Again, Jigano's fingers touched his skin: again, Rory shivered, his nerves clinging to the touch. Even when nothing but air touched him it echoed in his memory, fainter and fainter with each passing moment. The entire moment was bizarre: he had ridden into the Long Night dark, had been burned and bitten and watched his friend merely drop to the ground, the life robbed from her body. He had woken up inside the Infirmary, again trapped in the compact, pressing darkness of Long Night.
He knew that Amalia lived. He knew that Edy lived. He knew that he lived, although he was in pain, and yet all he could think of was Jigano.
It felt wrong to crave that touch, to want it all over his skin, in such a moment.
He wanted to lose the pain and the worry and the relief and the regret in it.
He wanted hands on his body, to fire up every nerve and drain every last bit of energy from them, until touch was merely touch again and no longer a wildfire burning just beneath his skin.
He wanted distance, so that each touch did just that: sparked and sparked and sparked, every time.
He put it out of his mind, let it be forced down by the weight of Jigano's hand across his, tempered by the dull ache that was the backdrop of his existence.
When he asked where Jigano came from, he did not know what sort of answer to expect; or if he should expect one at all. And even so.. the man sitting on the edge of his sickbed was—was from another world entirely, or at least another.. another what? Continent was a word that came to mind, but to someone who had never even seen a proper lake, the concept of it was hard to grasp. He knew that there had been more out there, once, beyond the barrier, but he had no sense of it, couldn't fathom it. He was born within his circular wall, and perhaps he did not understand just how lacking his prison was, because he had never tasted truly fresh air, or watched the waves foam upon the ocean's back, or watched plentiful, bountiful meadows, dotted with bright flowers, roll effortlessly from horizon to horizon.
And so Jigano told of a place called Numeria, a northern country that likely neither of them knew exactly where it was anymore. Rory had no concept of planets and dimensions. Rory had.. no real concept of anything.
He tried to picture it, but how could he, when all he knew lay within their dusty grounds? He thought of a place vast enough that a ruler could be distant, wondered what it was like to bow beneath the will of another.
He could not understand it, not in any way that was meaningful.
Yet like the stories he had been told as a child—stories from the Atheneum, stories made up, stories adapted for a child's ears—he soaked it all up, and wondered, wondered about so much that he could never know.
His eyes grew soft and sad as Jigano spoke of his parents: Rory had none anymore either, but to know that you had indirectly caused their deaths... But before he knew where to take it from there, what way to shape his thoughts into words, Jigano went on, voice soft, only it was on a different subject. Rory blinked a couple of times, looking to those fox eyes, and his smile was gentle. "All in due time," he responded. Then, "I'm sorry about your parents."
He looked down for a moment again, at the sleeping gryphon, about their hands nestled together. It was intimate in a way he wasn't used to.
"How did you come here?"
He knew that Amalia lived. He knew that Edy lived. He knew that he lived, although he was in pain, and yet all he could think of was Jigano.
It felt wrong to crave that touch, to want it all over his skin, in such a moment.
He wanted to lose the pain and the worry and the relief and the regret in it.
He wanted hands on his body, to fire up every nerve and drain every last bit of energy from them, until touch was merely touch again and no longer a wildfire burning just beneath his skin.
He wanted distance, so that each touch did just that: sparked and sparked and sparked, every time.
He put it out of his mind, let it be forced down by the weight of Jigano's hand across his, tempered by the dull ache that was the backdrop of his existence.
When he asked where Jigano came from, he did not know what sort of answer to expect; or if he should expect one at all. And even so.. the man sitting on the edge of his sickbed was—was from another world entirely, or at least another.. another what? Continent was a word that came to mind, but to someone who had never even seen a proper lake, the concept of it was hard to grasp. He knew that there had been more out there, once, beyond the barrier, but he had no sense of it, couldn't fathom it. He was born within his circular wall, and perhaps he did not understand just how lacking his prison was, because he had never tasted truly fresh air, or watched the waves foam upon the ocean's back, or watched plentiful, bountiful meadows, dotted with bright flowers, roll effortlessly from horizon to horizon.
And so Jigano told of a place called Numeria, a northern country that likely neither of them knew exactly where it was anymore. Rory had no concept of planets and dimensions. Rory had.. no real concept of anything.
He tried to picture it, but how could he, when all he knew lay within their dusty grounds? He thought of a place vast enough that a ruler could be distant, wondered what it was like to bow beneath the will of another.
He could not understand it, not in any way that was meaningful.
Yet like the stories he had been told as a child—stories from the Atheneum, stories made up, stories adapted for a child's ears—he soaked it all up, and wondered, wondered about so much that he could never know.
His eyes grew soft and sad as Jigano spoke of his parents: Rory had none anymore either, but to know that you had indirectly caused their deaths... But before he knew where to take it from there, what way to shape his thoughts into words, Jigano went on, voice soft, only it was on a different subject. Rory blinked a couple of times, looking to those fox eyes, and his smile was gentle. "All in due time," he responded. Then, "I'm sorry about your parents."
He looked down for a moment again, at the sleeping gryphon, about their hands nestled together. It was intimate in a way he wasn't used to.
"How did you come here?"
