Come sit right here and sleep while I slip poison in your ear
They lived.
And that in itself was glorious – something to behold over the smoldering ruins, over the rampage of fire and brimstone, over the ruins, ruins, ruins.
There would be pieces to pick up later. There would be rage to tether and bind to. There would be moments stretched upon infinite wakes, where they could no longer go back to who, to what, they’d been before.
But she didn’t care right now.
She could be mad, incensed, outraged. She could be a ball of wrath. And maybe she would be all of that, later, later, later – but for the present, the girl was nothing but a survivor. Charred, beaten down, rampaged, foiled, cut, slashed, and torn, but alive and awakened and healed all the more. She didn’t care that she’d rendered monsters apart. It didn’t haunt her. The weapons in her hands were all the brighter, all the better.
And within the darkness, they came together again.
Mabel could complain about Wessex’s horrendous plans later. She could insinuate other entanglements, other bastions, when the world wasn’t so shaky and feeble, when they’d had moments of breathing, beyond annihilation. Therein, she only gave Aamu the tiniest of smirks, before she too reached into herself, into the gift Henry had given and granted to her selfish, ridiculous self –
And lifted into the air, on eagle feathers.
And that in itself was glorious – something to behold over the smoldering ruins, over the rampage of fire and brimstone, over the ruins, ruins, ruins.
There would be pieces to pick up later. There would be rage to tether and bind to. There would be moments stretched upon infinite wakes, where they could no longer go back to who, to what, they’d been before.
But she didn’t care right now.
She could be mad, incensed, outraged. She could be a ball of wrath. And maybe she would be all of that, later, later, later – but for the present, the girl was nothing but a survivor. Charred, beaten down, rampaged, foiled, cut, slashed, and torn, but alive and awakened and healed all the more. She didn’t care that she’d rendered monsters apart. It didn’t haunt her. The weapons in her hands were all the brighter, all the better.
And within the darkness, they came together again.
Mabel could complain about Wessex’s horrendous plans later. She could insinuate other entanglements, other bastions, when the world wasn’t so shaky and feeble, when they’d had moments of breathing, beyond annihilation. Therein, she only gave Aamu the tiniest of smirks, before she too reached into herself, into the gift Henry had given and granted to her selfish, ridiculous self –
And lifted into the air, on eagle feathers.
MABEL
