Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
We have to remember the way ambled through her mind – the way home to portals, the way to salvation, the way to liberation, the way to coated vows and assurances. Fangorn nestled into her, and they were alight on the pathways of snow, shivering and shuddering even in the midst of summer’s evenings, stretching out alms and balms. A plea might have gone unheard, humming under her breath in the close-knit punctures of wind, as she nestled her coat closer into her chest, hands grabbing hold of the material. Begging wasn’t quite beneath her, and the fire-child looked to the sky, to the walls, to everything in between for a mere sign that she was on the right path.
And then there was Pemota.
Melita couldn’t help but feel the stark relief, the aching bliss, in seeing the mechanical starwhal, the singsong whirls and the cataclysmic notions of what if spiraling into her heart. “Pemota!” An outcry, an echo, a reverberation of embers and everything – the world racing under her skin, the hovering whale making her move, making her run into the wild paces, long limbs reaching, reaching, reaching until there’d be nothing left of her but cinders and embers on the way through the ice.
There was a dip, an impression, and she lifted her lantern to see him, half-buried. “Nate!” Wake up, don’t be dead, don’t be dead, you can’t be valiant form of something beyond curses in her mind, the frantic emblem of her movement and motions, spurned into a rush, a zealous, a frenetic onslaught. She handed Fangorn the lantern, and the faithful gourd held it aloft for her to see, while she crouched beside him, half-buried in the pockets of frigid elements, hands went to the Ascended, to her favorite uncle, grasping for his shoulder. “Nate, you have to get up. Please.”
And then there was Pemota.
Melita couldn’t help but feel the stark relief, the aching bliss, in seeing the mechanical starwhal, the singsong whirls and the cataclysmic notions of what if spiraling into her heart. “Pemota!” An outcry, an echo, a reverberation of embers and everything – the world racing under her skin, the hovering whale making her move, making her run into the wild paces, long limbs reaching, reaching, reaching until there’d be nothing left of her but cinders and embers on the way through the ice.
There was a dip, an impression, and she lifted her lantern to see him, half-buried. “Nate!” Wake up, don’t be dead, don’t be dead, you can’t be valiant form of something beyond curses in her mind, the frantic emblem of her movement and motions, spurned into a rush, a zealous, a frenetic onslaught. She handed Fangorn the lantern, and the faithful gourd held it aloft for her to see, while she crouched beside him, half-buried in the pockets of frigid elements, hands went to the Ascended, to her favorite uncle, grasping for his shoulder. “Nate, you have to get up. Please.”
Melita
