stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
He wasn't sure if he was even listening, or if it was just her mouth moving and his pulse roaring—their faces were a crowd of wolves and he, the hart, trapped at the front of them. Between them and the torches he saw no way out, so his absent gaze roamed and roamed, never quite stopping anywhere.
“It’s not a joke.” His breathing was fast and shallow.
It still felt like one, like one sick fuck of a joke, and he was still up there, up there, up there (defenseless and exposed) when all he wanted to do was—find his tongue and say—
"I'm glad you're alive," but it came out leaden and dead, just like everything else in that moment.
His heart was too fast. He was done there and Remi had retreated at some point, lost, lost among the people, or just lost to his flighty eyes. He wasn't equipped to handle any of this—losing a friend and getting her back within the span of a few hours; these bold claims of defeating the monster; the wild, violent feeling that had briefly sung through the crowd—so he fled. Looking more lost than angry Rory stepped off the dais and ghosted to the the side of the Temple, slinking down along the wall, passing into the night close behind Wessex.
He wanted.. he wanted to tell her that he was proud of her: proud, because she so readily admitted to one of her own flaws. Proud, that.. that.. that she was here? That she was trying to do something? But he was too overwhelmed, sought only the refuge of the cold air and the bright stars, spilling out into the dark like an errant ray of light with tears threatening in the corners of his eyes.
Half-running he made it to Talys, not noticing the fox curled up on her saddle, just pressing his face against hers, burrowing into her thick forelock and inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of horse.
“It’s not a joke.” His breathing was fast and shallow.
It still felt like one, like one sick fuck of a joke, and he was still up there, up there, up there (defenseless and exposed) when all he wanted to do was—find his tongue and say—
"I'm glad you're alive," but it came out leaden and dead, just like everything else in that moment.
His heart was too fast. He was done there and Remi had retreated at some point, lost, lost among the people, or just lost to his flighty eyes. He wasn't equipped to handle any of this—losing a friend and getting her back within the span of a few hours; these bold claims of defeating the monster; the wild, violent feeling that had briefly sung through the crowd—so he fled. Looking more lost than angry Rory stepped off the dais and ghosted to the the side of the Temple, slinking down along the wall, passing into the night close behind Wessex.
He wanted.. he wanted to tell her that he was proud of her: proud, because she so readily admitted to one of her own flaws. Proud, that.. that.. that she was here? That she was trying to do something? But he was too overwhelmed, sought only the refuge of the cold air and the bright stars, spilling out into the dark like an errant ray of light with tears threatening in the corners of his eyes.
Half-running he made it to Talys, not noticing the fox curled up on her saddle, just pressing his face against hers, burrowing into her thick forelock and inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of horse.
