Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
Melita wished she could occupy the expanse in the way her family once had – gentle, kind, a spirit of tenderness rather than fire and cinders, stoked and ready to burn. They’d been peace and sanctuaries, tranquility, serenity, while she tiptoed over wildflowers and rushed through fields, a brazen little ember waiting to spark. But here, here she could pretend, envision a time, a place, where naught was wrong and nothing went awry, where they lingered on their mother’s lap and giggled at the stories and myths surrounding them, while they dreamed about things that could’ve come true, had they just been given a chance. Here she could wile away the hour and appease a sickened friend, here she could do something out of the fog and listlessness, a desperation clawing inside her chest - can’t there be anything else? Fangorn’s light bobbed ahead, and she wondered if she could ever be that too – a guiding star, rising out of the ashes they all seemed to settle within.
Not nice stories didn’t have a place for the moment, and she almost growled at her own error at mentioning Fae. But it was too fargone now, and if Nate found discomfort in their shape or design, she sent a silent apology through wound fingers and bridged hands. Her heart, her mind, imagined a people not so hardened by strife or hatred, but by the spiritual essence of the forest – sharp, poignant, eerie, enigmatic, vines turning and twisting, boughs bending at their call, flowers blooming beneath their feet, whims and caprices of decadence, rather than spears and knives. “They invited her to dance in their circle.” Hadn’t that been an old tale? That they would dance and dance and dance for eternity? “The butterfly flew at the chance, and she was taken up in their steps, following the handholds and music.” Just a bit farther, and the portal would be there, and this would be just one more haze, one more forgotten nuance.
Not nice stories didn’t have a place for the moment, and she almost growled at her own error at mentioning Fae. But it was too fargone now, and if Nate found discomfort in their shape or design, she sent a silent apology through wound fingers and bridged hands. Her heart, her mind, imagined a people not so hardened by strife or hatred, but by the spiritual essence of the forest – sharp, poignant, eerie, enigmatic, vines turning and twisting, boughs bending at their call, flowers blooming beneath their feet, whims and caprices of decadence, rather than spears and knives. “They invited her to dance in their circle.” Hadn’t that been an old tale? That they would dance and dance and dance for eternity? “The butterfly flew at the chance, and she was taken up in their steps, following the handholds and music.” Just a bit farther, and the portal would be there, and this would be just one more haze, one more forgotten nuance.
Melita
