The sleep that claimed her didn't feel natural. It came fast and hard, pulling her under as she tried to resist long enough to enjoy the moments he held her. Between the ritual of magic, the effects of the blood potion, and their liaison, Themis was outmatched by her body's need to recuperate. She didn't wake gently.
Samuel was calling her. She didn't know how long he had tried to pull her from sleep, but she came to in fits and starts, a groggy fog lingering in her brain. She had no idea where she was; the room was foreign and cold, but here was Samuel. Instead of soothing her, his face telegraphed a panic, scaring her into wakefulness. Struggling to sit up, limbs feeling like weighted anchors, Themis held the blanket tight to her chest as she tried to assess the situation.
Samuel stopped shaking her, but he looked as if he'd encountered a rather unfriendly ghost, his face ashen and pale in the early morning gloom. As she meant to brush her hair back out of her face, she got her first glimpse of the scar on her wrist. It was still red, angry and loud against her pale skin. She did her best to ignore it, a stab of panic and a flicker of magic accompanying her observation. This wasn't a normal scar, and she would find a way to make peace with that, but not now. Not when Samuel needed her.
It was difficult to move, her body screaming at attempts to function. Everything burned, every muscle in her body convinced it had been abused the evening before. Her bones seemed to protest her need for structural integrity, and the act of holding her up felt monumental. Still, she moved through the pain, her focus on the stress she felt radiating from him. "It's alright. I'm awake. I'm here." She hesitated to touch him, an unfamiliar feeling. Touching him calmed something in her chest, but Samuel seemed too tightly wound that the wrong touch might shatter him. Instead, she moved to face him on her knees, mirroring his position and close enough to feel the heat from him, but she left her hands on her knees. "Samuel, breathe." She turned her palms up to him, ignoring the angry red line that seemed out of place on her. She extended them on her knees, an invitation to take her hand should he want it as much as an act of good faith: she was unarmed and unafraid as she sat with him. In minutes, she knew she would have to leave him to whatever fate he'd designed for himself. In an hour, he would be without her support or protection. It made her feel ill. "Come back to me, dear one."
Samuel was calling her. She didn't know how long he had tried to pull her from sleep, but she came to in fits and starts, a groggy fog lingering in her brain. She had no idea where she was; the room was foreign and cold, but here was Samuel. Instead of soothing her, his face telegraphed a panic, scaring her into wakefulness. Struggling to sit up, limbs feeling like weighted anchors, Themis held the blanket tight to her chest as she tried to assess the situation.
Samuel stopped shaking her, but he looked as if he'd encountered a rather unfriendly ghost, his face ashen and pale in the early morning gloom. As she meant to brush her hair back out of her face, she got her first glimpse of the scar on her wrist. It was still red, angry and loud against her pale skin. She did her best to ignore it, a stab of panic and a flicker of magic accompanying her observation. This wasn't a normal scar, and she would find a way to make peace with that, but not now. Not when Samuel needed her.
It was difficult to move, her body screaming at attempts to function. Everything burned, every muscle in her body convinced it had been abused the evening before. Her bones seemed to protest her need for structural integrity, and the act of holding her up felt monumental. Still, she moved through the pain, her focus on the stress she felt radiating from him. "It's alright. I'm awake. I'm here." She hesitated to touch him, an unfamiliar feeling. Touching him calmed something in her chest, but Samuel seemed too tightly wound that the wrong touch might shatter him. Instead, she moved to face him on her knees, mirroring his position and close enough to feel the heat from him, but she left her hands on her knees. "Samuel, breathe." She turned her palms up to him, ignoring the angry red line that seemed out of place on her. She extended them on her knees, an invitation to take her hand should he want it as much as an act of good faith: she was unarmed and unafraid as she sat with him. In minutes, she knew she would have to leave him to whatever fate he'd designed for himself. In an hour, he would be without her support or protection. It made her feel ill. "Come back to me, dear one."
![[Image: Bka0H0x.jpeg]](https://i.imgur.com/Bka0H0x.jpeg)