stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
Rory knew, of course, that there were more languages than the common tongue they all spoke in the bubble: the books in the Atheneum were proof of that, had he ever doubted. But had he spoken with someone who knew another language so intimately, that this common tongue was not his first language? In that way, he thought Bastien was a first for him, and even though it served to reinforce his feeling of inferiority—culturally, intelligence-wise, everything—it also piqued his curiosity. Rory's head tilted slightly to the side. "What does it mean, though?" he asked, not quite willing to let the subject simply drop.
The questions Bastien asked were legitimate ones, and ones Rory had asked himself, too. In the end, it was a matter of interpretation and piety—how else would you explains the seasonal scorch marks? And perhaps it fed upon belief, a myth that could be real only for as long as at least someone believed.
A physical projection of hope.
He put it in the back of his mind to ask Amalia what she knew of it.
But the constant stream of questions—the way in which they were posed, as if the Spark Bird was an unnecessary luxury, an excess—was.. tiresome, in a way? Rory felt tired of defending his traditions, tired of watching everything change, tired of the voices clamoring for the demon to be brought down, now, tired.. tired tired tired, of the impatience, of the feeling of that this was not enough.
They had come to his home, his world, his life contained by the lethal barrier, and they had weighed it and measured it and found it wanting.
He was tired of feeling like he was not enough.
And yet, in the middle of it all, there seemed to be a kernel of curiosity, and as the man apologized Rory slowly shook his head. "Staying indoors is not always enough. If they have enough reason to, they'll break into your house. It's not only a matter of staying indoor and having a cup of tea and a good time: when they're prowling around the corners of your house... A week of utter darkness with huge monsters might not sound so bad until you've experienced it. There's sharp teeth bearing your name hiding somewhere in that darkness. Remember that." Why was it that every time Rory said this place will kill you if it can, and here are some monsters everyone said lol surely it's not that bad?
like
what the fuck do you know about it
He looked at the other man for a moment, seeing if it would sink in, or if he'd just brush it off as, what, Natural superstition?
Gods sometimes he wished they'd all just get eaten by monsters, and then he could shake his head and Wessex would laugh and life would go on as it always had in the bubble. "Perhaps if you survive the Long Night you'll see why the Spark Bird might be handy," he said sweetly. "And who the fuck knows if it's still alive, but see all the scorch marks around here? As long as there's fresh ones, we believe it's still alive. Besides, I doubt it can get out of here. Nothing else can, so why should it be able to?"
They had not created their rituals and tradition to inconvenience Outlanders.
They had created them to stay alive.
The questions Bastien asked were legitimate ones, and ones Rory had asked himself, too. In the end, it was a matter of interpretation and piety—how else would you explains the seasonal scorch marks? And perhaps it fed upon belief, a myth that could be real only for as long as at least someone believed.
A physical projection of hope.
He put it in the back of his mind to ask Amalia what she knew of it.
But the constant stream of questions—the way in which they were posed, as if the Spark Bird was an unnecessary luxury, an excess—was.. tiresome, in a way? Rory felt tired of defending his traditions, tired of watching everything change, tired of the voices clamoring for the demon to be brought down, now, tired.. tired tired tired, of the impatience, of the feeling of that this was not enough.
They had come to his home, his world, his life contained by the lethal barrier, and they had weighed it and measured it and found it wanting.
He was tired of feeling like he was not enough.
And yet, in the middle of it all, there seemed to be a kernel of curiosity, and as the man apologized Rory slowly shook his head. "Staying indoors is not always enough. If they have enough reason to, they'll break into your house. It's not only a matter of staying indoor and having a cup of tea and a good time: when they're prowling around the corners of your house... A week of utter darkness with huge monsters might not sound so bad until you've experienced it. There's sharp teeth bearing your name hiding somewhere in that darkness. Remember that." Why was it that every time Rory said this place will kill you if it can, and here are some monsters everyone said lol surely it's not that bad?
like
what the fuck do you know about it
He looked at the other man for a moment, seeing if it would sink in, or if he'd just brush it off as, what, Natural superstition?
Gods sometimes he wished they'd all just get eaten by monsters, and then he could shake his head and Wessex would laugh and life would go on as it always had in the bubble. "Perhaps if you survive the Long Night you'll see why the Spark Bird might be handy," he said sweetly. "And who the fuck knows if it's still alive, but see all the scorch marks around here? As long as there's fresh ones, we believe it's still alive. Besides, I doubt it can get out of here. Nothing else can, so why should it be able to?"
They had not created their rituals and tradition to inconvenience Outlanders.
They had created them to stay alive.
