I'm at the base, just dropped in. I'll come to Jeopardy.
She doesn't hesitate. Not for a second. Sal is guilty of so much, and being single-minded, hotly in pursuit of one goal regardless of anything else happening — the world could be in flames and she'd only keep moving forward. In this case, it's in Anathema's direction.
There's no pause for anything else, although a more cautious or methodical person just might clean themselves up first. She's standing in the street as if she's just come out of an endless length of battles and only crawled away by the skin of her teeth, careening from one disaster to the next. But she doesn't feel the poorly bandaged sword wounds, the countless bruises or the weight of travel.
It's just her and this tiny device and her boots moving quickly in the direction of the porter station.
Remember? What does she remember? A witch standing outside a church, looking curious. A tiny flame in the palm of her (their) hand. Sharing a bed, sharing so much that the worry she's lost it, could lose it yet, it feels worse than any alchemic she's ever taken and sears its way painfully down her throat, into her lungs, filling up her veins with dread.
Of course she remembers this. Why bother to remember anything else?
I didn't forget. I'm still in one piece, in all my fucking brilliant glory. Hope you forgive me if I don't fly home to shower first.
Shit, assuming my apartment's still alright. Are you alright?
It's nonsense, the words don't mean anything, she just...needs to keep talking, to stay tethered to this lifeline before she can step up to that doorway and make certain with her own eyes. To see Anathema and know that she's safe.
no subject
She doesn't hesitate. Not for a second. Sal is guilty of so much, and being single-minded, hotly in pursuit of one goal regardless of anything else happening — the world could be in flames and she'd only keep moving forward. In this case, it's in Anathema's direction.
There's no pause for anything else, although a more cautious or methodical person just might clean themselves up first. She's standing in the street as if she's just come out of an endless length of battles and only crawled away by the skin of her teeth, careening from one disaster to the next. But she doesn't feel the poorly bandaged sword wounds, the countless bruises or the weight of travel.
It's just her and this tiny device and her boots moving quickly in the direction of the porter station.
Remember? What does she remember? A witch standing outside a church, looking curious. A tiny flame in the palm of her (their) hand. Sharing a bed, sharing so much that the worry she's lost it, could lose it yet, it feels worse than any alchemic she's ever taken and sears its way painfully down her throat, into her lungs, filling up her veins with dread.
Of course she remembers this. Why bother to remember anything else?
I didn't forget. I'm still in one piece, in all my fucking brilliant glory. Hope you forgive me if I don't fly home to shower first.
Shit, assuming my apartment's still alright. Are you alright?
It's nonsense, the words don't mean anything, she just...needs to keep talking, to stay tethered to this lifeline before she can step up to that doorway and make certain with her own eyes. To see Anathema and know that she's safe.
It's the only place she wants to come back to.