He found himself humming along to Amalia's hymn under his breath, the Flowerbirth praise a warm thing in his soul. Not fire, but sunlight: the words were a mumble, occasionally punctuated by a grunt as he found something that defied his efforts and required him to work. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back and sides. The work in and of itself wasn't that demanding, but there was just something about working with your arms occasionally held up. It was exhausting even if you didn't do anything.
There was something so familial about the whole thing that almost made it painful: the silence that was not a silence, for there was the hymn he and Amalia sort-of sang together, and the noise of wood creaking, splintering, thudding to the ground with that peculiar wood-crash sound. But they didn't speak, yet somehow they were three facets of the same thing, working in unison.
He found himself blinking more than sweat out of his eyes again as he thought of Karlia's thick hair catching the sunlight, glittering gold, just like his own. Her daring, feral grin as she looked back over her shoulder: are you coming, little brother?
So when Jigano carried the destroyed timber outside and Amalia followed, Rory remained where he was for a moment. He sniffled against the burden of memory and love, pulling a sweaty hand from the glove and rubbing the back of it across his eyes.
Soon enough, he would need answers.
But not yet.
He bit the inside of his lower lip as hard as he could without hurting too much, using the pain to focus himself again. He could fall apart later, some other time, when there wasn't work to be done. When he was alone—it was a private sort of grief, a mourning he wanted to do when no one was watching.
A door he just wasn't ready yet to let anyone through. Rory rubbed his face one last time before pulling on the glove again, and looked outside. Amalia stood with her arms wrapped around Jigano, and for a single, surprised moment he felt a twinge of uncertainty—something he knew he could easily label jealousy or fear or possessiveness, or.. anything unpleasant, really.
Then he gave his head a small shake.
He knew better than that. So as if he just hadn't been on the verge of crying over his probably-dead sister he stepped back out into the sunlight. "Sure is faster with three sets of hands," he said with a wry smile, using his boot to nudge the scrap pile. "Come on, let's get some of those fresh planks." He began to walk towards a pile covered in waxed and oiled hides, which revealed a small treasure trove in the form of, well, planks: cut lengthwise, some with a rounded surface as they were the edge of the tree, some entirely flat. They were rather fresh; he had a sort of long-term post-Long Night agreement with a woodsman. It involved things like a timely delivery of planks, goat's cheese, and thick wool socks, among other things. And stories. Boy, had he enjoyed the one about the deer hunt turned wolf hunt...
With Jigano's help he moved the planks they needed into the barn, and set about to replacing the wall section Bakshi had so considerately kicked a hole in.
There was something so familial about the whole thing that almost made it painful: the silence that was not a silence, for there was the hymn he and Amalia sort-of sang together, and the noise of wood creaking, splintering, thudding to the ground with that peculiar wood-crash sound. But they didn't speak, yet somehow they were three facets of the same thing, working in unison.
He found himself blinking more than sweat out of his eyes again as he thought of Karlia's thick hair catching the sunlight, glittering gold, just like his own. Her daring, feral grin as she looked back over her shoulder: are you coming, little brother?
So when Jigano carried the destroyed timber outside and Amalia followed, Rory remained where he was for a moment. He sniffled against the burden of memory and love, pulling a sweaty hand from the glove and rubbing the back of it across his eyes.
Soon enough, he would need answers.
But not yet.
He bit the inside of his lower lip as hard as he could without hurting too much, using the pain to focus himself again. He could fall apart later, some other time, when there wasn't work to be done. When he was alone—it was a private sort of grief, a mourning he wanted to do when no one was watching.
A door he just wasn't ready yet to let anyone through. Rory rubbed his face one last time before pulling on the glove again, and looked outside. Amalia stood with her arms wrapped around Jigano, and for a single, surprised moment he felt a twinge of uncertainty—something he knew he could easily label jealousy or fear or possessiveness, or.. anything unpleasant, really.
Then he gave his head a small shake.
He knew better than that. So as if he just hadn't been on the verge of crying over his probably-dead sister he stepped back out into the sunlight. "Sure is faster with three sets of hands," he said with a wry smile, using his boot to nudge the scrap pile. "Come on, let's get some of those fresh planks." He began to walk towards a pile covered in waxed and oiled hides, which revealed a small treasure trove in the form of, well, planks: cut lengthwise, some with a rounded surface as they were the edge of the tree, some entirely flat. They were rather fresh; he had a sort of long-term post-Long Night agreement with a woodsman. It involved things like a timely delivery of planks, goat's cheese, and thick wool socks, among other things. And stories. Boy, had he enjoyed the one about the deer hunt turned wolf hunt...
With Jigano's help he moved the planks they needed into the barn, and set about to replacing the wall section Bakshi had so considerately kicked a hole in.
