to be lit up from within
vein by vein
The snowball hit her squarely in the chest and she thought to keep hammering away; easier to enact silliness and airs of violence when it wasn’t pinpointed to make her relive traumatic experiences. But then he was pulling her to him instead, and she lost the powder in her hands to grasp at his jacket and laugh, briefly muffled by fabric and trying to stay rationale in the storm and sea of her own making. “Okay,” was an acceptance borne of bludgeoning and ruin and annihilation, as simple as breathing – she could do this. What was the difference between fire and brimstone and – Well, because none of those had killed her.
Immortality might’ve lingered in her soul now, but the notions of what had come before still pulsed and pierced something fierce. Perhaps, much like her menacing acts in the past, it had a way of haunting in all its retributions. Or destruction and Iskra combined was a mutual siren call, and try as she might, she would’ve never been capable of digging her heels in for too long. All a mercurial, capricious plunge, wondering if she’d ducked her head into the sea and left it beneath the chilling, cold waves for too long and she simply wouldn’t be able to conquer it anymore.
Her hand found his though, glove winding through, jaw and teeth set into a determined line. Brows furrowed as they neared a clearing aspect to the Citadel’s large, encompassing fortress – and then took a breath, striving to steel herself for the inevitable. “What if I make a snowman and then we electrocute it?” In offering – maybe a target would help. A fuel and kindling to her anger and righteousness, not so embedded in fear.
to be the sun
MELITA
