[SE] before your very ice

to be lit up from within

vein by vein

She should’ve been suspicious of the lackadaisical shrug, but Iskra had always been a bit more reserved than herself, with all the fledgling chaos underneath. She warranted his inspection with a slight huff though, as if she would’ve never deemed it ready yet, especially of anything judgmental. “Yes, well. Perhaps it’s a proud warrior and isn’t ready to admit defeat.” Nose aloft in the air in a seditious mannerism, she calculated her next endeavors with another smooth chip of the ice flicked away from her dagger, with all intentions of polishing the great work as if it were a sight to behold, and not a mish-mash of piercing stab marks and wounds. “I’ll call this one ‘A Spar over Dinner’,” said with the most ridiculous cataclysm of resolution.

Before it suddenly went up in flames.

She felt the heat immediately, and had she been more adept at another’s incantations, she might have utilized fire to fight off the onslaught. Instead, her jaw dropped as the ten-minute work was pulverized and melted and molded into nothing more than a puddle. Blinking rapidly, stupefied, the ramble of emotions flickering through her were a blistering thing – anger, for having bothered at all and watching it all come undone, amusement, because any other time it would’ve been remarkably funny, and shock, because maybe she hadn’t anticipated him destroying something she’d worked on.

Taking a deep breath, staring at the puddle near her feet, she put her knives away, because she might’ve been tempted to lunge at him with them, kneeling so she could tuck them back where they’d been at her calves. Then, swiftly, she packed the snow together nearby with her mittens, rounding it into a ball, before rapidly beelining the snowball directly at him. “What was the fuckin’ point of that?!” she half-screeched and laughed, still uncertain and twisting the frameworks upon themselves, leaning down to grab another pocket of snow before he could retaliate, sparks of other things getting the better of her. “I was only going to ask if you were willing to practice lightning shit with me, but ohhhh no, gotta ruin my sculpture!”

to be the sun

MELITA

ISKRA

I always feel alone, inside my mind
How do I love my scars when I'm traumatized

If Mel doesn't debut as a grand sculptor someday, she can at the very least become a fantastic namer of them. In fact, maybe he'll make a point to have her bless all of his carvings going forward, his own names resulting in such remarkable things as "wooden horse" and "dog sleeping".

It is almost a shame to melt her warrior into another pool. Almost. Admittedly, he doesn't think much of the lost efforts given how little time they'd spent (when comparing to the hours it could rightfully take, at least), and its shape is still in the rough stages, easily redone if desired, though different, as nothing would ever be entirely the same with carving.

That, and the constant presence of the fire in his hand echoes in his head. It's as if a second, golden pulse emerges alongside his own, veins shimmering with something glittering and warm. It stirs a subtle, barely there whisper that curls up the ends of his own thoughts like paper too near a fire. It slides and winds against his own voice, dark in a way that doesn't pair with its blazing nature, though it rather speaks to the depths of the hungry thing. Destruction, it goads, becoming more insistent and louder without even realizing. It's only when the flames snuff out, satisfied at the sight of the melt, that he becomes aware of the newfound rush of silence within.

The crash of the snowball on his chest draws him back to the surface immediately, yanking him from the hallways of his thoughts that have suddenly grown dim and cold, the absence of the other felt like a loss. "Hey!" he protests at once, barely seeming to miss a beat as the complaint breaks apart into a laugh and a protective turn of his body as he reaches down to scoop up his own ammunition. "I was just making it easy to choose to do other stuff!" He holds up his own snowball in preparation of a throw, looking pointedly at her, brows quietly communicating to drop it or else.

"Lightning shit?" he repeats, a touch of awe finding his voice as his brows lift with the understanding of what that means for her. He has noticed time and again the way she braces whenever it comes. "Let's do it!"

