we're all stories unfinished and we die to find some fitting words to write
Nice as an adjective for this sends her into some bemused laughter as she works to follow him higher. Yeah that’s one word for it, though she can think of ten others, and a feeling she can’t yet adequately describe wells up.
It feels like… true freedom. Like… but she isn’t able to finish it, sorry and frustration and the early flickers of anger wash over her. Imprisoned her whole life. Never knowing the beauty of her world, the possibilities that were purposefully kept from them. And not just them, the Ascended, but them, her people. She’s following him on autopilot until they break through the cloud cover, and then the sight of the sun at the fluffy edges, the sparkle of the ocean - even the storm on the horizon.
She’s speechless. Until it becomes too much and something in her breaks, a flood of generations of despair and trauma soaking her through and through. A deep, guttural, heart-rending roar is the only sound she can make to try and express anything, and then the dragon starts to weave a bit unsteadily.
They kept this from us. They stole it, they -
Wessex coils, retracts herself, aims for the imaginary space above them where the heralds and the Gods live, and screams at them in lightning.
It feels like… true freedom. Like… but she isn’t able to finish it, sorry and frustration and the early flickers of anger wash over her. Imprisoned her whole life. Never knowing the beauty of her world, the possibilities that were purposefully kept from them. And not just them, the Ascended, but them, her people. She’s following him on autopilot until they break through the cloud cover, and then the sight of the sun at the fluffy edges, the sparkle of the ocean - even the storm on the horizon.
She’s speechless. Until it becomes too much and something in her breaks, a flood of generations of despair and trauma soaking her through and through. A deep, guttural, heart-rending roar is the only sound she can make to try and express anything, and then the dragon starts to weave a bit unsteadily.
They kept this from us. They stole it, they -
Wessex coils, retracts herself, aims for the imaginary space above them where the heralds and the Gods live, and screams at them in lightning.
WESSEX
