who is the knife

Melita

I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles

Her sister, his father, were left out of her head moments thereafter, not adhering to those complexities when there seemed to be more at stake than just ghosts. Absentmindedly, she swung her staff around, watching it revolve back and forth in a circular pattern, keeping her hands occupied while her membrane, while her skull, while her mind filled with too many plausible, possible, repercussions and demands. The dramatics surrounding the Fae seemed to have nearly dimmed, despite an Ascended being murdered, despite Greatwood predilections from previous years, with the tides shifting, changing, whirling, into war conflagrations. “So.” She ground her teeth, and hated to ask the question. But it needed to be said, needed to be spoken, so that she knew about any plan, so that she could help.

“What are we going to do about Nate?” How was he going to be protected, when both of them had solidified alliances with Old Gods? How was he going to be involved, when he was stoked with New God ichor? Would something eventually happen where there would have to be a choice made? Or was she thinking too much, not common in her expanse, and it wouldn’t home to that? Her features withheld the grimace, but they weren’t calm; stormy, plunging gold, waiting for something to ignite and set her ablaze. “Is there something I can do?”

and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me