stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
He was a caged, wounded animal: a wild thing in a stone tomb. The ceiling above him was unfamiliar. The walls were cold, dark, hissing at him.
He wanted to run, into stars and sunlight, into the forest, into places where the breeze touched his face and lifted his spirits. He wanted to touch trees—living things—and smell the scent of life come again, of snowmelt and snowdrops, hear the birdsong that came in with slanting sunrays. He wanted the comforting sounds of goats browsing for food as the new blades of fresh green grass pushed up from a wet, yellowed carpet; Vaya's warning bark at something only she saw.
The coppery glitter of sunlight on Bakshi's thin summer coat, the fuzz of winter left behind in drifting clumps of bay hairs.
But all he had was stone.
He was tired. Healing was an exhausting pastime, and one that rhymed ill with Rory's restlessness. He had been duly informed that it was still the middle of Long Night, so going back out into that senseless dark was out of the question. And yet, as he replayed the events in his mind, he thought of the red antlers. He thought of how nothing of the dark had attacked them. Oh, they had been there, at the edges of his awareness, things that wanted to eat them—but none had come close.
He wanted to take the antler like a torch and flee into the monster's teeth, see what hid behind its dark, dark smile.
And maybe—foolish and drunk on both relief and frustration—he would have, had he not been injured. As it was, each time he moved, one injustice or another done to him screamed a protest.
Yet he was sick of sleeping. Sick of laying. Sick of this stone building that made his heart run.
Someone had found him a long, loose shirt. It was draped over his lean body, and he sat cross-legged upon his bed, blonde hair undone and spilling around his shoulders. On the bed closest on his left lay Amalia, who by some miracle yet lived, though she hadn't woken.
Until now. He saw her roll the other way, facing away from him. She stayed like that for a moment, and he watched her with unbridled curiosity, his blue eyes dark, guarded; he did not like this place, and it showed in his tired face.
Then she sat up, back against him, and cried out for her mother. Rory didn't know who that was. He didn't know why she was scared either, but who wouldn't be, in this place?
"Amalia," he said from behind her; his voice was gentle, like he was steadying a horse. "Everything's quite alright now."
He wanted to run, into stars and sunlight, into the forest, into places where the breeze touched his face and lifted his spirits. He wanted to touch trees—living things—and smell the scent of life come again, of snowmelt and snowdrops, hear the birdsong that came in with slanting sunrays. He wanted the comforting sounds of goats browsing for food as the new blades of fresh green grass pushed up from a wet, yellowed carpet; Vaya's warning bark at something only she saw.
The coppery glitter of sunlight on Bakshi's thin summer coat, the fuzz of winter left behind in drifting clumps of bay hairs.
But all he had was stone.
He was tired. Healing was an exhausting pastime, and one that rhymed ill with Rory's restlessness. He had been duly informed that it was still the middle of Long Night, so going back out into that senseless dark was out of the question. And yet, as he replayed the events in his mind, he thought of the red antlers. He thought of how nothing of the dark had attacked them. Oh, they had been there, at the edges of his awareness, things that wanted to eat them—but none had come close.
He wanted to take the antler like a torch and flee into the monster's teeth, see what hid behind its dark, dark smile.
And maybe—foolish and drunk on both relief and frustration—he would have, had he not been injured. As it was, each time he moved, one injustice or another done to him screamed a protest.
Yet he was sick of sleeping. Sick of laying. Sick of this stone building that made his heart run.
Someone had found him a long, loose shirt. It was draped over his lean body, and he sat cross-legged upon his bed, blonde hair undone and spilling around his shoulders. On the bed closest on his left lay Amalia, who by some miracle yet lived, though she hadn't woken.
Until now. He saw her roll the other way, facing away from him. She stayed like that for a moment, and he watched her with unbridled curiosity, his blue eyes dark, guarded; he did not like this place, and it showed in his tired face.
Then she sat up, back against him, and cried out for her mother. Rory didn't know who that was. He didn't know why she was scared either, but who wouldn't be, in this place?
"Amalia," he said from behind her; his voice was gentle, like he was steadying a horse. "Everything's quite alright now."
