stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
The smile he procured for Remi was brief and distant, sad, only there as if to say, it's quite alright, it's not the first time, and won't be the last—
He passed the Spire regularly, and nothing ever happened, but the place was steeped in death.
He snatched his hand from the lantern, lost, seeing Remi's hand move but coming nowhere, and this was neither the place, nor the time. So Rory locked his fresh hurt away, became only the bearer of bad news, an unreachable and distant thing. Amalia's voice cried out in the silence following his words, and he met her eyes for a moment, but she wouldn't find what she was looking for in them. Wessex was dead, and he would not lie to her, or offer false hopes.
Then Remi went on, speaking of how they had found one of the New Gods, and freed it, then spoke of meeting Ludo. And that explained the trio of birds and their foolish adventure to the top of the Spire. Rory let out a long, slow sigh. Others stepped up, offering help, insight, one woman calling for the demon's death and had Rory had hackles, he would've raised them. Anger got you nowhere where this thing; a riot was the last thing they needed. A woman approached, writing something on a sheaf of paper and holding up for them. Rory tried reading it for half a second before giving up—between the lighting and her handwriting and his state, there was just no way he'd decipher it.
And Ronin, poor, stupid, brave, confident Ronin, he spoke of killing the demon. Blessed by Safrin. Rory raised his hand to his face, slender fingers massaging his brow and temples, the urge to scream at them all rising. Isla called out from somewhere. And Melita, the child Wessex had turned down, spoke out, and he couldn't help but to think she would've been proud of her.
Lightning and fire didn't matter. He couldn't let himself believe they stood a chance against the thing.
They were all mad.
The least he could do was try to stall them, to give them enough time to come to their senses, and if not—well, he could try to keep them from doing something damned foolish. Their confidence sickened him.
Wessex had died to the thing. Couldn't they understand how dangerous it was?
"At least wait until Flowerbirth before you throw your lives away," he said, voice dead, face dead, soul defeated. "You'll stand a better chance without the deep snows hindering you."
He passed the Spire regularly, and nothing ever happened, but the place was steeped in death.
He snatched his hand from the lantern, lost, seeing Remi's hand move but coming nowhere, and this was neither the place, nor the time. So Rory locked his fresh hurt away, became only the bearer of bad news, an unreachable and distant thing. Amalia's voice cried out in the silence following his words, and he met her eyes for a moment, but she wouldn't find what she was looking for in them. Wessex was dead, and he would not lie to her, or offer false hopes.
Then Remi went on, speaking of how they had found one of the New Gods, and freed it, then spoke of meeting Ludo. And that explained the trio of birds and their foolish adventure to the top of the Spire. Rory let out a long, slow sigh. Others stepped up, offering help, insight, one woman calling for the demon's death and had Rory had hackles, he would've raised them. Anger got you nowhere where this thing; a riot was the last thing they needed. A woman approached, writing something on a sheaf of paper and holding up for them. Rory tried reading it for half a second before giving up—between the lighting and her handwriting and his state, there was just no way he'd decipher it.
And Ronin, poor, stupid, brave, confident Ronin, he spoke of killing the demon. Blessed by Safrin. Rory raised his hand to his face, slender fingers massaging his brow and temples, the urge to scream at them all rising. Isla called out from somewhere. And Melita, the child Wessex had turned down, spoke out, and he couldn't help but to think she would've been proud of her.
Lightning and fire didn't matter. He couldn't let himself believe they stood a chance against the thing.
They were all mad.
The least he could do was try to stall them, to give them enough time to come to their senses, and if not—well, he could try to keep them from doing something damned foolish. Their confidence sickened him.
Wessex had died to the thing. Couldn't they understand how dangerous it was?
"At least wait until Flowerbirth before you throw your lives away," he said, voice dead, face dead, soul defeated. "You'll stand a better chance without the deep snows hindering you."
