WESSEX
the wraith
she tied you to her kitchen chair
she broke your throne and she cut your hair
she broke your throne and she cut your hair
Watching impassively as he obeys, Wessex finally nods. “Mostly,” she concedes, bending to wipe the knife on the grass and then sheath it in her boot again. “Still doesn’t explain how you look exactly like him, but you aren’t the first one to wake up after three hundred years, so -”
So maybe something is happening. And maybe she should just accept that it is what it is, even if looking at him rouses some long-dead guilt and silence what-ifs. “If you’re weak, you can drink.” As she walks towards him, she rather impulsively offers her wrist, perhaps trying to make up for cutting him (ah, but it was necessary, wasn’t it? No one has fluid like they do). It’s amiable enough, matter-of-fact, sure that he knows what will come of biting and truly not caring all that much.
At this point, a bite is a bite. Survival, pure and simple.
So maybe something is happening. And maybe she should just accept that it is what it is, even if looking at him rouses some long-dead guilt and silence what-ifs. “If you’re weak, you can drink.” As she walks towards him, she rather impulsively offers her wrist, perhaps trying to make up for cutting him (ah, but it was necessary, wasn’t it? No one has fluid like they do). It’s amiable enough, matter-of-fact, sure that he knows what will come of biting and truly not caring all that much.
At this point, a bite is a bite. Survival, pure and simple.
and from your lips she drew
the hallelujah
the hallelujah
