WESSEX
A timid knock. Is anybody home?
Nope. Fuck off. Wessex doesn’t answer.
Mrs. Wessex, ma’am?
Whaaaat the fuck, who would ever call her that? Cause in her mind, she’s never been a ‘ma’am,’ despite being a Queen. Thirty nine years can’t override six to nine months. And she’s pretty damn sure she’s never really stood on their woefully unstandardized protocol.
A kid. A kid would call her that. It isn’t Clem, she knows his voice and she’s already told him it’s just Wessex. So this must be someone else. Her eyes roll.
Standing from whatever it is that she’s doing in there, Wessex slips to the door and opens it. And to be honest, she’s kind of unprepared to see a gangly teenager at eye-height. Her brow furrows for a moment, trying to place him. He’s an Outlander, she saw him in the Temple during LongNight, but she can’t remember his name to save her life. “Just Wessex.” the ex-Queen corrects automatically. “You are?”
No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
