I write sins, not tragedies
Death, death, and more death. Skulls and remnants and little else litter the shrine, just as Wessex remembers it. With a thoughtful eye, the Wraith starts to pick through the bleached remains, carefully selecting bits for her cage-like lantern.
A bone for Edrei.
A bone for Rexanna.
A bone for Clem.
A bone for Bastien.
A bone for Sam.
A bone for Aedion.
A bone for 108.
A bone for Adam.
A bone for Mabel.
A bone for Evelyn.
A bone for Robin.
A bone for Osozo.
A bone for Mara.
A bone for Edwyn.
A bone for those she assumes dead: Aamu, Letha and Elide.
And yes, even a bone for Morgan.
Her lasers bore small holes in the ends of her selections, with two scapulae as the lantern’s floor. Out comes a spool of twine, and she bends over her creation, intent on memorializing her siblings in a place that wasn’t meant for them.
A bone for Edrei.
A bone for Rexanna.
A bone for Clem.
A bone for Bastien.
A bone for Sam.
A bone for Aedion.
A bone for 108.
A bone for Adam.
A bone for Mabel.
A bone for Evelyn.
A bone for Robin.
A bone for Osozo.
A bone for Mara.
A bone for Edwyn.
A bone for those she assumes dead: Aamu, Letha and Elide.
And yes, even a bone for Morgan.
Her lasers bore small holes in the ends of her selections, with two scapulae as the lantern’s floor. Out comes a spool of twine, and she bends over her creation, intent on memorializing her siblings in a place that wasn’t meant for them.
WESSEX
