Anthological Ruins

Ophelia

He is not the only one with a book tonight. After their delightful afternoon hidden away in the library's stacks with Mabel, Ophelia had claimed a book for themself - a journal, really. Empty white pages and fresh binding, snatched and squirreled away in the pocket of their bloodied dress. Wessex had expressed a desire to clothe them in better garments, but it had yet to happen, and admittedly it bothered Ophelia very little. Their father's blood had been a passageway to their own awakening, to becoming Bright. It does not scare them, nor disgust them. In fact it makes their life much easier with how the others part to give Ophelia room whenever they walk by.

They have found that nighttime is the best way to discover their other family members. It is the only hours when their skin does not burn after all. So finding the Ruins occupied is not a damper on their spirit, but an exciting chance for companionship and investigation. Pen in hand and tapping idly, contemplatively, against their pale lips, Ophelia approaches. The words on the spine are still too hard for them to comprehend even with days spent with no need for sleep learning new words with each spare moment. "Hello there. What is it you are reading?" Perhaps he would deign to explain the words to Ophelia, for them to memorize and fold away inside their mind.

it's peaceful in the deep, either way you cannot breathe
no need to pray - no need to speak