MELITA
She was lost in the way all ruined things were, tarnished and beholden to nothing but the onslaught piercing in her mind, scorching through her skin, a singsong obliteration hovering on her lips. If she noticed Wessex’s complete, utter control, she said and thought nothing of it – something in the back of her skull crawling, wanting to hurt, wanting to punish, based on nothing but another girl’s sickened measures and machinations. But there she was, peering into the basement, eyes not really seeing, brain not really thinking, pure utter instinct casting her down into rocky depths, not bothering to ponder over footwear, over the shudders and shivers her body quivered within; humming beneath her breath, songs with no tunes, distances with no melodies. “A promise, a promise,” crooned and exalted, as if sludge were worth something, going down, down, down stairs and rapacious interludes; she might've skipped, if there weren't snow or stones impeding her path. Fangorn was beside himself, but picked up in Wessex’s safeguarding measures, he breathed some ounce of relief, still calling for the daughter of sand and desert, growling, hissing, incapable of understanding what was happening to her. This wasn’t Melita – but a mirage, a hindrance, a faction of decadence she never would have wanted. His eyes shifted to Wessex’s, eerie, but he couldn’t voice his concerns – a gourd, a pumpkin, no connections, no foundations, no speech.
The Wraith called to her, from above, and a light giggle cursed and coursed its way from Melita’s throat, bubbling and brewing, not even remotely kind, compassionate, or beneficent. They were foul, savage little snippets, as if she’d become some darkly woven, earthen fey, known for their keen notations. “Don’t you know what your actions cause?” Then she slipped further into the darkness, hands sliding along broken walls and fallen columns.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
