there's always a glimmer in those
Her bones hurt, something parting and drawing in her soul, scraping over the foundations of her movements. Not a leap, not a bound, not a scattering of movement or motions, of exhilaration or glee in her steps, more plodding, more precise, more labored. Her staff was a walking stick, her motives asinine, simple, her breath coated in sorrow, her eyes scattering over the haunted woods, waiting for other ghosts to drift by, to grab her ankles, to send her back to hell. Fangorn maneuvered faster than her today, and together they seemed to billow and wander, stopping every so often to grab ahold of a well-formed stick, a fallen, smaller branch, a bough with its thorns and nettles to sting and grasp and tear. The reddish hues reminded her of old blood, like rusted pinnacles, like the splattering of everyone’s wounds and lacerations across Fiat Lux’s celebrations. By the time she’d finished along the boundary lines, she’d gathered enough wooden portions, reeds, and long grass to start on her basket.
For another celebration. For another potential for disaster; as if they never learned at all.
For another celebration. For another potential for disaster; as if they never learned at all.
who have been through the dark
MELITA
