MELITA
Fangorn’s panicked hisses, imploring growls, went virtually unheard; the girl’s sibilance were reserved for Wessex’s dodge, the uncanny maneuvers ensuring her staff has committed to nothing. It was stupid, it was ineffectual, the way her mind wanted to suddenly burn the whole world down, had there was nothing else but the choking, cloaking maelstrom in the back of her throat, down the edges of her spine, reaping the benefits of an insurmountable rage. The only thing the youth managed to accomplish was Wessex’s flight towards the wall, and from her same position, the honeybee child, all sting currently, she picked up a few stones and starting hurling them in the Wraith’s direction, prolonging one another’s agony. Hit, she clenched her jaw and howled inwardly. Bludgeon, she murmured into the intoxicating void. Ruin, she crooned into the venomous debacle, a blighted hope sinking into her lungs and pouring through her soul – vicious and undermining everything Melita had ever stood for. Her eyes flickered to the rose for an instant, loosening another growl from deep within her chest – more animal than girl, more beast than child. Her head tilted into an uncanny angle, as if studying from all directions and regions, positioning herself in slow, steady, methodical movements (more signs that Melita wasn’t in control; the disease was). A warning grated its way through her teeth, pushing past fangs and irreverence. “An abomination – put it away.” Or maybe she had an opportunity to maul it, to rip and tear the gilded rose apart, thorns and petals and all; one less virtuous source left in this world.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
