RORY
i told the stars about you
So far, this hadn't been worth it. There was some kind of trauma building in the back of his mind, scratches across his soul, a scathing voice: you left the Hollowed Grounds like it was nothing, for this?Pitifully, he tried to tell himself that he had been dreamwalking, that he hadn't meant to, that.. that.. that at least the river was pretty?
(That was a lie: the river was more than pretty, like nothing he had ever seen before. It rushed and roared and sang, wider and more alive than he could even have imagined something could be. And the trees, oh, the trees, the underbrush, it hurt his heart like a dull, aching throb, mourning for the dust he had come from and though so vibrant—his poor, beautiful world, which turned out to be just dirt.)
But he didn't have time to wallow in misery about the outburst from the strange woman, because he was tugged from his position on the periphery and thrust almost intimately close to a complete stranger. Rory was acutely aware of the fact that he was dressed only in a long, dark cloak and a tunic beneath that. The cold night air swirled around his bare legs, but he had more immediate concerns than his state of undress.
Fire.
It whispered in the air around them, sudden and close, and this time, this time Rory balked. Fire was not his friend. A pale hand snaked out from beneath the cloak, touching the scar on his neck as his eyes widened and he could feel his pulse thrumming through his fingers—
His partner-in-fire-circle said "fuck" and then blocked parts of the fire with a creature, leaping out, but Rory was somewhere else (Long Night, that burst of fire soaring through the night air and crashing into his chest and face and he was fallingfallingfalling).
Both his hands went up to his face as he breathed in the oxygen-deprived air, the hungry flames licking the sanity and life from him.
He had no clever skills, and the ring of fire was tightening around him.
He couldn't impress anyone, not like this, he didn't want to, anyway, he just—just—just—
The night was black beyond the firelight.
Sweat trickled down his face, his spine, and with what meager control he possessed he bade the fire to lean away, to not touch him, to not bite into his skin, to not ruin the cloak Amalia had so kindly loaned him...
Should the fire ring close further and begin to touch (harm) him, he would have only one option; to collapse through the flames and try to roll out from underneath them.
Had he been slightly less terrified he would've thought about how it was likely not going to impress anyone, but he wasn't thinking: he was just a trapped mess of memories and neurons.
