MELITA
Her head tilted as they walked, attention rendered, Fangorn bounding along a few steps behind, distracted by the last remaining insects and ivory stones. There were different layers to her father, apparently, though not many of them appeared to be anywhere near virtuous: big, tough, and strong, but not intending to fight his own battles (and there, at least, Melita knew they were alarmingly contrasting; even if she was fire and fury, she’d always wield her own weapons), a glory hound, sinking teeth into a victory he hadn’t acquired for himself. She hid the inward frown, kicking a few rocks out from their path, watching them glide along dirt, soil, and silt, imagining the burly figure remaining there, awaiting his opportunity. The whole fight sounded preposterously stupid and asinine. Melita’s skirmishes and duels had been about training, had been about perseverance, had been about mettle, spirit, grit, determination, and survival. Gaal sounded as if he was made up of petty fragments, slipping them out one right after the other; who cared if one was grand, if one was great, or if it was ever acknowledged by peers? She rolled her eyes and hit another pebble squarely, watched it ricochet off of larger boulders, furrowing her brows.
But Sunjata had seemingly prevailed – her cranium inclined further, an obvious insinuation from his to continue. “And then what?” Had he succeeded, or was this just the cliffhanger, a dangling thread meant for her to unravel?
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
