to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
She didn’t know what to say. Stunned, bewildered, eyes widening for a fraction before slipping off to the bookshelves, to dust scattered on old tomes, uncertain of what to do. For so long all those who might have considered her important, few and far between, had died – slipped away from her no matter how hard she’d tried, no matter how hard she’d fought, no matter how much she’d strived to ensure it didn’t happen. She’d thrown herself to wolves, to fires, to lightning, and suffered the consequences – not strong enough, not capable enough, and no matter the howls, the anger, the contempt, nothing brought them back. Why on earth Wessex would still consider her something worthwhile was beyond her – Sunjata too, on those notes – her jaw clenching, unclenching, tongue daring to speak something, but teeth snapping shut over their sparks. She didn’t deny the Wraith her efforts, knowing, understanding, comprehending through those blurred memories and gnarled, bony hazes, bewitching, eldritch hell pervading over her memories. There were just parts she still couldn’t fathom.
Why did anyone care?
Melita didn’t have much to offer except her fervency, and even then, her assistance could be quite minimal, especially if a task required rational thought. Ebullience only lasted so long. Force and defiance could only do so much. Anger and vengeance could only orchestrate so many things.
What good was she, really?
She thought about retreating to her little grove of books and lantern light again, the softened glow where she could pretend those staff techniques would make her something better and brighter and stronger and more dependable, where she could twist and turn and believe that the blight couldn’t press back into her skin and that pestilence would no longer reign over her. Maybe Wessex should’ve left her in the folds of the Spire, in its dank, grim shadow, until she froze. Maybe Wessex should’ve put her out of her misery then and there.
“Maybe,” ricocheted over her mouth then, an echo to her unsaid thoughts and ruminations. “When I’m ready.” Because there were portions to her missing and scalding, and she hated that too – what the blight had done in those pockets of sunshine and determination, the way it marked, the way it chiseled a hole in her convictions. It didn’t help either, that the pestilence hovered over the Ascended’s entities, like a shadow, like a vice, blame segmented either by ignorance or sagacity. Did you know? she almost asked, but for once, her impulsive nature thought better of it. Her inquiry went unanswered; likely unworthy of knowing the reasons too, so she turned back again, her gilded eyes upon the fringes of her little fort.
Why did anyone care?
Melita didn’t have much to offer except her fervency, and even then, her assistance could be quite minimal, especially if a task required rational thought. Ebullience only lasted so long. Force and defiance could only do so much. Anger and vengeance could only orchestrate so many things.
What good was she, really?
She thought about retreating to her little grove of books and lantern light again, the softened glow where she could pretend those staff techniques would make her something better and brighter and stronger and more dependable, where she could twist and turn and believe that the blight couldn’t press back into her skin and that pestilence would no longer reign over her. Maybe Wessex should’ve left her in the folds of the Spire, in its dank, grim shadow, until she froze. Maybe Wessex should’ve put her out of her misery then and there.
“Maybe,” ricocheted over her mouth then, an echo to her unsaid thoughts and ruminations. “When I’m ready.” Because there were portions to her missing and scalding, and she hated that too – what the blight had done in those pockets of sunshine and determination, the way it marked, the way it chiseled a hole in her convictions. It didn’t help either, that the pestilence hovered over the Ascended’s entities, like a shadow, like a vice, blame segmented either by ignorance or sagacity. Did you know? she almost asked, but for once, her impulsive nature thought better of it. Her inquiry went unanswered; likely unworthy of knowing the reasons too, so she turned back again, her gilded eyes upon the fringes of her little fort.
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
