[seasonal event] this bland and bitter dust

The Spire was breached.

The Voice—the Core—released.

The barrier had fallen.

And Rory was free of his burden: free of his lonesome and furious vigil, free of the distasteful pack he had cobbled together from the pious and the bloodthirsty and the bitter. The Gods did no longer need their self-appointed knight, if they ever even had. He was free to go, to leave that tall and winding dark tower and its oppressive shadow, to slink back to his farm and his bullshit, where cowardly farmboys belonged.

Back to his ponies, the only place where he had ever been safe. Love, written in their pricked ears and bright eyes as he returned in the morning light, comfort in their warm breaths, warm muzzles, running his hands through their fur and working out the loose hairs. Throwing sticks for Ella. Telling Vaya what a good girl she was.

Whispering into Talys's ears how much it hurt, and how afraid he was.

But life went on, didn't it? Just as it did after Long Night. It was just a matter of staying alive, so he forced smoked meat into his mouth, trembling as his body, wound tight around its anxiety, struggled against it. He thought he would choke on the bland and stringy meat, thought that he would vomit it all up again with how uneasily it sat in his stomach.

And he fell into habits he had never had before, frightened by the world he had seen and what it would do to people. He worried some idiots would see the worth of his ponies and try to take them, so he would lock them in the barn each night. Not leave them out if he had to leave the farm. What's a lock and chain going to do if someone is hellbent on stealing them he asked himself as his fumbling fingers closed the door on their questioning faces, but at least it should keep them safe from temptation.

Otherwise, he tried to pretend that nothing had happened.

It was the only way he could cope.

And he had things to catch up on, so he was out in his lands, sowing kale and onions and potatoes and whatever else it was he used to live off (dust, all dust) with trembling hands. Row after row, his mind keeping up its savage and biting commentary, of all the time lost to guarding a tower that ultimately had not wanted to be guarded—he was so behind on his spring duties—Fiat Lux preparations—

He was a dark thing underneath the afternoon sky, as small and meaningless as the dust from which he had been born.

Eliza

Her curiosity won over. She had been trying to keep to herself. Really trying! And she had been doing a pretty good job of it! Finally, it had gotten to the point where she had to know, where she had to contact one of these strangers. Where she had to see for herself just what these ‘Hollowed Grounds’ were like. That didn’t mean she would give any hint of the truth of who she was, though.

Eliza took a cloak - something she rarely, rarely wore - and fastened it around her neck, and for the first time since she could remember, she made the conscious decision to hide her wings. It felt wrong, but she told herself that she had to do it for the sake of preserving the secrecy of her people.

Her heart was beating rapidly, nervous and unsure of her decision, but the decision had been made, and she wasn’t going back on it… Regardless of how many thoughts might’ve been screaming at her to turn around and get back to the safety of her home.

No. She was doing this.

The Fae huntress stepped with light feet, almost as though she was walking on the air itself, her wide eyes roaming over what could only have been described as a stain in their land. How the people within this place had survived for so long was beyond her comprehension.

Her heart leapt to her throat when she saw a figure outside on his own. Her nearly silent steps started carrying her in his direction, her mind racing against her.

Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.

“What’re you doing?” She asked the yellow-haired figure with a voice that sounded stronger than it felt. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she looked at him carefully. It was obvious that he was farming, but he seemed agitated. Was he agitated about the farming? Was planting in such poor conditions frustrating? Must be, otherwise he would be smiling, right?

Filth, all of it, staining his boots and his trousers and the sleeves of his rolled-up shirt, staining his hands and his nails and his blood and his soul. He might as well dig his grave and plant his corpse rather than spray seeds into the carefully-made furrows.

Perhaps something nice would grow out of it, a tree or something, made from his bones and watered by his blood. It seemed fitting, a thick and inanimate thing which turned its leaves to soak up the sun, as Rory often turned his face to do the same. (Not on that day, though, for not even its warm rays on his skin could soothe the restless, scathing bitterness.)

After some time he was struck by the curious feeling of being watched. The small hairs on the back of his neck pricked, a sense of being disturbed—something celestial out of alignment... He looked up from what he was doing to find a girl watching him. (Or was it a girl? She was small and slight, but her face seemed a little older...) She was closer than he liked, considering that he hadn't heard her, and the wolf within him bristled.

He didn't do much more than watch her, though, his gaze unreadable. “What’re you doing?” she asked, and his face didn't change. What does it look like? he wanted to snarl at her, rattled and tired, caged in a whole new way. "Spring planting," he ended up responding, sounding tired and unamused. Considering her size, she looked like Maea's long-lost and darker cousin. He had never seen her before, that was for certain. "Who are you?"

Eliza

He didn’t seem friendly. She supposed she understood the initial - well, it was yet to be seen if it was indeed only initial - reaction. It wasn’t like she had been overly welcoming of someone coming into her home. Her thoughts drifted back to the cobbler who had trespassed in the Fae’s home woods.

Who was she? “A stranger,” she answered rather cryptically. “You can call me Eli.” Just as she had before, she kept her name hidden, secret from someone that she didn’t know.

The way that he looked at her was strange, and Eliza was having a surprisingly difficult time deciphering the meaning behind his gaze. Hostility? Confusion? Territorialism? General agitation?

“Can I have your name?” The Fae asked with a small smile, taking a few steps forward. “Would you like a hand?”

Whatever it was she wanted, he doubted he could give it to her—he was cranky and tired, a snap closer even than silence. Still he kept his breathing measured and even, folding his arms across his chest. He was very, very sure that if she had been a Natural within the barrier he would've known of her; perhaps not have met her but seen her, at least. The combination of her height (or lack thereof) with her mature face and voice, well..

A stranger she said, and, "No shit" he said, though it lacked bite. But what flavor of stranger? And what was so interesting about a dirt-stained farmer trying to put his derailed life back on track?

She said her name was Eli, and as another nickname kid, Rory thought it wasn't all of it. He bit his lip thoughtfully, and though he still looked rather foreboding and unamused, the worst of the edges were sanded off. He was just so tired, of everything, of the never ending cycle of birth and life and death and all that came with it. He sighed.

She asked for his name, or rather, if she could have it, and yes of course, she could. But he wasn't enough of an ass to nitpick so he answered the implied question, offering her his name. "Rory," but just as he thought Eli wasn't all of it, he didn't give her all of it.

She asked if he would like a hand, and he contemplated asking if she wanted to part with one of hers, because why, yes, he'd look absolutely dashing with three hands. But, no, he still wasn't in the mood for niceties and jests, so he ended up watching her with tense and tired eyes. Why on earth would a complete stranger want to help him with his planting?

"Sure," he ended up saying after a moment of contemplation, making neither heads nor tails of the girl. It sounded like defeat. His blue gaze went back to the furrows, his hands resuming their perpetual motion of picking up seeds and scattering into the earth. "Where are you from?" he asked, thinking she must be an Outlander.