I've been trying to find something
that can set my soul free

to be lit up from within

vein by vein

Or else was perfectly fine with her, and she threw another snowball, aimed to hit the broad scope of his shoulders. The mercurial efforts were a spinning web in her mind, and she kept launching over different knots and entangling herself amidst new ones, to the point where she was caught in between indifference and annoyance.

Even the vulnerable aspects she’d revealed didn’t seem to spur much of a revelation except repetition and then instant agreement – and she could feel her stomach churn and her chest ache at the suddenness. It’d be very easy to simply say forget it; another day she could test the expanse of her fears, but gods, she’d been so sick of standing amidst the world last season and being on guard every second. Bracing for impact. Waiting for some other synapse and loud crack and boom to pierce her skin and stop her heart. She didn’t know if she hated Sah or herself more.

Raising her chin in that seditious, revolutionary manner, she strived to appear haughty when all she wanted to do was tuck herself inward and maybe suggest something else. Cozy fires and homesteads and something where she wouldn’t have to push past deadly experiences and reliving her own weaknesses. But then she’d never get anywhere, and she knew that. Stubbornness held out over all the other blatant uncertainties, and the emboldened height of her jaw sought not to clench out of the eventuality. “Is there like, a good open space somewhere?”

to be the sun

MELITA

ISKRA

I always feel alone, inside my mind
How do I love my scars when I'm traumatized

That his threat holds little water is only mildly insulting, in the least possible manner, if only because comparatively he is the snowball champion between the two of them. Even if Vesper had kicked his ass that one time...

He only has enough time to widen his eyes before the next snowball strikes, an arm cast out to bat it away though the sharpnel of fluffy snow breaks around his hand and salts his face. He fires off his own shot back towards her, gathering another right behind it, frost glistening in his beard as he turns amid the soft daylight making its way past buildings and trees.

Fighting his way through her onslaught, he closes the gap between them and springs up in close range, reaching to pull her to him and trap the quickfire of her ire and its snowball rapidfire. "Come on!" he declares with a faint grunt as he corrals her, breath puffing with the mild exertion and excitement. Thoughts are already petering away from revenge to the trepidations of lightning though, and its part of why he's bundled her up in his grip, as if strength could be passed off by mere contact alone. "Let's go zap some shit."

Destruction at least is a language they both speak, and despite the hiccups against this particular brand of it, he hopes dangling the carrot of its outcome out before her will grant encouragement. "If we keep heading that way, the trees'll clear," he informs with a nod, arms loosening against her and a step aside opening up the route as he settles beside her instead. One arm lingers, wouns with hers, fingers flexed open within his glove for her own. Goose will futifully follow.

I've been trying to find something
that can set my soul free

to be lit up from within

vein by vein

The snowball hit her squarely in the chest and she thought to keep hammering away; easier to enact silliness and airs of violence when it wasn’t pinpointed to make her relive traumatic experiences. But then he was pulling her to him instead, and she lost the powder in her hands to grasp at his jacket and laugh, briefly muffled by fabric and trying to stay rationale in the storm and sea of her own making. “Okay,” was an acceptance borne of bludgeoning and ruin and annihilation, as simple as breathing – she could do this. What was the difference between fire and brimstone and –

Well, because none of those had killed her.

Immortality might’ve lingered in her soul now, but the notions of what had come before still pulsed and pierced something fierce. Perhaps, much like her menacing acts in the past, it had a way of haunting in all its retributions. Or destruction and Iskra combined was a mutual siren call, and try as she might, she would’ve never been capable of digging her heels in for too long. All a mercurial, capricious plunge, wondering if she’d ducked her head into the sea and left it beneath the chilling, cold waves for too long and she simply wouldn’t be able to conquer it anymore.

