to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
The youth hadn’t expected company, content to sink by herself for the moment, contemplate her next movement and motion in the fog, in the ashes, in the disaster. What more could she have done? Could any of them had committed? And was she always going to be like this, some poorly assembled girl, reaching for her weapons when they weren’t necessary? When she had nothing else to extend or offer? Melita had always believed in action, in response, in trying; but in the fire, in the flames, there’d been naught for her to orchestrate or utilize. It had been fight or flight, and she’d chosen flight amongst the others, striving to salvage poorly lit tones for the luxere, for the herd to safe them all amidst the shadows, the ruin, and the monsters.
Sunjata’s presence was a surprising balm, and she lifted her head at the sound of an old nickname, of the way her father had spoken to her once, the little honeybee floating along the gardens, before hell broke loose, before she had to be something dangerous and lethal. “Hi,” she offered in return, the beginnings, the inklings of a smile. “I’m all right,” she shrugged, a listless little thing in the great big hall. Her head tilted, fingers absentmindedly stroking over Fangorn’s stem, granting scratches while she mused and avoided the temptation of choking herself any further, into the pits, into the mires. The gilded set of her gaze focused on him, familiar beings, and extended her own inquiry along the entrails of LongNight’s hold. “How has the Temple been?”
Sunjata’s presence was a surprising balm, and she lifted her head at the sound of an old nickname, of the way her father had spoken to her once, the little honeybee floating along the gardens, before hell broke loose, before she had to be something dangerous and lethal. “Hi,” she offered in return, the beginnings, the inklings of a smile. “I’m all right,” she shrugged, a listless little thing in the great big hall. Her head tilted, fingers absentmindedly stroking over Fangorn’s stem, granting scratches while she mused and avoided the temptation of choking herself any further, into the pits, into the mires. The gilded set of her gaze focused on him, familiar beings, and extended her own inquiry along the entrails of LongNight’s hold. “How has the Temple been?”
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
