stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
He didn't know what he had expected, but it wasn't this.
His gaze sharpened; darkened. Their Long Night had begun with camaraderie, a sense of excitement at the adventure of figuring out how a week cooped up together—and with Wessex—would work. Rory had never had anything but family to keep him company for Long Night, and he had found he was quite looking forward to the strange break to routine despite the circumstances causing it.
But that all went to bits when he found out the fox opted to stay in the barn instead.
And then they had ridden out—still together, as one, drunk on fear and possibility, faith and hope.
Yet there they were, two islands in their own seas, a lost soul on a bed each. He didn't understand what kept her from turning towards him. Surely it was not fear of seeing the burns crawling up his neck and across his face? She had seen them in the bloody light of the antlers, after all, he knew she had.
"My mother worked here," she said, and the fabric of his shirt and the fabric of the bed cover whispered as his legs unfolded. She went on: "She delivered babies. Helped the sick. Eased the dying." And Rory's bare feet touched the cold, cold floor as he stood up, a ghost in the lonely ward.
"I have always hated this place," she said as he moved lightly across the floor, his eyes intent on her, reading the silent language of her body. "I hate it too," he said gently, so much closer; would she not shy away from his presence he'd climb onto her bed and sit next to her, otherwise, he would remain standing just behind it. She seemed broken, fragile, and it hurt his heart to see her that way. "But for different reasons, I think."
His gaze sharpened; darkened. Their Long Night had begun with camaraderie, a sense of excitement at the adventure of figuring out how a week cooped up together—and with Wessex—would work. Rory had never had anything but family to keep him company for Long Night, and he had found he was quite looking forward to the strange break to routine despite the circumstances causing it.
But that all went to bits when he found out the fox opted to stay in the barn instead.
And then they had ridden out—still together, as one, drunk on fear and possibility, faith and hope.
Yet there they were, two islands in their own seas, a lost soul on a bed each. He didn't understand what kept her from turning towards him. Surely it was not fear of seeing the burns crawling up his neck and across his face? She had seen them in the bloody light of the antlers, after all, he knew she had.
"My mother worked here," she said, and the fabric of his shirt and the fabric of the bed cover whispered as his legs unfolded. She went on: "She delivered babies. Helped the sick. Eased the dying." And Rory's bare feet touched the cold, cold floor as he stood up, a ghost in the lonely ward.
"I have always hated this place," she said as he moved lightly across the floor, his eyes intent on her, reading the silent language of her body. "I hate it too," he said gently, so much closer; would she not shy away from his presence he'd climb onto her bed and sit next to her, otherwise, he would remain standing just behind it. She seemed broken, fragile, and it hurt his heart to see her that way. "But for different reasons, I think."