Her hand found his though, glove winding through, jaw and teeth set into a determined line. Brows furrowed as they neared a clearing aspect to the Citadel’s large, encompassing fortress – and then took a breath, striving to steel herself for the inevitable. “What if I make a snowman and then we electrocute it?” In offering – maybe a target would help. A fuel and kindling to her anger and righteousness, not so embedded in fear.

to be the sun

MELITA

ISKRA

I always feel alone, inside my mind
How do I love my scars when I'm traumatized

The amount of times she's had to yank him free of a mire, he will not be letting go of his grip on her in this instance, finally returning the favor. He'd not shove her away from it, but if she's asking, well now he's not going to permit take-backsies, at least not without a strong temptation not to.

A swell of reassurance rises when she takes his hand, proving to him that this encouraging tug is not something about to undo a stitch they need. He's spent so long actively avoiding discomforts of any kind, it's almost like learning it all over again how to open something up just to properly close it right.

Her suggestion sounds suspiciously like she means to waste time making a snowman instead, but he can't deny that a target for focusing would be helpful. Also, she followed him to this opening, there's no reason to run full speed into the mayhem, not so long as they kept creeping towards it. "Alright, let's make a snowman. Shall we try and make it look like Sah?" He grins, the suggestion simmering with the understanding that familiar shapes of enemies make rising to them easier. Although, snow sculpting is no picnic either, and not intending to be here for hours making a frozen statue to the man, it'll mostly be a very suggestive indication of identity. A shame he doesn't have water magic.

"Have you ever made one?" he wonders, releasing her hand with a slow, lingering quality, if only because both are needed. Given her aversion to the cold, he isn't sure if she's managed a proper one before, and he glances over expectantly as he starts to gather snow for the base.

I've been trying to find something
that can set my soul free

to be lit up from within

vein by vein

If Iskra had questioned her notions at all, she likely would’ve balked and backed away. Taken another step on some other day. Forged something else entirely. Never really looked into the face of sparks and trauma; because that’s what she’d always done. Much more rational, in her volatile, fickle, and temperamental mind, to focus on the forward lines in the sand, to not drift backwards and aloof in what she couldn’t change. Except this was an endeavor etched and marked and sketched into her blood like a fortress, and she couldn’t climb over it without some strong, determined bout of stubbornness and clambering head-on.

But revisiting an old wound was not a Melita trait, and Iskra must’ve already seen the hesitation rise and bubble up again. A snowman was something concrete though. Tangible. “Of course,” she grinned, a little back to old form, as if the idea had always been there instead of opportunistic and grasping for anything. “And obviously,” she snorted at his inquiry, mildly insulted (because all of hers had looked like shit and so too this one would follow suit), but the brazen, haughty manner could cover up all the vulnerabilities she suddenly felt lingering over her skin.

Much like many of her other haphazard targets, her intention wasn’t to make an exact replica. The whole point was to embody her opponent, or at least Sah’s effigy – enough to segment and pulverize and beat down while conquering those deep, pressed-down strains. He likely wouldn’t be surprised by the quick, swift, and impatient measures as she pressed pockets of snow together into slighted means – the only characteristic that might’ve even embodied Sah was the purposefully stuck-up hair and bewildered look on his face – made with tiny rocks and pebbles. “There. See. Just like him.”

to be the sun

MELITA

ISKRA

I always feel alone, inside my mind
How do I love my scars when I'm traumatized

There's a part of him begging to ask her when, and what, exactly, she deems a snowman. The skepticism runs deep, if only because he's now someone who's lived in Halo long enough now to be a snob about hot cocoa and snowmen. The quickfire nature of her response however, has him smartly buttoning up his lips, and letting just the sweep of his eyes and the wag of his eyebrows speak to his being convinced on the matter.

As he erects the base, she builds on top of it. He helps where he can, trying to deliver shape and extra materials to the haphazard creation that has a very heavy lean to one side. Perhaps this is Sah while drunk. "The resemblance is uncanny," he decrees with a thoughtful nod and a tug of a smile as she announces the completion. There is a resemblance in the hair, he will admit. "This is Snah," he adds, deciding that a truly applicable name is needed, the choice of course being a mash up of snow and Sah.

