MELITA
She wanted tales. She wanted stories. She wanted to know who the man was, so perhaps she wouldn’t turn out to be like him, so she wouldn’t riddle and rankle the cycle, so she wouldn’t be her father’s daughter, pieces and pockets of nothing. The youth was fury and fire, but would never think to leave those she loved and craved behind – and perhaps that was just it. They hadn’t been loved. They hadn’t been chosen. They hadn’t been wanted. The distinct flavor of bitterness slid down her throat again, and she nodded, rising along, following, then turning towards the settlement, Fangorn clipping at her heels. “Whatever you can manage,” she laughed, bright and cheery despite the agonizing, trembling hands, despite the puncturing nuances that had glanced over her – perhaps, content, for once, in knowing exactly where she stood with the gaping, grasping unknown (nowhere). It was a liberating distinction, an easy sense of deliverance. Maybe one day she would be better than anything the beast could ever concoct, ever do, ever manage; and his name would be an outlier, naught but a bearer, and she the flame, she the avenger, she the spark, the kindling, the incensed, enraged beacon.help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
