to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
She wasn’t sure what to expect – to be ignored, to be sidelined again, to be snarled upon, so she steadied herself, grounded, on her feet, waiting for the inevitable to skirmish across her frame. The answer gave her some pause, because why would Wessex care about demigods all of a sudden, when Ronin had been one for some time? Was there more research to be done? Was something else going on? Or was Melita still so out-of-the-loop that her ignorance was just another blinding sentiment, pushing and pulling against her skin? The youth had nothing to offer the former queen again; but her eyes didn’t fall. A shrug rankled along her shoulders, gaze flickering over tomes, titles, and spines, the unawareness scraping over her senses, irritating, vexing, and wondering when she’d manage to figure just the simplest things out. When the gilded set returned to Wessex, she could only shake her head. “I haven’t seen anything on demi-gods. But there was some more on magic, a couple aisles down.” Her fingers pointed in the direction, uncertain of how helpful they’d be in the Ascended’s quest. The girl hadn't grabbed them - no magic ever stirred in her hands except for the items others had created and chiseled for her.
She made to go, turning, shifting, back to the lantern light in the corner, back to her hollowed, hallowed sanctuary, back to Fangorn quietly grumbling over pages and turning them haphazardly with muffled breaths. But then the inquiry was directed towards her, and her movements were altered, dragged and etched into the same, singular ether. “More staff techniques. I wanted to try some advanced stuff.” Which likely sounded stupid, addressing someone very skilled in the undercutting and maiming with the munitions – but Melita hadn’t thought to ask, not anymore, not when Wessex had been leading and the youth had been sick, and a thousand other things had spiraled in between.
She made to go, turning, shifting, back to the lantern light in the corner, back to her hollowed, hallowed sanctuary, back to Fangorn quietly grumbling over pages and turning them haphazardly with muffled breaths. But then the inquiry was directed towards her, and her movements were altered, dragged and etched into the same, singular ether. “More staff techniques. I wanted to try some advanced stuff.” Which likely sounded stupid, addressing someone very skilled in the undercutting and maiming with the munitions – but Melita hadn’t thought to ask, not anymore, not when Wessex had been leading and the youth had been sick, and a thousand other things had spiraled in between.
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
