to the door. He didn't find it in himself to get up.
This time, he did not want to be the strong one.
"Yeah," he finally said—not sure if Jigano would even hear it, for he didn't find it in himself to raise his voice.
He felt hollow.
