some sembleance of a plan, pitiful as it may be, begins to form. her cellmate's the engineering type and as she grows excited at the prospects, she achingly reminds her of
ana fell . just as quickly does she burn away the budding likeness. wondering about the whereabouts of her loved ones will not serve a purpose here.
only working and waiting and planning for opportunity. in the end, they don't take from the pile of stones, an agreement made of practicality. they fear the retribution, having no idea the rules of this place, and when their fears are realized, freya closes her eyes and wishes she could unhear their screams.
"it's freya, by the way. my name. freya morningstar," she admits to her partner, an invitation to a pact.
but before all that - before the dripping viscera and the crowning of their accomplishments, she sees a mark of her own making. silver and rough, in the shape of her own teeth, and then it takes only a heartbeat to remember him.
as he was -
they stand on a patchy knoll. grass tries and fails to grow through the rotted soil, this far from the inner walls. bodies lay around them - twisted limbs and macabre shapes that bleed more poison into the earth. her hand drifts from an iron crown on her head and down, without looking, to find his. they don't talk much, the two of them. they never do. but sometimes they reach for each other.
a small comfort for the touch-starved souls they are.
as he is -
an amalgamation of hatred, god-touched and stripped of what little humanity had once remained. rocket's wolf had died in galar, but that fading watercolor ink had been his resurrection. the memories on her conscious are riddled with holes. too long she's gone without reminding herself of the history, tracing logs in a blood-stained diary.
he's better off forgotten.
the hours blur together and firstly, she clasps hands with her cellmate, trusting her because who else is there to trust?
"stay close to me," she urges and then another's hand slips into hers. she knows him before she sees him and emotion burns way to logic.
he has the strength to get us out.she turns her head and behind her mask, golds glimmer. wordlessly, she squeezes tightly, holding onto him as though he were a figment to a forgotten world, just as he had been in that faraway dream.
their warden presents them a game. two stand out to her with their familiar voices, both fighting their inevitabilities. frustration knifes through her. indignation and refusal has come back on others seven-old. do they not understand that there is no
fair here? that they might make it worse yet for them all?
"the weakling ward," she says loudly, voice thick with conviction and so very staunchly, recognizably
freya.
her decision is made with ease. had that been
Isaac Merlo up there in the dummy ward, beaten within an inch of his life?
PATISSERIE HM RP
