It felt like the distance between him and the little exuberant gryphon could be measured in years: eternities, even, stretching out in the middle of his workshop—as if the hand he extended passed through the rest of his life, and would come out old and wrinkled, and it would turn out he'd been sat there for decades, just trying to reach the owlkitten. Like he was losing his life in that moment, and would find out no one else had. Just him, done, aged, gone.
But time flowed as it normally did for her. She grew impatient with his scratches, moving closer, wiggling as she calibrated her jump. Rory felt the same distance stretch in his heart again, as if his very body had stilled, his eyes blinking slowly, and he somehow expected her to freeze in mid-jump.
Displaced.
She didn't freeze. Of course she didn't. She jumped neatly onto his knees, and then tumbled more securely into his lap, coming up against his waist. Before Long Night, or even during it, he would've laughed, maybe picked her up and wiggled her around, told her he was proud of her, or any other thing he told cute baby creatures.
But now he merely gave her the shadow of a smile, a sad echo of another time, and it was barely even that: just a softening of his eyes, one corner of his mouth barely higher than the other. If he had been left alone with her long enough, gazing into her owl's eyes, perhaps it would've rattled something in him back to life, but as it was, Jigano came through the door and Rory struggled with whether to put on a facade, or .. put on less of a facade ...
He ended up watching the white-haired man with a rather empty expression, as if he wasn't sure what he was seeing, or where he was seeing. For the split second Jigano stood before him he noticed, rather absently, that Jigano was, indeed, rather tall.
Then the other man had dropped to one knee, and held out a small, aromatic bouquet of early flowers. Rory found himself stuck again with the sensation of not quite remembering how to move: he merely looked at the flowers for what felt like an eternity, his eyes barely moving from the white ribbon and the hands clasped around them. He wanted to take them, to say something, to compliment the smell, anything.
For a split second, he had the insane urge to kiss Jigano.
Then he managed to give his head a little shake—though spasm was more like it—and reached out to put his knife-hand on the one wrapped around the flowers. "They're alright," he said quietly. "They were a little skittish for the first few days."
But time flowed as it normally did for her. She grew impatient with his scratches, moving closer, wiggling as she calibrated her jump. Rory felt the same distance stretch in his heart again, as if his very body had stilled, his eyes blinking slowly, and he somehow expected her to freeze in mid-jump.
Displaced.
She didn't freeze. Of course she didn't. She jumped neatly onto his knees, and then tumbled more securely into his lap, coming up against his waist. Before Long Night, or even during it, he would've laughed, maybe picked her up and wiggled her around, told her he was proud of her, or any other thing he told cute baby creatures.
But now he merely gave her the shadow of a smile, a sad echo of another time, and it was barely even that: just a softening of his eyes, one corner of his mouth barely higher than the other. If he had been left alone with her long enough, gazing into her owl's eyes, perhaps it would've rattled something in him back to life, but as it was, Jigano came through the door and Rory struggled with whether to put on a facade, or .. put on less of a facade ...
He ended up watching the white-haired man with a rather empty expression, as if he wasn't sure what he was seeing, or where he was seeing. For the split second Jigano stood before him he noticed, rather absently, that Jigano was, indeed, rather tall.
Then the other man had dropped to one knee, and held out a small, aromatic bouquet of early flowers. Rory found himself stuck again with the sensation of not quite remembering how to move: he merely looked at the flowers for what felt like an eternity, his eyes barely moving from the white ribbon and the hands clasped around them. He wanted to take them, to say something, to compliment the smell, anything.
For a split second, he had the insane urge to kiss Jigano.
Then he managed to give his head a little shake—though spasm was more like it—and reached out to put his knife-hand on the one wrapped around the flowers. "They're alright," he said quietly. "They were a little skittish for the first few days."
