MELITA
Born in the desert, Melita hadn’t understood the cold until the Rift, and most of that was just emotional pieces, trying to hold herself together while ghosts clambered over her throat, pierced shades of strength and doubt. So she nodded, listening, a grin along her face as Weaver described her home. “The Hollowed Grounds is a bit like that too. The world is hard, and there are monsters everywhere, but most people seem to come together. And that makes all the difference.” Her arms slid over Fangorn, clutched him against her chest, listened to him grumble while she placed her staff along her back. A family unit of learning and striving then – Melita had only fringes of those motions and notions. Her mother had been a healer. Her sister had been gentle, kind, and sweet, and never harmed a flower, much less a fly. Her father had never been there, and she’d only learned of him from Sunjata’s experiences with the piece of shit. So Melita had been the brave one, the fiery one, the reckless, unrelenting one; building her tough enamel, her lacquered strength, while the world threatened to pull her apart. “How wonderful,” and the smile remained, effervescent and kindled. “Do you still do that now?” Family units and ties, coiled together, bonds durable, tethered, even if there were knots and gnarls. Aspects she often missed; those glorified moments gone in a flash.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
