to be lit up from within
vein by vein
For once, her movements were quiet in the rise and fall of the tide, in the hushed endeavors of sand and sun. The air was crisper, a chill rattling off the coast, signs of seasons fading into decay, but the notions didn’t maim, tear, or rip at her; mostly a resigned notion, as her hands worked, as some mode of framework and foundation for the lantern had been established. Previous years of watching and working beneath designated tutors, instructors, like Amalia, like Jigano, had made her ease into the memory, almost inherent, like the way she swung her staff, or the methods she instilled in pulling a bowstring. Fangorn, resting amidst her knee and the shoal, alerted her to another approaching – a feral growl, a tenacious hiss, before the figure advanced further up the beach. She raised her head instantly, wondering if a threat was deigning to appear, if her weapons were necessary, if she’d have to pull something out of dunes and strive forward, a menacing, bewitching entanglement of vitriol –
Then she realized it was just Oliver, and settled, snorting, laughing ridiculously to herself, a puff of wild wind floating from her sanction. When he eventually came near, she’d already waved. “Oh, no. Go ahead. I’m just making lanterns for the Festival of Lights.” Perhaps it would be better to have some company, instead of immersing herself deeper into the trenches, continuing to glide along the surface, not bogged down in the currents, in the fathoms.
to be the sun
MELITA
