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This one is for Past Me, for all those times she kept going. Future Me finally gets it.
Albert, it seemed, had forgotten that his history might be a legacy of power, but hers was a legacy of resistance.
Meanwhile, across the country, a certain innkeeper was about to discover that when you hold tight to the little magic you find, when years go by and the world loses much of its colour and still you refuse to forget the magic, magic will go out of its way to show you that it remembers you too.
“Well. Well. Did it hurt? When you fell out of whichever Norse myth you came from?”
purloined
and as if that weren’t enough, the sun had decided this was the very moment to sally forth from behind the clouds and halo him in gold like he was a fucking archangel or something. It was unacceptable. He was still laughing. Sera drank her tea in wrathful silence.
He stepped back, hands flexing at his sides to keep himself in check.
Darcy is that you
A creature of the sky and the stars, burning, dying, once, twice, a hundred times, only to come back, stubborn and persistent, to rise out of the ashes, to be resurrected, to live. Firebird, phoenix, a stitched-up Frankenstein creature made out of every Sera she had ever been, and still here.
The old inn went quiet and still. Sera closed her eyes. And found entire galaxies of stars waiting for her.
