He didn't know what to do with himself.
Early Flowerbirth used to be a pleasant time of hope and restoration, of looking forward to Fiat Lux and the calmer days of summer. Coming out of the Long Night and restoring normalcy, by repairing what had been broken in the dark. Going over the fences. Releasing the goats. Watching the first snowdrops push through the melting snow. Waiting, for the first baby goats to be born. Brushing horses (and dogs) for hours on end, watching clumps of winter fur drift around in the spring breeze.
But not this year. This year, he did not step out of that door into the first tentative, rosy dawn; this year he came on foot from the Settlement. This year he didn't know if he'd ever get back his two best ponies. This year he found all his floorboards loose, nails pulled out, dogs hungry and whining but happy to see him.
This year, he had lost his soul to something, and he didn't know how to get it back.
He went through the motions, but it was mechanical. He looked for himself in the shadows and under dust, but his strange mood lingered.
Displaced.
His trademark greatcoat hung over a disused desk in the workshop, bits and pieces sticking out the pockets. He hadn't touched it since he'd put it there. Couldn't bring himself to patch it up.
Day by day the scabs from the bite wound healed to fine, pale points, and the burn scars snaking up his neck and onto his face lost their glistening, wet look. His hair was stuck in a braid a few days too old, mussed and tangled.
And his sister was nowhere to be found. If she'd been back any time after Long Night, he hadn't noticed, and no one he asked knew where she'd gone.
Slowly, he worked on his orders. Slowly, he completed them. Slowly, he delivered them.
He just didn't take much joy in it.
Not in anything.
That day he'd left his workshop door ajar, listening to the sound of ponies (Esaia and Talys had been outside the pen one morning, happily eating the hay he kept putting out for them) and goats and birdsong, breathing in the scent of spring sometimes pushed in by the wind. A couple of different projects lay scattered around him, but when Isuma came in the door, he wasn't touching any of them. He sat with his chair tipped back, his feet on the bench, whittling a piece of wood into nothing. Just shaving off one layer after the other.
It took him a couple of seconds to convince himself it was worth paying attention to her; not because he didn't want to, but because he had sort of forgotten how to move. Slowly he brought the chair down on all its legs and took his feet off the bench. "Hey there," he greeted the owlkitten, holding out the hand with the bit of wood to her, trying to use the tip of his index finger to scratch the side of her face.
The knock on the doorframe was not a surprise, considering the little visitor he had on his floor. Rory closed his eyes, brought his knife-hand up to his face and rubbed his knuckles across his eyes. The door groaned slightly as it was pushed open, and he tried to chase the shadows away. ”Rory?”
He didn't want Jigano to see him like this, but seeing as he'd been like it for weeks, that sort of equated to not wanting to see Jigano at all, which wasn't true.
Besides, unless the guy was blind, he had already seen Rory's rather defeated pose, so he might just as well strike another. With a sigh he straightened up, letting his hands hang uselessly between his knees. "I don't mind," he said, trying to keep the tired note out of his voice, but his measure of success was questionable. "What is it you're doing?"
Early Flowerbirth used to be a pleasant time of hope and restoration, of looking forward to Fiat Lux and the calmer days of summer. Coming out of the Long Night and restoring normalcy, by repairing what had been broken in the dark. Going over the fences. Releasing the goats. Watching the first snowdrops push through the melting snow. Waiting, for the first baby goats to be born. Brushing horses (and dogs) for hours on end, watching clumps of winter fur drift around in the spring breeze.
But not this year. This year, he did not step out of that door into the first tentative, rosy dawn; this year he came on foot from the Settlement. This year he didn't know if he'd ever get back his two best ponies. This year he found all his floorboards loose, nails pulled out, dogs hungry and whining but happy to see him.
This year, he had lost his soul to something, and he didn't know how to get it back.
He went through the motions, but it was mechanical. He looked for himself in the shadows and under dust, but his strange mood lingered.
Displaced.
His trademark greatcoat hung over a disused desk in the workshop, bits and pieces sticking out the pockets. He hadn't touched it since he'd put it there. Couldn't bring himself to patch it up.
Day by day the scabs from the bite wound healed to fine, pale points, and the burn scars snaking up his neck and onto his face lost their glistening, wet look. His hair was stuck in a braid a few days too old, mussed and tangled.
And his sister was nowhere to be found. If she'd been back any time after Long Night, he hadn't noticed, and no one he asked knew where she'd gone.
Slowly, he worked on his orders. Slowly, he completed them. Slowly, he delivered them.
He just didn't take much joy in it.
Not in anything.
That day he'd left his workshop door ajar, listening to the sound of ponies (Esaia and Talys had been outside the pen one morning, happily eating the hay he kept putting out for them) and goats and birdsong, breathing in the scent of spring sometimes pushed in by the wind. A couple of different projects lay scattered around him, but when Isuma came in the door, he wasn't touching any of them. He sat with his chair tipped back, his feet on the bench, whittling a piece of wood into nothing. Just shaving off one layer after the other.
It took him a couple of seconds to convince himself it was worth paying attention to her; not because he didn't want to, but because he had sort of forgotten how to move. Slowly he brought the chair down on all its legs and took his feet off the bench. "Hey there," he greeted the owlkitten, holding out the hand with the bit of wood to her, trying to use the tip of his index finger to scratch the side of her face.
The knock on the doorframe was not a surprise, considering the little visitor he had on his floor. Rory closed his eyes, brought his knife-hand up to his face and rubbed his knuckles across his eyes. The door groaned slightly as it was pushed open, and he tried to chase the shadows away. ”Rory?”
He didn't want Jigano to see him like this, but seeing as he'd been like it for weeks, that sort of equated to not wanting to see Jigano at all, which wasn't true.
Besides, unless the guy was blind, he had already seen Rory's rather defeated pose, so he might just as well strike another. With a sigh he straightened up, letting his hands hang uselessly between his knees. "I don't mind," he said, trying to keep the tired note out of his voice, but his measure of success was questionable. "What is it you're doing?"
