we're all stories unfinished and we die to find some fitting words to write
The air is fresh out here, not needing to breathe has no bearing on her feeling about the difference between the Underground and Kings End. Here, she can take deep, gulping breaths if she wants to, here she can run, here she can see the stars.
Run, she does, letting her speed take her quickly through the hills of the deeply verdant borderland. A blur sometimes, a flash of movement as she brushes past bushes and low-hanging limbs, arms pumping and lungs moving, but no burn comes and no panting, no sweat; there is nothing but pure desire to move taking her forward.
Eventually she slows. Somewhere where there is suddenly a burst of color, even in the dark. Wessex slows and turns in a slow circle, a small, childlike smile on her face as she looks down at the flowers. There’s never been anything like this in the Grounds. After a moment, she sinks to her knees and then lays down, arms akimbo, looking up at the night sky.
Run, she does, letting her speed take her quickly through the hills of the deeply verdant borderland. A blur sometimes, a flash of movement as she brushes past bushes and low-hanging limbs, arms pumping and lungs moving, but no burn comes and no panting, no sweat; there is nothing but pure desire to move taking her forward.
Eventually she slows. Somewhere where there is suddenly a burst of color, even in the dark. Wessex slows and turns in a slow circle, a small, childlike smile on her face as she looks down at the flowers. There’s never been anything like this in the Grounds. After a moment, she sinks to her knees and then lays down, arms akimbo, looking up at the night sky.
WESSEX
