stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
"Well then I am glad to hear that he was not around."
The smile curving Rory's lips was soft, yet a little sad. While it did not seem to be a thing that Remi said lightly, Rory had heard it quite often—and it made sense, didn't it? Everyone who had known, or known of, his father said the same thing (though some said it the other way around; your father ought to have still been around, would've knocked some use into you).
Yet he couldn't help but wonder, as he had so many times in the past, dreaming of long Deepfrost evenings in which the man baked with his mother, content to jest and talk in front of a merry fire. Daydreams of the hand steadying his on the bow belonging to his father, not his sister; of the strong torso he leaned against when learning to ride ponies as a toddler being his father's, not his mother's.
Not that there was anything wrong with having your sister teach you archery, or your mother teach you riding: he was just missing things that might have been, dreaming about what he couldn't have, couldn't know.
Like the world beyond.
Remi began, then hesitated. Rory's gaze softened as it traveled back to the man's face, following gently along the lines of his expression, daring to linger at the corners of his green eyes. Then he looked down again. The emotion conveyed by his voice was familiar. Even after all these years, it hurt, and he picked again at a seam that was beginning to come undone by his knee.
"I sometimes wondered that about my parents too," he said, his gaze still lowered. Bakshi abandoned his fruitless grazing and nibbled the back of his neck instead. He batted the pony's muzzle away without even thinking about it. "I suppose they saw something in our fathers. Just.. I don't know, maybe time killed whatever it was."
The smile curving Rory's lips was soft, yet a little sad. While it did not seem to be a thing that Remi said lightly, Rory had heard it quite often—and it made sense, didn't it? Everyone who had known, or known of, his father said the same thing (though some said it the other way around; your father ought to have still been around, would've knocked some use into you).
Yet he couldn't help but wonder, as he had so many times in the past, dreaming of long Deepfrost evenings in which the man baked with his mother, content to jest and talk in front of a merry fire. Daydreams of the hand steadying his on the bow belonging to his father, not his sister; of the strong torso he leaned against when learning to ride ponies as a toddler being his father's, not his mother's.
Not that there was anything wrong with having your sister teach you archery, or your mother teach you riding: he was just missing things that might have been, dreaming about what he couldn't have, couldn't know.
Like the world beyond.
Remi began, then hesitated. Rory's gaze softened as it traveled back to the man's face, following gently along the lines of his expression, daring to linger at the corners of his green eyes. Then he looked down again. The emotion conveyed by his voice was familiar. Even after all these years, it hurt, and he picked again at a seam that was beginning to come undone by his knee.
"I sometimes wondered that about my parents too," he said, his gaze still lowered. Bakshi abandoned his fruitless grazing and nibbled the back of his neck instead. He batted the pony's muzzle away without even thinking about it. "I suppose they saw something in our fathers. Just.. I don't know, maybe time killed whatever it was."
