In His Name

Chapter 33 - Manarow

Rosco spun around just in time to see the door vanish, cursing under his breath. His words mist slightly in the chilly air. This room is set up to look like the mouth of a cave. Moss grows over the walls; patches of green grass and other weeds pop up around his feet. The distinct sound of water dripping echoes from somewhere in the darkness. Rosco has half a mind to just sit himself down right here and wait for Hayden to come get him. Hayden can deal with the mountain spirits however he sees fit and Rosco will just stay out of it. He's about to find a patch of moss to settle into when the room around him flickers, dropping his heart into his stomach.

Underneath the façade of a cave entrance, is a room in the aftermath of its destruction. Craters cut into the stone, every plant dead and barren, the very earth, a dry dust that would offer no life. A noise, like a clap of thunder or a breaking rock, shakes everything. Chips of the celling rain down on his head. No sooner than the dust settles it happens again. This time, several blasts rock the earth before the sound tapers off. Rosco throws his arms over his head, cowering near a larger rock formation, trying to shield himself from the crumbling room. The image flickers again, back and forth between the ruined version and the cave, flashing several times before it stops. The broken visuals accompanied by a gut-wrenching cry of pain. The agony of the scream nearly feral in its disregard for the damage it causes, like it needs to hurt in order to release any of the suffering bottled inside. The cry cuts through Rosco's defenses causing him to gasp as the air is knocked from his lungs. All the loss and loneliness the scream carried, taking up residence in his chest. He can't breathe, his head spinning from the lack of air.

Gasping, he drops to his hands and knees, tears filling his eyes, "Please," He begs breathlessly, "Please, I can't-" shaking so hard he can't hold himself up. He crumbles, curling up on himself, shaking in the dirt.

Someone materializes at his side, large strong hands pull him into their lap, cradling him against a broad chest, fingers gently stroke though his hair. The pressure lifts, not completely, but enough for Rosco to finally fill his lungs. He shutters with relief, desperately clinging to whoever had come to save him, his eyes still blurry from tears.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." His savor murmurs. The deep voice a raspy scratchy mess, tone steeped in regrets. The consistent rhythm of the hand in his hair is steadying, allowing Rosco's heart rate to slow and his sobs to subside. Embarrassment felt the need to add itself to the crush of emotion weighing down his heart. He tries to shift, to untangle himself from the hands that hold him, but his limbs are still trembling too hard to be of any use. He fumbles, the hands around him prop him up, moving him to an equally embarrassing position between the other man's legs. Rosco sets his hands on their shoulders to steady himself. Head still downcast, his eyes drifted up. Rosco easily finds traces of Dora in the features of the man before him. The shape of his nose, curve of his eyes. He glows the same color she does, though his light is dimmer. He is the embodiment of a mountain in a man. Taller and broader than even Hayden. Well-proportioned muscles ripple over every inch of his uncovered chest. His massive hands could just about completely wrap around Rosco's entire rib cage, his fingers meeting at the front and back, though he holds Rosco much more gently than that. His long hair is a little disheveled, coming out of the knot behind his head. But even then, he possesses the same indisputable pride and regal aura Manadora had exudes, yet he also carries all the rugged manliness Rosco feels he himself lacks. A soft sound escapes the spirit. His fingers curl under the boy's chin, tilting up his face, thumb clearing away the few stray tears still rolling down his cheeks. The spirit's eyes widen, carefully scanning the boy's features, small nearly serene smile curving on his lips. "You're so beautiful." The spirit breathes, pretty words sounding harsh in his gravelly damaged voice. Rosco blushes hard, so hard his face hurts. Freeing his chin from the spirit's grasp, he quickly turns away. Beautiful? What a ridiculous notion, even when his face isn't swollen, puffy and red from crying his eyes out, he isn't beautiful. He's not even handsome like boys are meant to be. Nothing about him endeared him to others, certainly not his face. This man must be Manarow Rosco concludes, simply because he's obviously insane. "I'm so sorry I frightened you," the spirit goes on, clearly unaware he's being so harshly judged, "I thought I was alone, always alone," his broken voice aching with the need to cry out again. His gaze drifting downward, "so very alone." Eyes snapping back up to trap Rosco with the intensity behind them, "But you're here now," reassuring himself, "it hurts less when you're here. It's easier. I can think." The spirit's face crumbling with sorrow, "I'm so sorry," the mountain cries, his image flickering. One moment a withered starving old man, the next, cracked crumbling stone.

Rosco jerks out of his hands, falling back on his ass, desperately shuffling a few inches away. "They shouldn't have brought you," the face of stone tells him, "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want them to hurt others. I never wanted to cause pain," flickering back to how he appeared before, hands pulling at his long hair, "But I can't take it! I can't! The loneliness, anything to end the loneliness." His hands fall to his lap, shoulders relaxing. His eyes trail up, seeming to remember Rosco's presence, "I'm sorry, I've frightened you again. I'll try to be calm. It's easier, so much easier," Rocking forward just enough to reach out, massive hands trembling as they pinch the tiniest square of fabric on Rosco's sleeve, ever so slightly tugging him closer, "please, I just want some rest. Stay with me a while. Please?"

The whole thing is deeply unsettling. For so long Rosco has thought of these beings as gods, as the pinnacle of strength and power. This man can crush him, with a hand, a thought, on accident. Rosco is so small in comparison, nothing, even among human men. Yet now Manarow is a god brought down, broken, on his knees before a boy barely more than a child, begging.

Swallowing the discomfort, Rosco nods, "O-okay," he whispers, terrified of what the spirit might do if he said no, "For a while." Pulling up his knees to hug them into his chest.

The spirit breathes a heavy sigh of relief, the tension in the air easing, just a little, "Will you tell me your name little human?" the mountain asks softly, scooching closer, clearly trying his absolute hardest, not to frighten him again.

"I'm Rosco," the boy answers, rewarding the effort, "You- you're Manarow right?" Thankful for the first time in his life that his mouth works independent of thought.

Frowning slightly, "I was," the spirit responds, "But he's gone now, I'm all that's left," shaking his head, "not enough to be a mountain. You can call me Row, if I have to have a name."

"How can you be gone?" already regretting letting his mouth auto pilot again, "You're right here?"

"In the same way you have never been alone yet have always been lonely."

"What are you talking about?" Rosco frowns, "you don't know anything about me?" tightening his arms around his legs like the action can protect his heart from Row inching any closer to the truth.

"I do not need to know," Row answers softly, catching Rosco's gaze and holding it, disarming him completely, "your soul wears your suffering like clothing," pulling his legs away from his chest, "there, on display for all who can see it," pressing his giant palm over the boy's heart, "Our pain is cut from the same cloth little human, even though it is different from my own, I would recognize it anywhere. You hurt because you have never felt the love you are longing for; I hurt because I have lost it."