empires fall when we move the unmovable, so tell me all of my secrets, tell me all of my lies,
They know everything about us raises more than an eyebrow, it raises an internal alarm. Not for the first time does the Ascended feel so helpless against external forces. “For fuck’s sake,” she hisses, “can we just once have the same amount of knowledge as everyone else?” Not just her, of course, but everyone who was trapped in the bubble. Everyone who’s normal and not some in some secret fucking genocidal Order.
But the sentiment’s not just for her, it’s for Remi, too. Against the Gods. Against whomever. Just level the goddamn playing field for once.
Wessex can’t fight it all, not by herself and not with everything in its current state; not racism, the Order, and a quartet of demigods. “I can’t imagine,” she murmurs, and she really can’t. To have that love ripped away from you without a choice, to have that love, period is more than the Wraith could hope for. She can imagine something losing her sister, and she can imagine doubling that pain, and still she may not be able to reach what the two men have. “Look. I can promise I’ll never come after Mateo,” she tries to offer as the worst consolation prize ever.
With Amalia in Stormbreak - well, perhaps The Lullaby is right - the worst case scenario will come from there. From someone who knows the ins and outs of the Grounds, someone who can play on her weaknesses. And Ronin, the exploding star-tank. Awesome. Just fucking awesome. Whatever ease she once had is gone gone gone, leaving the Queen a tense-jawed mess. “Want to beat the shit out of each other tomorrow morning?” she asks suddenly, going back to his early comments in their conversation. “Call it practice for the future?”
The end of this truce should have an equally epic finale.
But the sentiment’s not just for her, it’s for Remi, too. Against the Gods. Against whomever. Just level the goddamn playing field for once.
Wessex can’t fight it all, not by herself and not with everything in its current state; not racism, the Order, and a quartet of demigods. “I can’t imagine,” she murmurs, and she really can’t. To have that love ripped away from you without a choice, to have that love, period is more than the Wraith could hope for. She can imagine something losing her sister, and she can imagine doubling that pain, and still she may not be able to reach what the two men have. “Look. I can promise I’ll never come after Mateo,” she tries to offer as the worst consolation prize ever.
With Amalia in Stormbreak - well, perhaps The Lullaby is right - the worst case scenario will come from there. From someone who knows the ins and outs of the Grounds, someone who can play on her weaknesses. And Ronin, the exploding star-tank. Awesome. Just fucking awesome. Whatever ease she once had is gone gone gone, leaving the Queen a tense-jawed mess. “Want to beat the shit out of each other tomorrow morning?” she asks suddenly, going back to his early comments in their conversation. “Call it practice for the future?”
The end of this truce should have an equally epic finale.
WESSEX
