Come sit right here and sleep while I slip poison in your ear
Maybe it was apprehension strung and stung between them, settling in amidst the sudden spread of upheaval. And she was like a wraith again, a little ghost on the sidelines, seeking to dig her eerie, eldritch claws into the earth, to pick and choose where she’d haunt next. The inquiries and confusion were understandable; for a while she’d been adrift too, uncertain, unsure. We voted a long time ago. After Rexanna died. And Clemente, though she hadn’t known him as well. When everything had hurt, when everything had been raw, when there’d been more of them, and stronger too.
There were so many other factors then. Had the eagle actually contained brows, they would’ve been furrowed, and instead, her eyes sought the earth, staring down into the darkness, the haze of long blades of grass. I don’t think many of us understood it. She still didn’t, not really. And we didn’t have so many new Ascended. Like fodder; all of them huddled together on the meager scraps of weaponry, nearly useless; save for Azrael, and she’d agree that most of them would’ve been dead yet again had it not been for the growing demigod. So they had no say at all.
No choice, born once more, to be led into slaughter a season after their renewal.
And who was to blame?
Then she listened to the torrents of bewilderment, and her avian eyes followed, flickered, after the set of draconic jaws and agitated nuances. Wessex, the Wraith, powerful and potent enough to have done exactly as she’d might’ve concocted – to take them all apart on her own – except that hadn’t been an option. We could’ve waited. Another year, until they were strong enough. We could’ve left. Gone elsewhere for those final weeks of Deepfrost, let the monsters reign.
And then she nodded, the finality in her stare.
There were so many other factors then. Had the eagle actually contained brows, they would’ve been furrowed, and instead, her eyes sought the earth, staring down into the darkness, the haze of long blades of grass. I don’t think many of us understood it. She still didn’t, not really. And we didn’t have so many new Ascended. Like fodder; all of them huddled together on the meager scraps of weaponry, nearly useless; save for Azrael, and she’d agree that most of them would’ve been dead yet again had it not been for the growing demigod. So they had no say at all.
No choice, born once more, to be led into slaughter a season after their renewal.
And who was to blame?
Then she listened to the torrents of bewilderment, and her avian eyes followed, flickered, after the set of draconic jaws and agitated nuances. Wessex, the Wraith, powerful and potent enough to have done exactly as she’d might’ve concocted – to take them all apart on her own – except that hadn’t been an option. We could’ve waited. Another year, until they were strong enough. We could’ve left. Gone elsewhere for those final weeks of Deepfrost, let the monsters reign.
And then she nodded, the finality in her stare.
MABEL
