there's always a glimmer in those
Fangorn was a worrier, a fretter, a bit of a hoverer, winding his way along her ankles when she finally settled down on a rotted log, her pile of reeds, sticks, moss, and other assortments postured around her: a distraction, if nothing else. Last year she’d sat along the Mathair’s roots with Amalia, joking about demons in the forest, wild queens meant to be ferocious and unwinding, unfurling things – better times before the fall of so many other events. Her hands went towards the firmer branches and brambles, picking off bits and pieces, ensuring they were smooth, wouldn’t snag or get caught amongst one another, a billowing sigh flowing through her chest for lack of anything else to do or say.
Except a voice caught at her ears, her head rising along the familiar sound. “Oh, hello Phoebe.” Gentler in tone, tired, fatigued, uncertain of how to press or where to go – cagey and restless because it was second nature, because the world twisted, fell apart at the seams, and then expected them to go on and on and on. “I’m okay.” Better than most – she wasn’t dead, she wasn’t shattered. “How are you?” Her hand went to pat space along the log beside her, an invitation to join.
Except a voice caught at her ears, her head rising along the familiar sound. “Oh, hello Phoebe.” Gentler in tone, tired, fatigued, uncertain of how to press or where to go – cagey and restless because it was second nature, because the world twisted, fell apart at the seams, and then expected them to go on and on and on. “I’m okay.” Better than most – she wasn’t dead, she wasn’t shattered. “How are you?” Her hand went to pat space along the log beside her, an invitation to join.
who have been through the dark
MELITA
