Ophelia
Ophelia leans into the touch like a child starved, ghostlike gaze unblinking and absorptive. They are not privy to his thoughts, but the presence of his fangs alone has her trusting and lamblike in his touch. Ophelia has no illusions about their worth - they are not bothered by their diminutive nature, they are not self-conscious, nor ashamed. It’s an odd mixture perhaps. They are secure in themselves, but they have elevated The Voice so high that they believe themselves to not be a worthy enough gift.
“She deserves better,” they murmur, strained, but already their defenses are falling beneath the weight of hope. “She is...everything. But if you know her heart, please. Take me.” The gravity of their words is far beyond the simplicity of asking to be guided for Ascension. Asking to be enveloped into the fold, to be made bright, made into family. Standing in their linen dress, their father’s blood still old and dry on the hem, Ophelia is uncharacteristically vulnerable as they reach for Sam’s hand. “I am Ophelia. You are to me my brother - please, what is your name?”
“She deserves better,” they murmur, strained, but already their defenses are falling beneath the weight of hope. “She is...everything. But if you know her heart, please. Take me.” The gravity of their words is far beyond the simplicity of asking to be guided for Ascension. Asking to be enveloped into the fold, to be made bright, made into family. Standing in their linen dress, their father’s blood still old and dry on the hem, Ophelia is uncharacteristically vulnerable as they reach for Sam’s hand. “I am Ophelia. You are to me my brother - please, what is your name?”
it's peaceful in the deep, either way you cannot breathe
no need to pray - no need to speak
no need to pray - no need to speak