Peeling a glove off with his teeth, Iskra plunges the now bare hand into his pocket, where his little woolen cloth awaits. He still has not mastered his lightning, and so he sets his thumb and forefinger to rub the fabric between his fingers, rousing the static beast that lives within him with the conduit's help. "Ready?" he asks her, the question muffled, but pointed, his beard hairs starting to lift. "Just like the fire," he reassures her, the gloved dropped in the effort to speak clearly. "It belongs to you, and you control where the bite goes."

I've been trying to find something
that can set my soul free

to be lit up from within

vein by vein

Iskra humored her, and so she stood, content for a moment, hands on her hips and forgetting the whole lot of second guesses and tournaments and hard fought growth, to stare that stupid looking snowman. “Yeah, it really is,” and then she let herself to release a high pitch of laughter as it curled and coiled into her stomach and soul like something much more; not as heavy, but light, merriment and mirth bursting over every time she glanced at its dumb ass face and thought of its impending doom. “Snah,” she christened again, chancing a moment to look at Iskra and regale him with the wicked grin and promise of something else. “Perfect. Let’s fuck him up.”

Stomping back over to where he stood, she could feel that trepidation reach into her throat and she wanted to swallow it down, strangle it where it gnarled and knotted. The Honeybee was tempted to reach and wrap her hand around his elbow, let him be that steady bulwark, but then he was asking if she was ready and she nodded grimly, the smile gone and dissipated, the boldness seeking a shelter.

His reassurance made her bite down on her lip, cast a shallow breath, want to flicker around like one of their dumb, wild ningos. “I like fire though.” The flames had never wronged her. Sah hadn’t struck her with a fatal blow of infernos. She knew it was pouting and childish, so she mulishly nodded her head, then stepped into him, leaning her frame against his side. “Ready.”

to be the sun

MELITA

ISKRA

I always feel alone, inside my mind
How do I love my scars when I'm traumatized

His own laughter strikes out heartily as Mel creates the most perfectly concise summation of what they'll be doing. "Let's fuck him up," Iskra agrees with a grin so rampant his ears brush the inside of his beanie.

Wasting no time to prep himself with lightning, it immediately stirs a different sort of feeling inside him. Where all the magic threads shimmer like thin, golden instrument chords awaiting the proper pluck of consciousness, his fire magic rouses like some ancient beast that's as patient as it is restless. It prowls through his veins, hot and building, its voice insistent and climbing into a roar of devastation. This ability though, it prickles through the entirety of him at once. Not as a serpent gliding along his veins, but a storm that barrels past the door the moment its opened, coating everything inside. Each nerve comes alive with it, and the presence feels like voices of many coming together, small but countless, a whisper if only because it isn't mastered and rooted innately inside him yet.

As the static builds from the cloth, so too does the sensation tingle and flicker through him with the mounting pressure of something working on escape. The contact of her beside him turns his attention back external for a moment, the rising, tumultuous chatter of lighting inside him becoming a distant murmur as he lets his gaze capture her determined features. "Maybe so, but Snah hates lightning, I've been told." His grin surfaces over the concentration, past the teeth-trembling electricity, flashing bright and coaxing towards her. "You got this," he offers, and turns to face their opponent.

The air tightens around them, bending to the sudden sharpness of energy that Iskra draws out of himself and sets free into the world. Lightning snaps like a bright flash of teeth, snapping sudden and unforgiving against the snowy arm of their creation. It cleaves sections of the snow away in great shales of ice and chaos, dispersing into the base and fizzing away into the ground like nothing more than violent soda fizz. He knows now that she can recreate it, even as that chord in him starts to hum back into silence.

