MELITA
For the moment, her ruminations were not on Wessex or the possibilities that she felt hurt and cast aside. The youth had a number of things to waver and wander between, a mire, a field, of blighted contentions still springing up over her form and chiseling their way down her spine; hatred, abhorrence, a distinction of cold, cold, brutality she had to shake off repeatedly just to remain on the chilling, Spire floor. She bowed her head behind Fangorn’s frame and simply trembled, a distinction amidst the war for control, and she could feel herself losing again. Bite, rip, tear. Why don’t you cut and slash her to pieces? Why don’t you, why don’t you, why don’t you-She didn’t even see the offered hand. Her promise to Phoebe was long since forgotten, the sludge a distant haze, as if it never even occurred or happened, not that it mattered, not now, not after all of this – the stabbing of thorns too, nearly gone and for naught. Instead, she inclined to her full height without the Queen’s measures or extensions, and sprung away, away, away, over stones, Fangorn clutched in her arms and hissing, growling, reaching back into the sunlight, into the forlorn hell, before she could hurt anyone again.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
