to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
There was a hum under her breath as she scoured pages of a book, tucked away in a corner, zipping through the sheets and leaves with a sort of zealous fervency that her body always invoked. Fangorn, content to grumble and hiss on some insects he’d found nestled somewhere, paid her no mind as her eyes scrutinized and examined. Her explorations and ministrations, some out of boredom, some out of intrigue, had insinuated upon the Atheneum, something she’d helped restore and rejuvenate in the past summer (which felt like lifetimes ago), until her gaze had spotted several tomes befitting her interest – mostly including weaponry tactics. Then she’d roamed, spotting a particular section, before churning over and over with staff techniques, wishing she had brought hers with her. Out of habit though, she maneuvered her fingers as if she were spinning or thrusting her trusted munition out into the ether, absorbed, memorizing the intricate details, intending to try them out when she got home.
Her attention only deviated by a familiar growl reverberating and echoing along the bookshelves. For a moment, the girl ceased and desisted in her movement entirely – Rift instincts alive and well in her frame no matter how many years or seasons separated the horrifying, treacherous world from the one she lived in now – only raising her head. Fangorn stopped his noises and nuances too, anticipating and ready for whatever the honeybee child would attempt. Impetuous, impulsive, and sometimes too bold for her own good, she slid out of her chair as quietly as possible, curiosity leading her through the winding alcoves, feet gracefully poised in silence (something she’d been working on, because maybe the rest of the earth didn’t appreciate her loud, raucous, boisterous antics all the time), until she thought she found the source.
She poked her head down the row, only a trail of crimson locks floating out from behind, as untamed and savage as their owner, before glimpsing upon the individual scavenging the library. Oh. Wessex.
Now what?
The unknown drew and regarded her, a puzzle curling and contorting over her motions. She was half-tempted to retreat, straight back into her chair, maybe tuck herself under the table, and act like she was never there in the first place. Which shouldn’t have been her reaction at all – but consequences and events had long since spiraled: blights, reigns, and then extended crowns, all within a matter of months. Her gilded eyes swept over someone she’d once beheld as a mentor, and didn’t know where she fit now. Where anyone did, in the grand scheme of things, after the pestilence had contorted itself in her form, changed her to some base-line version of the treachery inside her. But instead of fleeing, a coward’s way out, she swallowed down whatever layer of bitterness cloaked her throat. “What are you looking for?” Not that she was a librarian, not that she could be the least bit helpful, but maybe she’d come across it on her own misshapen ventures.
Her attention only deviated by a familiar growl reverberating and echoing along the bookshelves. For a moment, the girl ceased and desisted in her movement entirely – Rift instincts alive and well in her frame no matter how many years or seasons separated the horrifying, treacherous world from the one she lived in now – only raising her head. Fangorn stopped his noises and nuances too, anticipating and ready for whatever the honeybee child would attempt. Impetuous, impulsive, and sometimes too bold for her own good, she slid out of her chair as quietly as possible, curiosity leading her through the winding alcoves, feet gracefully poised in silence (something she’d been working on, because maybe the rest of the earth didn’t appreciate her loud, raucous, boisterous antics all the time), until she thought she found the source.
She poked her head down the row, only a trail of crimson locks floating out from behind, as untamed and savage as their owner, before glimpsing upon the individual scavenging the library. Oh. Wessex.
Now what?
The unknown drew and regarded her, a puzzle curling and contorting over her motions. She was half-tempted to retreat, straight back into her chair, maybe tuck herself under the table, and act like she was never there in the first place. Which shouldn’t have been her reaction at all – but consequences and events had long since spiraled: blights, reigns, and then extended crowns, all within a matter of months. Her gilded eyes swept over someone she’d once beheld as a mentor, and didn’t know where she fit now. Where anyone did, in the grand scheme of things, after the pestilence had contorted itself in her form, changed her to some base-line version of the treachery inside her. But instead of fleeing, a coward’s way out, she swallowed down whatever layer of bitterness cloaked her throat. “What are you looking for?” Not that she was a librarian, not that she could be the least bit helpful, but maybe she’d come across it on her own misshapen ventures.
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
