dirty laundry, hangin' out with the white lies 'til they're clean sheets
testing loyalties,
She’s thankful for her companions as they trek across, coddled together like the children they feel, until the shrine is before them and all of them reach the ground in their exhaustion, even in the small amount of fear that Rexanna can feel as she finishes speaking, when the silence prolongs a heartbeat longer than she expects. But they are rewarded, electricity that screams home and safety, welcoming and loving, bursts from the Shrine, covering them all with soothing words.
And the Penumbra begins to feel better, reaching for the internal systems of herself, dark sapphire eyes shuttering against the feeling of restoration. A sigh leaves her lips in her comfort. And she begins to remember, to remember Lucas who had perished, who they hadn’t even paused to retrieve his body, and her stomach sinks. And she thinks of Amun, wherever the man had gone, a small amount of anger and frustration brimming beneath the surface.
But they had been successful, these three. And she cherishes them as closely as the Voice does in keeping them all alive. Perhaps Bastien was right, that she had a tendency of rushing straight into danger. But she hasn’t died yet, and she counts on that streak continuing.
She feels better, eyes opening as she surveys the Voice before her, before them – the comfort that radiates from her goddess feels like drinking cold water after a long hot drought. She drinks it in, deep, savoring, as she’s restored, and the goddess reaches for them all. “Thank you.” She says quietly, edging into the goddess’ palm until she focuses on the Voice once more. “What was in the Mathair?” A quiet question, taking a moment to pause to see how Samuel and Wessex have healed. Her brother and sister in arms, before her gaze lands back on the goddess before her. What did we open? What have we done?
And the Penumbra begins to feel better, reaching for the internal systems of herself, dark sapphire eyes shuttering against the feeling of restoration. A sigh leaves her lips in her comfort. And she begins to remember, to remember Lucas who had perished, who they hadn’t even paused to retrieve his body, and her stomach sinks. And she thinks of Amun, wherever the man had gone, a small amount of anger and frustration brimming beneath the surface.
But they had been successful, these three. And she cherishes them as closely as the Voice does in keeping them all alive. Perhaps Bastien was right, that she had a tendency of rushing straight into danger. But she hasn’t died yet, and she counts on that streak continuing.
She feels better, eyes opening as she surveys the Voice before her, before them – the comfort that radiates from her goddess feels like drinking cold water after a long hot drought. She drinks it in, deep, savoring, as she’s restored, and the goddess reaches for them all. “Thank you.” She says quietly, edging into the goddess’ palm until she focuses on the Voice once more. “What was in the Mathair?” A quiet question, taking a moment to pause to see how Samuel and Wessex have healed. Her brother and sister in arms, before her gaze lands back on the goddess before her. What did we open? What have we done?
please don't make me choose sides
when you leave me
REXANNA
