there's always a glimmer in those
The quiet, the silence, was only fractionally disturbed by Oliver’s appearance; she waved at him with her good arm and then cast her gaze back to the ceiling, to newly painted lines, to sculpted vestiges that seasons before had been out of reach. How quickly time spun everything away, leaving them in the dust, in the dirt, in the filth, in the muck all over again – just when they thought they had everything together – spitting them into ashes and soot. A part of her didn’t wish to settle into the chair, to remain in its hold, but her injured limbs quieted and quelled the assertions, biting down along the back of her jaw instead, a hushed snort resounding through her lungs and nose.
When she finally managed to glance his way, at the rumbling of vocals, she saw horns nestled in his hair, not devilish, but something else in the animal vestiges and correspondences, had a thousand inquiries that died on her tongue. Somewhere in the midst Melita might’ve bent into curiosity and upheaval, a shocked gasp, a sort of awe, but now, a bit numb to it all, she merely stared. “Not your fault. At least you tried,” sauntered and seared past her lips, and then a sullen sigh – because it was the truth. How many times had they all done the same, striving to help, to assist, to do something other than wallow or scream, and it still hadn’t mattered? Still hadn’t worked? It was a wonder anyone did anything at all. She appreciated his efforts, commended all of their trials. Hadn’t these rituals occurred during LongNight too? Even though they’d been prepared, even though they’d sung, even though they’d attempted, the monsters still came in? Maybe that was the moral of the story, maybe that was the hint of the truth they were now sworn to bear. One could try their best, and it still wouldn’t count. The demons could continue coming in.
When she finally managed to glance his way, at the rumbling of vocals, she saw horns nestled in his hair, not devilish, but something else in the animal vestiges and correspondences, had a thousand inquiries that died on her tongue. Somewhere in the midst Melita might’ve bent into curiosity and upheaval, a shocked gasp, a sort of awe, but now, a bit numb to it all, she merely stared. “Not your fault. At least you tried,” sauntered and seared past her lips, and then a sullen sigh – because it was the truth. How many times had they all done the same, striving to help, to assist, to do something other than wallow or scream, and it still hadn’t mattered? Still hadn’t worked? It was a wonder anyone did anything at all. She appreciated his efforts, commended all of their trials. Hadn’t these rituals occurred during LongNight too? Even though they’d been prepared, even though they’d sung, even though they’d attempted, the monsters still came in? Maybe that was the moral of the story, maybe that was the hint of the truth they were now sworn to bear. One could try their best, and it still wouldn’t count. The demons could continue coming in.
who have been through the dark
MELITA
