Hesiones
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The third time she passed him on her fifteen day Spring Festival bar crawl, he just had to ask her.
“Are you ever sober?” Boston called after her as she patted his claw with a vague greeting on her way to the counter. Vodka swayed to a quick, graceful halt that must’ve taken years of tipsy practice (or not; she wasn’t human) to master.
“Are you ever satisfied?” she drawled back.
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A week and a day ago, Annie Leonhardt’s protective crystal cracked open, birthing a girl as helpless as a baby, who could not sit up, feed herself, or speak.
A week and a day later, despite actually being able to walk for five seconds without collapsing, she still can’t speak.
The Scouting Legion, as uncertain and inexperienced as they are with small children, can’t afford to play nurse without getting something in exchange.
So, along with cautious nursing, they give her paper and a pen and relative isolation, and ask her to write.
This is her story.
Libri Sybillini: translated to English from the Latin, it means The Sybilline Books, a collection of books of prophecy written by the Cumaean Sybil.
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They have all gone into the world of light. Somewhat self-indulgent almost drabble collection in usually chronological order about Mal, then Alina, arriving in the afterlife and finding the Darkling and his mother already there.
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Wrap thoughts of her around you like you wrap the night around your thoughts.
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A set of Aruani drabbles.
"April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain"- The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot