to be made of sunshine is beautiful
to be the light and the warmth and to be loved
She could just go, be left to her own devices again, scouring the pages for more detrimental techniques to wield and prosper at another time. The temptation was there, skittering and dancing over her skin. Her eyes narrowed at Wessex’s jerk of her head, a silent invitation, and the curiosity forever instilled in her skull curled and coiled against her senses. Quickly, a glance tethered back to Fangorn, waiting in the wings, and between their silent connection the vampire gourd bounded to her side, along her ankles, like a haunting little gremlin. She grabbed hold of the lantern he’d dragged over at her hushed behest, lifting it aloft, lacking those Ascended skills of sight in the dark. Then she followed the Wraith on her side of the aisle, hands ghosting over dust and shelving, intertwining with fluttering pages as she passed by, words incised and burned into spines, trying to memorize their patterns, their convictions, their configurations for later.
Then she listened, quiet but not sullen, about demi-gods, about powers, about variances, but not the why. The girl filled all of those inquiries within her head, brow furrowed beneath the eerie beams. Why would Wessex require research on demi-gods? Was she intrigued by Ronin’s abilities? Had something occurred in between all these other traumas and tribulations? Or was something else going on entirely, touches and fringes and qualities that were always so damned foreign to Melita, who seemed to live in a world, in a void, of ignorance? So instead of wallowing in its potential wrath or wreckage, she lifted her chin to ask, the light spilling across more spines, more tomes about incantations and enchantments. She’d never read them. She’d never bothered. She’d never had any of those wiles, any of those talents. “Why do you need to know about demi-gods?”
Then she listened, quiet but not sullen, about demi-gods, about powers, about variances, but not the why. The girl filled all of those inquiries within her head, brow furrowed beneath the eerie beams. Why would Wessex require research on demi-gods? Was she intrigued by Ronin’s abilities? Had something occurred in between all these other traumas and tribulations? Or was something else going on entirely, touches and fringes and qualities that were always so damned foreign to Melita, who seemed to live in a world, in a void, of ignorance? So instead of wallowing in its potential wrath or wreckage, she lifted her chin to ask, the light spilling across more spines, more tomes about incantations and enchantments. She’d never read them. She’d never bothered. She’d never had any of those wiles, any of those talents. “Why do you need to know about demi-gods?”
to be made of sunshine is painful
to be too hot to touch, too far away to reach
MELITA
