Though magic had brought him back from the brink, and done most of the healing for his battered body, he still required more sleep than he was comfortable with—though in a way, it was a blessing in disguise. When asleep, he could dream lightly of the horrors of the world, but he did not have to endure being conscious in his stone cage. He did not have to spend hours on end fretting about his ponies, fretting over Wessex, fretting over his dogs, fretting over Amalia's bleak mood...
So he slept when the Spark Bird flew across their little settlement.
He did not sleep when the sound level in the Infirmary rose; he woke with a start, panic clawing its way through his heart and soul—were the monsters inside?
His senses strained in a terrified rush, listening, listening for the hush of that voice, listening for the insidious creep of his own thoughts, listened for the darkness of his soul to come out into the light and seek out every fragility, every insecurity.
But there was nothing. Just: the Spark Bird.
The Spark Bird.
The what the actual fuck now?
Rory looked at the fox. The fox jumped off the bed and became a man.
Rory got out of bed.
Rory walked out.
Into the light.
His eyes were slits against the fiery glow, his shadow long and slanted. The burns and blisters creeping across his face glistened wetly in the light. They were only skin deep now, thanks to Vervain and Isla, and still ached with a dull throb—and stung like the devil when touched.
At last, he could breathe the free air again. At last, he was outside of the Temple, even though the sun had still not risen from its bed.
And towering above them all, sitting upon the perch, was the Spark Bird: myth made memory again. It was radiant, it was beautiful, and it shone in the night, moving Rory to a reverent silence. He saw tears glittering in the light on the upturned faces around him, and felt his own eyes grow wet and his vision blurred.
It was real. They had done it.
A hand ghosted across his, and without thinking about it he turned his palm against it, a question or an invitation.
It was only as more gathered that Rory realized that the light fell the brightest upon him and Jigano. He was no hero; he had not ridden into the dark for the regard of others, but for.. for.. for faith and stupidity and the rush, the thrill of it.
But mostly for faith. Mostly for Amalia. Mostly to get the damned fox out of the barn.
He did not need the recognition; did not want the attention, yet the bird plucked two feathers from its body and dropped before them. They sizzled in the snow. And perhaps he did not feel like he needed the thanks, but he would not refuse such a gift. "Thank you," he said as he knelt to pick it up by the stem. "Thank you for coming."
Then Jigano was talking to someone else, and Rory realized that it was Amalia. A bright smile spread across his face. "We did it! It's real!" he said—laughed—as he threw his arms around her, wrapping her in a celebratory hug (and perhaps singeing the back of her clothes a little, as he didn't quite know to be careful with the feather yet).
So he slept when the Spark Bird flew across their little settlement.
He did not sleep when the sound level in the Infirmary rose; he woke with a start, panic clawing its way through his heart and soul—were the monsters inside?
His senses strained in a terrified rush, listening, listening for the hush of that voice, listening for the insidious creep of his own thoughts, listened for the darkness of his soul to come out into the light and seek out every fragility, every insecurity.
But there was nothing. Just: the Spark Bird.
The Spark Bird.
The what the actual fuck now?
Rory looked at the fox. The fox jumped off the bed and became a man.
Rory got out of bed.
Rory walked out.
Into the light.
His eyes were slits against the fiery glow, his shadow long and slanted. The burns and blisters creeping across his face glistened wetly in the light. They were only skin deep now, thanks to Vervain and Isla, and still ached with a dull throb—and stung like the devil when touched.
At last, he could breathe the free air again. At last, he was outside of the Temple, even though the sun had still not risen from its bed.
And towering above them all, sitting upon the perch, was the Spark Bird: myth made memory again. It was radiant, it was beautiful, and it shone in the night, moving Rory to a reverent silence. He saw tears glittering in the light on the upturned faces around him, and felt his own eyes grow wet and his vision blurred.
It was real. They had done it.
A hand ghosted across his, and without thinking about it he turned his palm against it, a question or an invitation.
It was only as more gathered that Rory realized that the light fell the brightest upon him and Jigano. He was no hero; he had not ridden into the dark for the regard of others, but for.. for.. for faith and stupidity and the rush, the thrill of it.
But mostly for faith. Mostly for Amalia. Mostly to get the damned fox out of the barn.
He did not need the recognition; did not want the attention, yet the bird plucked two feathers from its body and dropped before them. They sizzled in the snow. And perhaps he did not feel like he needed the thanks, but he would not refuse such a gift. "Thank you," he said as he knelt to pick it up by the stem. "Thank you for coming."
Then Jigano was talking to someone else, and Rory realized that it was Amalia. A bright smile spread across his face. "We did it! It's real!" he said—laughed—as he threw his arms around her, wrapping her in a celebratory hug (and perhaps singeing the back of her clothes a little, as he didn't quite know to be careful with the feather yet).
