WESSEX
There is indeed a sort of weathered practicality in the Grounders’ preparations; we do this and this and this and we are safe, in theory at least. Keep it dark. Keep it quiet. Drug the babies, try not to be near the end of a pregnancy in Deepfrost, don’t go out, no, seriously, don’t fucking go OUTSIDE. It was usually unwatched children or drunk idiots or the would-be-heroes that inevitably got themselves and their household killed. And so the lore never changed; sing the songs, cover the windows, quiet the floorboards.
Until this year. Wessex watches Azrael out of the corner of her eye and realizes with both an ache and a twinge of foolish hope that this could be the year that that all changes. That children born after will never know the terror of this week - it will fade into smoke, floating away like the ash from a centuries-long dumpster fire. It fuels her hands, drives her faster through the familiar motions, until she she’s reaching up again and reaches out to tap the Warden on her shoulder for some assistance.
A family passes by on the outside of the House, the sound of an excited child drifting in through the open door, “Can we go to the beach? I can’t wait to see the OCEAN!”
“Daphne?” Wessex yells back to her housekeeper. “Can you mark that the Lopak family is going to Torchline?”
No, I’ll be the stone
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
I’ll be the hunter, a tower that casts the shade
I lie awake and watch it all
