to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
She was useless. She was afraid.
She hated it.
The notions bristled against her hands and she fought against their shuddering notations, as if she were still blighted, as if she were still weak, hiding the vitriol carefully around Fangorn’s shield and protection. The youth traipsed her way into the Temple, eyes downcast, purposefully avoiding Wessex, because she can’t right now, not after everything, not after pestilence and disease, not after a refuge had been burnt down around them and she had nothing to give except fear.
A quaking sigh flickered through her though, and she carefully, blending back into shadows, crawling along the darkness, picked her way along forms and figures, thankful they’d been let in, thankful there was still a time, a place, for them, wishing, wishing, wishing this could all come to an end soon. Then she visually retreated, an evading tactic picked up from the Rift’s confines, from when she didn’t want herself or her makeshift family taken, bludgeoned, and beaten, into the known expanse, familiar with its layout, with its threshold, aching for something recognized.
She hated it.
The notions bristled against her hands and she fought against their shuddering notations, as if she were still blighted, as if she were still weak, hiding the vitriol carefully around Fangorn’s shield and protection. The youth traipsed her way into the Temple, eyes downcast, purposefully avoiding Wessex, because she can’t right now, not after everything, not after pestilence and disease, not after a refuge had been burnt down around them and she had nothing to give except fear.
A quaking sigh flickered through her though, and she carefully, blending back into shadows, crawling along the darkness, picked her way along forms and figures, thankful they’d been let in, thankful there was still a time, a place, for them, wishing, wishing, wishing this could all come to an end soon. Then she visually retreated, an evading tactic picked up from the Rift’s confines, from when she didn’t want herself or her makeshift family taken, bludgeoned, and beaten, into the known expanse, familiar with its layout, with its threshold, aching for something recognized.
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
