He felt many things, there in the limitless dark.
Fear: for Amalia. He remembered seeing her crumble, and feeling only grim satisfaction. It sat in his veins and memory, a heavy and nauseating thing. Edrei had already carried her away before the fox had come up to him and pressed the antler back into his hand.
Guilt: for setting the ponies loose. They snuffled at his clumsy hands, then snuffled at the fox's more deft hands. Watching with dark, trusting eyes, watching with anxiety.
Disappointment: for the Spark Bird was still nowhere to be seen. It was childish to think it would swoop out of the dark the moment they repaired the perch, but knowing that Amalia might well have died for it, and the darkness remained, was crushing.
And the cold had begun to creep in. With the adrenaline replaced by fatigue and crushing defeat, he could no longer stave away the agony that had had him lying on his back, weakly screaming as Amalia poured snow on him.
He was dead weight, led away in the dark, the ponies following close behind. It made his heart hurt even more.
That he didn't fall over while his friend stooped to pick up the little gryphon was a miracle. He swayed, then settled against the man again, something halfway between dead weight and walking.
He was exhausted.
He was in pain.
Step by step his breaths turned into little gasps and hisses, and by the time they were outside the Temple door he was barely standing.
But someone opened it. A woman he did not know, did not recognize. Rory blinked, slowly. Slowly. Blood was crusted on his right shoulder. Burns glistened wetly on the lower left half of his face and neck, wool fibers melted into his skin, the greatcoat scorched and cracked where the fire had struck him.
He couldn't take it anymore.
His blue eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to collapse.
Fear: for Amalia. He remembered seeing her crumble, and feeling only grim satisfaction. It sat in his veins and memory, a heavy and nauseating thing. Edrei had already carried her away before the fox had come up to him and pressed the antler back into his hand.
Guilt: for setting the ponies loose. They snuffled at his clumsy hands, then snuffled at the fox's more deft hands. Watching with dark, trusting eyes, watching with anxiety.
Disappointment: for the Spark Bird was still nowhere to be seen. It was childish to think it would swoop out of the dark the moment they repaired the perch, but knowing that Amalia might well have died for it, and the darkness remained, was crushing.
And the cold had begun to creep in. With the adrenaline replaced by fatigue and crushing defeat, he could no longer stave away the agony that had had him lying on his back, weakly screaming as Amalia poured snow on him.
He was dead weight, led away in the dark, the ponies following close behind. It made his heart hurt even more.
That he didn't fall over while his friend stooped to pick up the little gryphon was a miracle. He swayed, then settled against the man again, something halfway between dead weight and walking.
He was exhausted.
He was in pain.
Step by step his breaths turned into little gasps and hisses, and by the time they were outside the Temple door he was barely standing.
But someone opened it. A woman he did not know, did not recognize. Rory blinked, slowly. Slowly. Blood was crusted on his right shoulder. Burns glistened wetly on the lower left half of his face and neck, wool fibers melted into his skin, the greatcoat scorched and cracked where the fire had struck him.
He couldn't take it anymore.
His blue eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to collapse.
