there's always a glimmer in those
There weren’t any leaping, bounding, or exhilarated movements today. Her heart wasn’t settled into exuberance or light, whimsical, fey aspects. Instead, she limped along, leg still settled into its cast, arm still in its sling, half-tempted to snarl at anyone passing by, a little more feral, a little more wild, but shackled, tethered, until everything was healed again.
What a mess. What a disaster.
Perhaps what hurt far more was the fact that any happiness, any radiance, any frivolity from the festivities had died right then and there; with broken bodies, with decrepit souls, with meaningless cataclysms and wreckage. It’d been havoc and dissolution, panic and pandemonium, sieges and assaults from nothing but a mud monster. And it’d spiraled from there.
One of her feet hit the door of the bar, and she fumbled along while Fangorn stayed incredibly close (very defensive, almost hovering, and she might’ve whipped around at him too if she didn’t know he meant well), opening the aperture unsteadily, and then continuing to wobble in. Eyes lifting, flickering over to the back of the bar, she caught the Flood and his silence – and quite frankly, didn’t know how to fill it either. She limped over, dragging her bad leg behind her because she found it irritating, vexing, and annoying, before stumbling over to her designated area, dropping haphazardly into a chair. She leaned her head back against the rest for a time, staring up at the ceiling, at the smoking tendrils from his cigarette, at the plumes and fresh paint, the memorial wall that would have to be added to once more. “Do you want to talk about it?” She offered, gaze not swinging his way, careful.
What a mess. What a disaster.
Perhaps what hurt far more was the fact that any happiness, any radiance, any frivolity from the festivities had died right then and there; with broken bodies, with decrepit souls, with meaningless cataclysms and wreckage. It’d been havoc and dissolution, panic and pandemonium, sieges and assaults from nothing but a mud monster. And it’d spiraled from there.
One of her feet hit the door of the bar, and she fumbled along while Fangorn stayed incredibly close (very defensive, almost hovering, and she might’ve whipped around at him too if she didn’t know he meant well), opening the aperture unsteadily, and then continuing to wobble in. Eyes lifting, flickering over to the back of the bar, she caught the Flood and his silence – and quite frankly, didn’t know how to fill it either. She limped over, dragging her bad leg behind her because she found it irritating, vexing, and annoying, before stumbling over to her designated area, dropping haphazardly into a chair. She leaned her head back against the rest for a time, staring up at the ceiling, at the smoking tendrils from his cigarette, at the plumes and fresh paint, the memorial wall that would have to be added to once more. “Do you want to talk about it?” She offered, gaze not swinging his way, careful.
who have been through the dark
MELITA
