stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
"Everything," she whispered, and,
nothing
his heart whispered back.
She felt so fragile, so thin and so cold; the lean elegance replaced with something brittle, as if she would shatter at the merest errant touch. His palm hovered just above her, the soft exhalation the subtle change to lean his arm against her, fingers curling around her upper arm without holding.
He thought of the ruined, broken perch; of Edy, wild in the night, pulling the beam down; of Jigano's mad, blue eyes, his sharp, white teeth; of the insidious voice whispering in the back of his mind. He thought, involuntarily, of the fire roaring (whispering?) through the compact darkness, striking his chest, licking along his throat and face.
He thought of Amalia, brave and steadfast.
He thought of Amalia, crumpling to the ground, the soul stolen from her body.
He was silent as she cried, his hand tightening around her arm as he ached to pull her into an embrace, yet feared that it would not be welcome—that it would be too much, so he made do with what he already had and tried to hold her as close against his side as she would let him.
"I died," she finally whispered, and still Rory held on to her, his head bowing, his other hand curling into a useless fist in his lap.
He had watched her die, and all his demon-ridden mind had been capable to think was—
No.
"No," he also said, gently, gently, his bruised heart aching for the brave girl sitting next to him. Every step of their ill-conceived journey through the Long Night hell he had been beside her, until the last; every single second he had chosen to spend among the demons and monsters, with her.
She had done nothing wrong. She was to blame for nothing, even though the dark and lonely night pressed on his dark and lonely heart, a mixture labeled 'it was all for nothing', waiting to be drunk during some moment of introspection and anguish. "You are radiant and brave and you are my friend." His free, useless hand moved between them, hoping to capture her chin with his cold, deft fingers, and turn her face towards him.
Away from her guilt.
Back to the living.
"You have done nothing wrong," he said softly, "I saw the stars, and I wanted to go to them." But they had not been allowed to, neither of them; and Rory understood the allure of death. He had heard its low siren song more than once, a serenade bearing both his name and others. "But it was not our time."
nothing
his heart whispered back.
She felt so fragile, so thin and so cold; the lean elegance replaced with something brittle, as if she would shatter at the merest errant touch. His palm hovered just above her, the soft exhalation the subtle change to lean his arm against her, fingers curling around her upper arm without holding.
He thought of the ruined, broken perch; of Edy, wild in the night, pulling the beam down; of Jigano's mad, blue eyes, his sharp, white teeth; of the insidious voice whispering in the back of his mind. He thought, involuntarily, of the fire roaring (whispering?) through the compact darkness, striking his chest, licking along his throat and face.
He thought of Amalia, brave and steadfast.
He thought of Amalia, crumpling to the ground, the soul stolen from her body.
He was silent as she cried, his hand tightening around her arm as he ached to pull her into an embrace, yet feared that it would not be welcome—that it would be too much, so he made do with what he already had and tried to hold her as close against his side as she would let him.
"I died," she finally whispered, and still Rory held on to her, his head bowing, his other hand curling into a useless fist in his lap.
He had watched her die, and all his demon-ridden mind had been capable to think was—
No.
"No," he also said, gently, gently, his bruised heart aching for the brave girl sitting next to him. Every step of their ill-conceived journey through the Long Night hell he had been beside her, until the last; every single second he had chosen to spend among the demons and monsters, with her.
She had done nothing wrong. She was to blame for nothing, even though the dark and lonely night pressed on his dark and lonely heart, a mixture labeled 'it was all for nothing', waiting to be drunk during some moment of introspection and anguish. "You are radiant and brave and you are my friend." His free, useless hand moved between them, hoping to capture her chin with his cold, deft fingers, and turn her face towards him.
Away from her guilt.
Back to the living.
"You have done nothing wrong," he said softly, "I saw the stars, and I wanted to go to them." But they had not been allowed to, neither of them; and Rory understood the allure of death. He had heard its low siren song more than once, a serenade bearing both his name and others. "But it was not our time."
