Her name is a trigger, a propulsion. The shadow darts into the light and reveals the familiar blonde woman - the same as she’s always been - if worse for the wear. Her eyes are brighter than usual, reflecting the overheating of their systems, the constant check-in → something is wrong → forget exhausting her in all the ways one can be exhausted. But she is hear, she is hear to - hug? Do they hug?
Sick Wessex hugs, apparently. She opens her arms in the most awkward invitation ever, and if he accepts, pats him on the back and then, oddly again on the head.
“I have to…” What was it again?
“Tell you something?” Yes, it’s still a question. Wessed peers around the taller man into the light of the Slagveld, where Loki has already gone (it’s a familiar playground, after all). “Is it safe in there?” Half for her, half for him. He has to be safe. She has to make sure.
Sick Wessex hugs, apparently. She opens her arms in the most awkward invitation ever, and if he accepts, pats him on the back and then, oddly again on the head.
“I have to…” What was it again?
“Tell you something?” Yes, it’s still a question. Wessed peers around the taller man into the light of the Slagveld, where Loki has already gone (it’s a familiar playground, after all). “Is it safe in there?” Half for her, half for him. He has to be safe. She has to make sure.
The Wraith
the bright
the thing in the night
the bright
the thing in the night
Wessex
