to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
There’s a portion to her that failed to understand why anyone would give her the time of day after her antics during the blight. She’d lacked control, she’d lacked any fundamental trait except treachery, except brutality, except barbarity; and though it hadn’t been her fault, a part of her believed it had simply removed any of the notions holding her back from implosion, from conflagrations, from unleashing pent-up rage and vitriol. Like compassion. Like beneficence. Maybe the true beacons of her soul, gnarled and snarled, snagged in eldritch vengeance and savage revenge, taken upon those that hadn’t deserved any of the wrath – like Loren, Wessex, and Rexanna. But all of them had forgiven her, perhaps, and she couldn’t quite fathom the intricacies of it, when she always had a difficult time with amends, with not holding a grudge, with wavering away from pettiness. The youth didn’t flinch away at the compliment; because precision and practice had been instilled in her since the day she’d been lost amongst the Rift, striving to survive, trying to protect the things, the people, she loved. She clenched her jaw and bit down a thousand bitter things, more aimed at herself than the Wraith, feet itching to slide back across the floor.
“You were busy,” she shrugged. Whether that was doing the Voice’s services (gods, that forum), spreading the blight (ignorant of, perhaps), or any other Queenly duties, the youth only held some of that against Wessex. Because Melita’s staff training wasn’t nearly as important as anything else in reigning and running a country, and the youth had tucked herself away, away, away anyway, ashamed, humiliated, by her own weaknesses and frailties. She should’ve been better.
Her eyes narrowed at the implication of it being made up to her, because she didn’t deserve it, and Wessex surely had other things to do. “You don’t have to,” she proffered, any attempts at a smile short-lived, giving the Ascended an out, an opportunity to go back on the extension. She could find other ways. Her eyes lifted back up to books and spines and titles, but they might as well have been nameless, for all the notion and information she took in. “Why do you need to know about magic? Or demigods?” Had she gained some invocations? Was the Voice handing out more abilities? Was it more to worry about, to consider, while they strived to maneuver on from LongNight, back into the potential for ruin on other horizons, regrowth in the delusion?
“You were busy,” she shrugged. Whether that was doing the Voice’s services (gods, that forum), spreading the blight (ignorant of, perhaps), or any other Queenly duties, the youth only held some of that against Wessex. Because Melita’s staff training wasn’t nearly as important as anything else in reigning and running a country, and the youth had tucked herself away, away, away anyway, ashamed, humiliated, by her own weaknesses and frailties. She should’ve been better.
Her eyes narrowed at the implication of it being made up to her, because she didn’t deserve it, and Wessex surely had other things to do. “You don’t have to,” she proffered, any attempts at a smile short-lived, giving the Ascended an out, an opportunity to go back on the extension. She could find other ways. Her eyes lifted back up to books and spines and titles, but they might as well have been nameless, for all the notion and information she took in. “Why do you need to know about magic? Or demigods?” Had she gained some invocations? Was the Voice handing out more abilities? Was it more to worry about, to consider, while they strived to maneuver on from LongNight, back into the potential for ruin on other horizons, regrowth in the delusion?
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
