Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
A light brewing of laughter curled and bloomed and plumed from her chest; might’ve been the thing of spirits and faeries, of sprites and figments of imagination, but she had to give credit to Nate and his notions of dancing. “Oh, you do? Are you going to dance at the wedding?” Visions of things to come, fruition and futures, where one could dream that they were plausible, that they would rise out of the circumstances, come back down to earth, loams, and soils, and not be distant, faded ambitions. She hummed along with him too, warbles and pitches to match, though hers were likely off-key, and not the right notes; but she’d always had a fondness for catching, latching, onto her sister’s, giggling while they rolled around in the grass, listening to birds sing, to the ethereal flourish of butterfly wings, to the gentle drone of bees buzzling near their crowns of laurels and flowers.
Her hand squeezed back, and they were drifting, drifting, drifting, ever closer to destinations and safety. She’d keep her promise and guide him home, and they’d all be beckoned towards Torchline masses and shorelines. They’d all be able to solve the latest mystery. They’d be well and whole, and she could believe it, scorch it into her blood. “She was able to remain in their dance circle for eternity, swept up in the wind, never having to worry about anything else. Free to leave, but never doing so – because it was so joyful.” Would that be enough? Could she imagine her sister in that stead, always bound to shelter, to whimsy, to music and paradise? “What was your story?”
Her hand squeezed back, and they were drifting, drifting, drifting, ever closer to destinations and safety. She’d keep her promise and guide him home, and they’d all be beckoned towards Torchline masses and shorelines. They’d all be able to solve the latest mystery. They’d be well and whole, and she could believe it, scorch it into her blood. “She was able to remain in their dance circle for eternity, swept up in the wind, never having to worry about anything else. Free to leave, but never doing so – because it was so joyful.” Would that be enough? Could she imagine her sister in that stead, always bound to shelter, to whimsy, to music and paradise? “What was your story?”
Melita
