Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
Searching for Torchline had yielded nothing – an endless ghost hunt, loose ends traversing into endless seams, the darkness stinging and unsettling. But like a child possessed, she gave it no rest, the efforts imploring and screaming in her mind, the promises unsettled and uneasy, the vows clinging to her skin because she feared they’d break somewhere. If she clenched them tight, if she wove them into her blood, if she could find a way, a way, a way to make everything better, perhaps weddings could continue, perhaps there’d be something hallowed out of these hollowed masses. If she howled into the midnight air, would he arrive? Would he listen to her bellow, and follow its haunting beckons? Could she be a siren, calling out into the twilight, into the stark, cold existence, and make it warm again?
She didn’t know, but gods be damned if she didn’t try.
Her chin lifted in absolute defiance, of the world, of the illness, of the plague surrounding them, and the youth took her lantern and lifted it amongst the sprawling evening, extending it so the fire burned like a torch. Fangorn settled and bounded near her ankles, grumbling, hissing, proffering an extension of the known; as if they could be lures and snares in the midst, in the aching desperation pushing at their bones. Stepping into snow, leaving tracks and footprints, in wanting just one corner of the world to become something right for a change – and she’d be a flame, coaxing sanctums out of bedlam.
She didn’t know, but gods be damned if she didn’t try.
Her chin lifted in absolute defiance, of the world, of the illness, of the plague surrounding them, and the youth took her lantern and lifted it amongst the sprawling evening, extending it so the fire burned like a torch. Fangorn settled and bounded near her ankles, grumbling, hissing, proffering an extension of the known; as if they could be lures and snares in the midst, in the aching desperation pushing at their bones. Stepping into snow, leaving tracks and footprints, in wanting just one corner of the world to become something right for a change – and she’d be a flame, coaxing sanctums out of bedlam.
Melita
