RORY
It seemed his target was ill-chosen, if you disregarded the fact that she'd been perfect for igniting this whole wildfire raging around them. Because this one, it bit right back.Her eyes were like ice. Her voice a steady, sharp thing, cutting through the din and chaos Rory had unwittingly helped unleash. It made the breath catch in his chest, made the air coming past his lips feel frozen. It wasn't like she was some gods-sent voice of reason, but it was the way she packaged it: sharp sharp sharp
Because what she was saying wasn't very revolutionary; Rory wasn't delusional enough to think dozens of people from places he couldn't even wrap his head around stood waiting for portals, chanting hymns and prayers for the chance to destroy the Caido he had known his entire life.
If anything, the countless prayers of Naturals who wanted prosperity and answers were probably more to blame than the Outlanders themselves.
Rory was guilty of these dreams, too.
But there it was again, the words nestled in among others, hitting that old, old bruise again: We’re trying to better it.
He had tried to shake off the feeling of their existence having been weighed and measured and found wanting; he had really, really tried to convince himself that the judging stares and the desire to be out of here was all in his paranoid, anxious head, and not the truth.
Yet there it was again. They were trying to better it, implying that it wasn't good enough, that whatever far-away worlds they came from had higher standards, better everything, and Caido, Caido was just plain lacking.
Why couldn't it be good enough?
Why couldn't it be good enough for them, too?
In that moment, he looked more hurt than angry.
Then she said what could only mean that she had been the one to let him and Jigano into the Temple during Long Night. Part of him was grateful—how couldn't he be?—and part of him thought it was a really, really shitty way to excuse herself.
"You should've let me die," he ended up growling to her as he left most of the others behind, hearing Deimos's gentle questions again, his attempts to guide them all back to a saner, more productive mindset.
Rory wondered if it wasn't too late for that. Or too early. And he didn't know what to make of it, with it, just married it to his guilt and set it aside in a box labeled for later introspection.
And through it all—through his blind anger, his bitter, still-vexed regret, the cooling of guilt—
Yet there they were, aside from the others, Jigano's darker knuckles brushing against the back of Rory's hand as he asked if he could stay. In a way, it felt like there was more to the question than just this moment, an echo of the time Rory had expressed his desire for many more days of helping Isuma 'fly'.
He reached for Jigano's hand, to clasp it gently with warm, still-trembling fingers, to turn it palm up and restlessly trace the lines there with a fingertip. "Of course," he said quietly, wanting to ask why he had followed, why he wanted to stay, if he thought Rory lesser for his outburst.
But he said none of those things. They were not what mattered now. Instead, he raised his gaze from Jigano's hand, to watch the struggle near the Spire.
And it was nothing like it'd been before. There was so much raw potential, gifts and magic: never before had the stories spoken of the Gods bequeathing so many with tidbits and items, weapons and armor. As he watched he couldn't help but wonder, why them? why now?
He had never seen the ancient guardian trapped; caged; struggling. He had never seen it so .. uninspired, so mortal. "Why isn't it fighting back..?" he asked softly, but he did not expect Jigano to have an answer.
Rory stands to the side with Jigano, a ways away from the main group
as if you were on fire from within,
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
