Writhing, gnawing, clawing.

Parched and aching.

Alice, breathed in air she didn't need, swallowing the breath through an undamaged throat. She was herself, together with the Wraith. Cold, ice bound but free in the rolling waves below. No cold iron to keep it back, away. Further from her mind, as it sails through the memories and instances. Which, were which.

Alice feels her strings tug, slacken, as her fingers claw into the arms of her chair. They cannot see her. Locked in her room. The one that had bore her through these six hundred nights.


"Pale Mother," she hears. "Pale Mother" they chant. They say other things too, pleas, prayers. Words that Alice should know, should follow. Or understand as the vibrations reach her ears. She hasn't the energy to care. Hyper focused on the chalice below her. Zeroed in, on the knife slick with the blood and fur of their sacrifices.

Soon, the procession ends. Soon, there is no one else. Soon. Alice descends.

Chugging the chalice. Tongue meeting metal. Fangs flashing as she laps up the ambrosia. The nectar, the blood. Soon, there is nothing remaining in the cup, or on the knife. Soon, Alice's bone pale hand find the furred corpses of the animals brought, and finds a vein.

She needs every. Last. Drop.