He had by and large ignored the furnace heat and the slight prickle of sweat it produced along his hairline. When Pippa returned, he took her proffered hand and followed obediently, looking for a human figure in the direction she led him. There was no one there, but there was ... there was ...
Rory's steps faltered as the details of the sculpture before him came clear in the back-lit glow. A tall column in brilliant shades of flame, like a male body shaped and stretched by heat. And emerging from the top as though claiming form and definition from the liquid fire the glass had once been ... himself.
His own features, from upper chest to the top of his head, rendered with exquisite precision. His were the lips that curved up slightly at the corners, his the glassy hair that seemed to drift upward as if lifted by a hot breeze. The forward-facing eyes held no defined iris or pupil, combining with the enigmatic smile to lend an air of mystery to the figure's expression.
Himself. Rory. Ruadh Rí, the Red King.
Pippa stood beside him, still clasping his hand while she anxiously watched his expression. He could feel the waves of hope and anxiety rolling off her. See? he could nearly hear her saying. Look, see how special and important you are to me, how much I love you, how much you've been on my mind!
And he did see, how could he not see what was so transparently self-evident? She was crafting a masterpiece, not only in his honor, but wearing his face. It was glorious, a privilege to any man to be muse to such a creation.
And yet...
This luminous being before him had never been party to the murder of a sadist and serial killer. He clearly wasn't carrying around the horrific memories of said killer in his subconscious. He neither slept nor dreamed, and so could never feel the unexpected assault of those memories in the depths of the night. The Red King was pristine, unmarred, while Rory--
was broken.
What could he do, what could he say? He couldn't possibly tell the woman beside him that looking at her magnificent accomplishment made him feel ugly, degraded, unworthy. His own chest felt wounded, cracked and scored with deep, irreparable flaws. The ache in his gut spread to his entire torso, and still he stood frozen in place, feeling shamed in a way he hadn't felt since his own mother called him an abomination in the eyes of God.
But he had to say something.
Slowing his breathing-- when had his heart started pumping so fast? --he swallowed and summoned his voice. "It's beautiful," he husked.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-08-28 12:50 am (UTC)Rory's steps faltered as the details of the sculpture before him came clear in the back-lit glow. A tall column in brilliant shades of flame, like a male body shaped and stretched by heat. And emerging from the top as though claiming form and definition from the liquid fire the glass had once been ... himself.
His own features, from upper chest to the top of his head, rendered with exquisite precision. His were the lips that curved up slightly at the corners, his the glassy hair that seemed to drift upward as if lifted by a hot breeze. The forward-facing eyes held no defined iris or pupil, combining with the enigmatic smile to lend an air of mystery to the figure's expression.
Himself. Rory. Ruadh Rí, the Red King.
Pippa stood beside him, still clasping his hand while she anxiously watched his expression. He could feel the waves of hope and anxiety rolling off her. See? he could nearly hear her saying. Look, see how special and important you are to me, how much I love you, how much you've been on my mind!
And he did see, how could he not see what was so transparently self-evident? She was crafting a masterpiece, not only in his honor, but wearing his face. It was glorious, a privilege to any man to be muse to such a creation.
And yet...
This luminous being before him had never been party to the murder of a sadist and serial killer. He clearly wasn't carrying around the horrific memories of said killer in his subconscious. He neither slept nor dreamed, and so could never feel the unexpected assault of those memories in the depths of the night. The Red King was pristine, unmarred, while Rory--
was broken.
What could he do, what could he say? He couldn't possibly tell the woman beside him that looking at her magnificent accomplishment made him feel ugly, degraded, unworthy. His own chest felt wounded, cracked and scored with deep, irreparable flaws. The ache in his gut spread to his entire torso, and still he stood frozen in place, feeling shamed in a way he hadn't felt since his own mother called him an abomination in the eyes of God.
But he had to say something.
Slowing his breathing-- when had his heart started pumping so fast? --he swallowed and summoned his voice. "It's beautiful," he husked.
But I'm not.