to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
It was like the Rift – poignant, beautiful moments of hope, until they were torn away, blasted, bludgeoned, discarded, destroyed, again and again and again. It coated her lungs and seared her soul, seethed against the back of her eyes; but she couldn’t, wouldn’t falter, not when they needed her. Her hands shook but she advanced, eyes watching, drifting, across Rexanna’s mutilated form until the General scooped her up, Remi’s manticore frame crumbling into the snow, Samuel’s broken, whittled anomalies existing in the tangible wake of too many strains. They’d tested and been bested; she had no idea what, and didn’t have the heart to ask. They’d had warnings. They’d seen the shadows before. It didn’t matter, really, when everything was said and done –
She swallowed down the bile, the trembles, the shudders, uncertain what to do until Jigano’s voice called over her. The honeybee girl had half a notion of simply ignoring it altogether, of following the rush back into the guild hall – but she’d lingered out here, in the dead of night, amongst demons and infidels outside their wares, and had an occupation now; ensuring the luxere were calm, when she was anything but. The youth nodded, heart hammering, hammering, hammering, while her voice was composed, a hum under her breath meant to reassure, hands reaching and seeking out fur and antlers, offering scratches and pats, collected, rooted, settled souls in the temptation of unraveling, trying to keep them all together when everyone knew they couldn’t.
She swallowed down the bile, the trembles, the shudders, uncertain what to do until Jigano’s voice called over her. The honeybee girl had half a notion of simply ignoring it altogether, of following the rush back into the guild hall – but she’d lingered out here, in the dead of night, amongst demons and infidels outside their wares, and had an occupation now; ensuring the luxere were calm, when she was anything but. The youth nodded, heart hammering, hammering, hammering, while her voice was composed, a hum under her breath meant to reassure, hands reaching and seeking out fur and antlers, offering scratches and pats, collected, rooted, settled souls in the temptation of unraveling, trying to keep them all together when everyone knew they couldn’t.
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
