the darkest nights produce the brightest stars
Her arms wrap tighter around her body, as though to keep him from seeing the rawness and wounds that lurk beneath her skin. It hurts, to be so immediately at odds, to know that she will never be able to see eye to eye with him and so many others; it hurts to see her childhood drift away, her anchors to a simpler time slipping one by one from their fragile moorings. First Wessex, now Samuel, and after... who? Emmett is dead. Maea is gone. Rory is withdrawn. Evie...
Evie is Samuel's sister, not the Shield's. If the time comes to choose - when the time comes to choose - where will the apothecary stand?
"What's right about it?" She tries for a level tone, she really does, because the truth is that she wants to know. Desperately, hungrily, the girl wants to understand: Why are you doing this? What could be worth it? How do you justify the sickness, the pain, the wrongness of it all? What is it the Voice offers that acts like such a siren song, luring people she knew to be good to follow a prophet of discord and hate?
"What's good in what she's done?" She takes a step forward in the snow, as though proximity might lend her enlightenment. Her expression is childlike, her voice strained and pleading. "Please, Sam, I... I just want to understand." The wars, the blight, the monsters, the Fae- what can the Voice possibly promise to make up for these atrocities?
Evie is Samuel's sister, not the Shield's. If the time comes to choose - when the time comes to choose - where will the apothecary stand?
"What's right about it?" She tries for a level tone, she really does, because the truth is that she wants to know. Desperately, hungrily, the girl wants to understand: Why are you doing this? What could be worth it? How do you justify the sickness, the pain, the wrongness of it all? What is it the Voice offers that acts like such a siren song, luring people she knew to be good to follow a prophet of discord and hate?
"What's good in what she's done?" She takes a step forward in the snow, as though proximity might lend her enlightenment. Her expression is childlike, her voice strained and pleading. "Please, Sam, I... I just want to understand." The wars, the blight, the monsters, the Fae- what can the Voice possibly promise to make up for these atrocities?