I've been trying to find something
that can set my soul free

to be lit up from within

vein by vein

She waited, swallowing down the multitudes, carving a breath in her lungs so the rest didn’t jettison outwards in harsh, hurried upheavals. There was no way to feel how much energy contorted within him, but as the bolt sparked, sizzled, and struck, she could feel her body unfurl into trembling dominions, and she hated it. For half a second, all she wanted to do was hide behind his broad back, tuck herself away, finally having a shelter and yearning to settle into it, guarded, secluded. The self-loathing conspired and ripped through her with wide eyes and an unsettled piece of the puzzle, feeling as though she could claw out of her own skin and flee into the afternoon. Or maybe the nausea would eat her up inside too, and all the wonderful treats they’d had prior would come barreling onward to be hurled into the snow.

Her nervous system hadn’t bothered with all the other dangers in her life – but this one had adapted to punctures of electricity in her chest and decided each and every one was still a danger. She bit down on her back teeth and took another steadying inhale, watched as the violence keened and unraveled and flashed, taking away chunks and portions of Snah. Would it be so bad – to be able to do that in return? Never had she regretted a turn of vengeance – it was just this stupid element and all its traits, traces, clinging back to her scars.

And since when had she let fear define her? Why was she letting it paint such a picture? Sculpt an outline? Devour?

Her hand sought to wrap around his and create an anchor, lips going to his shoulder when she hoped to look away for half a second more; hoping he’d ignore the way her fingers shook and rattled while she permitted the enchantments to slide into her bones. They weren’t familiar things like infernos – another tempest she roamed around, but didn’t snag entirely. Too uncertain, too tremulous, she whispered and murmured to herself. “Just another bit of magic, that’s all,” indifferent if he heard it or not. It sparked and sizzled, roamed under her pulse when she didn’t give it anywhere to go –

Before her eyes went to the figure, asinine, asshole Snah and Sah and everything else put together. She granted the incantation leave within the next moment, rooted by abhorrence, and let it fly, sizzle, and skirt across the snow. Layer by layer, it burned a hole into the frozen vigilance, and then pierced directly into the snowman’s chest. A mutated and mutilated sculpture on its own, probably. “How was that?”

to be the sun

MELITA

ISKRA

I always feel alone, inside my mind
How do I love my scars when I'm traumatized

He feels each tremor. Not because she shakes so greatly, but because he is straining to take them from her. He might not know the full depths with which she seizes in fear, but he knows between puddles and seas, she has never once balked except at this. The why behind it, that he's familiar with, and that he traces in his thoughts now with all the same steady potential of a thumb gliding over the freshly sharpened edge of a blade to test its cut.

Pummeling Sah as he had felt like burying this anger, but he's realizing that's only one end of the bone the dog is trying to hide. There's more to this than just one tournament and one man, snowy or not. This is the shadow of Mel's demise, cast like the long, crawling form from the reaper's doorway. This is vulnerability for someone who has been otherwise invincible, a chink in armor that's proven infallible. It drives the want to serve as her range of armaments. Be her shield, be her blade, be something strong enough that she'd reach to lift him up when she's in need of ducking. Because at least this, one of his first elements, one belonging to his mother, this he knows and this he can face. She has stood and helped him clamber up from a hole he dug himself, patient with the understanding that he sees demons where she does not, and now he can return the favor in turn. If only he could ensure no new demons arrive either.

Stepping in a bit closer to her, he offers his presence like a railing. She takes hold, and his head turns in towards her, brilliant in its encouragement and admiration to see her unfurl what she has kept clutched so tight. "That's right," he murmurs in response to her barely breathed analysis of the element. "Magic you can master."

The flash of light and energy, cutting through air and Snah alike, gives him goosebumps beneath his long sleeves. The sound of the sizzling impact drags out his smile, and as she bores into the chest, an enthusiastic laugh belts free. "That's it!" he encourages brightly, and when the static drains and she wonders, he reaches to grab hold of her and turn her into him as he leans down to claim her mouth with more proof than his voice could manage. The kiss he delivers is urgent in its devotion, pressing in warm and full and perhaps a touch too long before he permits a break.

"That," he says with the sternness of someone who means to be heard and believed. "Was awesome!"

I've been trying to find something
that can set my soul free