It was a knife. He realized that as he felt its sharp edge under the snow, accidentally cutting a couple of fibers on his mittens, but not enough to ruin them, or touch his fingers.
It was a knife unsheathed. It meant a struggle. A stand had been made, or been intended to be made. It—
He sat there, on his knees, one hand resting across the still hidden blade, feeling the hilt press into his palm. All he had to do was close his fingers around it, pull it up, shake the snow off of it, and look at it.
If it was Wessex's, he'd know it. Gods knew he'd spent enough time telling her off for not caring properly for the sheaths. But still, it just—it just couldn't be hers, right? It couldn't be her, here, defeated by something she should've known not to engage, maybe she'd just been surprised, gotten hit, lost her dagger and the monster had gotten tangled in her cloak and she was home (wherever that was; she always came to his shop to pick up her orders) nursing a cut or two, but otherwise safe and sound.
He pulled it from the snow. Carefully wiped the blade clean. A little rust had begun to eat away at it already. Laid it across his palm. Folded his fingers around the blade, so that only the hilt showed.
Wessex.
This was one of Wessex's knives.
Slowly, he let his hand sink until it laid in his lap, his heart and mind trying to sort themselves out. Maybe she was okay, maybe she'd just lost it, Wessex couldn't be dead, Wessex was immortal, Wessex was fierce and ferocious and nothing could get to her, nothing could hurt her, nothing, nothing—
He was getting distracted. He blinked, turned his head at the soft, soft sound of snow and paws, seeing the elegant white fox place a section of ripped leather by him before touching its nose to his hip. Rory swallowed, and let the knife lay on his thighs as he instead took the bit of leather in one hand—without thinking trying to give the fox's shoulders a stroke with the other, before focusing on the leather.
Of course, he knew it.
From the inlay along what had once been an edge, to where the riveting had been torn—his hands had worked that leather, he could remember the late night he'd been bent over it, working on some details. The only foreign thing was the jagged tear from where it had been torn. He could still see a little of his maker's mark.
Rory caught his lower lip between his teeth. Safe and sound, with her armor torn to pieces? He didn't think so. He wasn't stupid and naive enough to think so.
"Wessex," he said, quietly, gently, softly, giving her name to the wind. "This is Wessex's." Slowly, he looked at the fox, then at the Spire, and the uncomfortable proximity to it. What had she been thinking..? What had she been doing..?
Slowly, he let his gaze return to the fox. Leather and knife both lay lifeless on his lap. The cold snow pressed against his clothing. The sun and the clouds went on about their business.
Nothing changed. He just knew about it now.
It was a knife unsheathed. It meant a struggle. A stand had been made, or been intended to be made. It—
He sat there, on his knees, one hand resting across the still hidden blade, feeling the hilt press into his palm. All he had to do was close his fingers around it, pull it up, shake the snow off of it, and look at it.
If it was Wessex's, he'd know it. Gods knew he'd spent enough time telling her off for not caring properly for the sheaths. But still, it just—it just couldn't be hers, right? It couldn't be her, here, defeated by something she should've known not to engage, maybe she'd just been surprised, gotten hit, lost her dagger and the monster had gotten tangled in her cloak and she was home (wherever that was; she always came to his shop to pick up her orders) nursing a cut or two, but otherwise safe and sound.
He pulled it from the snow. Carefully wiped the blade clean. A little rust had begun to eat away at it already. Laid it across his palm. Folded his fingers around the blade, so that only the hilt showed.
Wessex.
This was one of Wessex's knives.
Slowly, he let his hand sink until it laid in his lap, his heart and mind trying to sort themselves out. Maybe she was okay, maybe she'd just lost it, Wessex couldn't be dead, Wessex was immortal, Wessex was fierce and ferocious and nothing could get to her, nothing could hurt her, nothing, nothing—
He was getting distracted. He blinked, turned his head at the soft, soft sound of snow and paws, seeing the elegant white fox place a section of ripped leather by him before touching its nose to his hip. Rory swallowed, and let the knife lay on his thighs as he instead took the bit of leather in one hand—without thinking trying to give the fox's shoulders a stroke with the other, before focusing on the leather.
Of course, he knew it.
From the inlay along what had once been an edge, to where the riveting had been torn—his hands had worked that leather, he could remember the late night he'd been bent over it, working on some details. The only foreign thing was the jagged tear from where it had been torn. He could still see a little of his maker's mark.
Rory caught his lower lip between his teeth. Safe and sound, with her armor torn to pieces? He didn't think so. He wasn't stupid and naive enough to think so.
"Wessex," he said, quietly, gently, softly, giving her name to the wind. "This is Wessex's." Slowly, he looked at the fox, then at the Spire, and the uncomfortable proximity to it. What had she been thinking..? What had she been doing..?
Slowly, he let his gaze return to the fox. Leather and knife both lay lifeless on his lap. The cold snow pressed against his clothing. The sun and the clouds went on about their business.
Nothing changed. He just knew about it now.
