Rory ached for who he had been, too: he longed for the days he had spent in his wilting, withering woods, the hours spent in the kitchen with Karlia, the pointless rides around the Outskirts, the nights spent laughing over drinks and then heading home alone in the dark, a little unsteady but no worse for wear. He longed for the man who had stood up against the Outlanders just because someone had to, the one who had practically dared Edrei to set him on fire for his cause, but—
The wolf was beat. It had snarled from within its cage, proud and afraid, but now it laid bruised on its side and stared at the stars and the door was open but that didn't matter—
He had died, in that darkness. He hadn't needed to open the door. Karlia had come for his heart, taken it, and left him again.
“They’re getting stronger,” she said, and, I'm not, he thought, remembering her fingers tapping against the door, Ella's confused and anxious whine as they did not let her in, the smell of leather soap and freshly polished tack—
None of it made sense, it should be a carnage like what happened to the Palmer's, not.. not.. not this soft, subtle danger, and slowly he lifted his gaze to her face again. He wanted to laugh at her words—bitterly, but he said nothing, just let the shame roll through his eyes. Had he held out?
Or had he just been craven?
Did he even want to live?
(Not like this)
But how could he ever admit that to someone who had reached out and taken life for herself? Wessex was not like him: Wessex was iron, Wessex was.. fire. She was more than he deserved, and he couldn't stop thinking about the night in which they'd left her here, how she seemed almost cursed with figuring out the monsters—their fate—and there it was again.
The wolf baring its teeth and breathing its promise gently, gently down the neck of the lamb.
"How?" he whispered, broken, bruised, in awe and afraid. For her—in this—he would do anything.
She shouldn't have to be alone with it.
The wolf was beat. It had snarled from within its cage, proud and afraid, but now it laid bruised on its side and stared at the stars and the door was open but that didn't matter—
He had died, in that darkness. He hadn't needed to open the door. Karlia had come for his heart, taken it, and left him again.
“They’re getting stronger,” she said, and, I'm not, he thought, remembering her fingers tapping against the door, Ella's confused and anxious whine as they did not let her in, the smell of leather soap and freshly polished tack—
None of it made sense, it should be a carnage like what happened to the Palmer's, not.. not.. not this soft, subtle danger, and slowly he lifted his gaze to her face again. He wanted to laugh at her words—bitterly, but he said nothing, just let the shame roll through his eyes. Had he held out?
Or had he just been craven?
Did he even want to live?
(Not like this)
But how could he ever admit that to someone who had reached out and taken life for herself? Wessex was not like him: Wessex was iron, Wessex was.. fire. She was more than he deserved, and he couldn't stop thinking about the night in which they'd left her here, how she seemed almost cursed with figuring out the monsters—their fate—and there it was again.
The wolf baring its teeth and breathing its promise gently, gently down the neck of the lamb.
"How?" he whispered, broken, bruised, in awe and afraid. For her—in this—he would do anything.
She shouldn't have to be alone with it.
