to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
Korofi blood. She had Korofi blood. She had Helovian blood. She had blood of ancient irreverence and feral sedition. She had blood of gentle healers, menders, and whimsical, beautiful beings.
Melita’s family, for as brief as it’d been, was everything to her. From every musical note, to every sundry sonnet, to every sagacious moment her mother, her sister, provided her with – she hadn’t needed, hadn’t required anything but them, and for so long, she’d managed. The youth had survived on their essences, on their memories, on their beatific way of living before sacrificial alms, before midnight disasters, before oblivion, before ruin, before she’d taken up any sort of sword, bow, or staff. She’d dreamed of them at night and cried the next morning when they weren’t there, at her side, before she’d hardened, before she’d lifted her head to the Rift skies and growled, howled, dared them to do their worst; she couldn’t be more broken, she couldn’t be more dissolved, she couldn’t be more whittled or carved away.
The notions of another contortion to her existence hadn’t even been on her mind. There hadn’t been a father. She’d found Zekle. She’d found Iskra. She’d found piece and portions of figures in her life – and then they were gone too. To believe there were others in her midst that cared enough, that thought of her enough, to welcome her into their lives buffeted against her ribs and caused her to blink rapidly at the insinuations, refusing to cry, refusing to settle into a hot mess of tears, but everything sounded so wonderful, so perfect, things she’d wanted and craved for a lifetime when all she’d ever done was sink her teeth into flesh and fight, fight, fight –
I just wanted to be sure you were okay earned a nod, her hand brushing away the salt threatening to fall and bury themselves down her cheeks, LongNight’s emotional wreckage grinding against her soul. “Okay,” she nodded, to anything and everything, the luminescent smile still beaming across her mouth, wanting to reach out and hug or grasp and not let go; but instead, she worked her way back to her food, hands grasping Fangorn tightly, something cracking and fissuring inside her.
Melita’s family, for as brief as it’d been, was everything to her. From every musical note, to every sundry sonnet, to every sagacious moment her mother, her sister, provided her with – she hadn’t needed, hadn’t required anything but them, and for so long, she’d managed. The youth had survived on their essences, on their memories, on their beatific way of living before sacrificial alms, before midnight disasters, before oblivion, before ruin, before she’d taken up any sort of sword, bow, or staff. She’d dreamed of them at night and cried the next morning when they weren’t there, at her side, before she’d hardened, before she’d lifted her head to the Rift skies and growled, howled, dared them to do their worst; she couldn’t be more broken, she couldn’t be more dissolved, she couldn’t be more whittled or carved away.
The notions of another contortion to her existence hadn’t even been on her mind. There hadn’t been a father. She’d found Zekle. She’d found Iskra. She’d found piece and portions of figures in her life – and then they were gone too. To believe there were others in her midst that cared enough, that thought of her enough, to welcome her into their lives buffeted against her ribs and caused her to blink rapidly at the insinuations, refusing to cry, refusing to settle into a hot mess of tears, but everything sounded so wonderful, so perfect, things she’d wanted and craved for a lifetime when all she’d ever done was sink her teeth into flesh and fight, fight, fight –
I just wanted to be sure you were okay earned a nod, her hand brushing away the salt threatening to fall and bury themselves down her cheeks, LongNight’s emotional wreckage grinding against her soul. “Okay,” she nodded, to anything and everything, the luminescent smile still beaming across her mouth, wanting to reach out and hug or grasp and not let go; but instead, she worked her way back to her food, hands grasping Fangorn tightly, something cracking and fissuring inside her.
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
