MELITA
Her face was a snarl, a force of vitriol, fortitude, might, and ferocity that likely kept her going for her entire life – long, billowing breaths stretching through her lungs, in and out, in and out, as she maneuvered and crawled, as she slid along the ground in serpentine maneuvers and tried not to get trampled. More than once she thought about curling into a ball to avoid rampaging feet, but then her shoulder protested the movement, and she resumed her slow, plodding pace, dragging everything behind her. There were some screams and shouts all around her, and she gave them no thought, no voice, no poise, mind completely occupied by survival. Then Wessex was upon her, and the girl might’ve softened, hard to tell, covered in muck, mud, and exhausted, agonizing bouts, yearning to hide her face in the dirt until everything passed her by. Someone’s incantations (familiar, perhaps it was Loren?) floated into her and she remained perfectly still, incapable of saying anything, feeling a multitude of the pain lessen, a sealing of bones, and Phoebe alongside, setting the rest. Gods, she felt weak and helpless and stupid. "Thank you," was a hushed reverberation, her mouth to the soil, her sides heaving, a rise and fall of breath.
Could she stand? She didn’t know, striving to lift herself up, waiting for her shoulder to protest, and the earth, the sky, seemed to be revolving around her very, very quickly. “Where do I need to go?” She uttered to no one in particular, attention and mind hazy, unfocused, Fangorn’s growls the only thing she could surmise.
You're all gonna watch me
Disappear into the sun
Disappear into the sun
