Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Nothing good. No loaded preambles. No talks of glory or triumph. It was the dirt in the streets and the ashes in lungs, as flames drew around potential conflagrations, things in the future, unholy ethers brought to life, brought to the surface, brought to where veils were unshrouded and reality came to ensue. She took the cup firmly in her hand, and then downed it in one gulp, letting the fire spread down into her bones, in her breath, in the noticeable clench in her jaw, fighting over the multitudes of mayhem. “Changed completely? What the fuck does that even mean?” Altered? Morphed? No longer Nate? And the rest of them too? “What happens to us if the New Gods win?” What would happen to all of them? Her fingers clenched hard around the glass and she placed it down on the desk with an audible thunk, the staff still strong and enduring in her grasp.
“I know.” She knew he’d choose Nate. Just as she’d eternally chosen kin above crew. Just as she’d consistently picked bloodlines and friendships, comrades in arms, over the entanglements of vengeance (though that was enticing). “And as much as you all piss me off, I’ll always put my family first.” A pause, a reflection, something for now instead of later. “What do you need for the bunker?”
“I know.” She knew he’d choose Nate. Just as she’d eternally chosen kin above crew. Just as she’d consistently picked bloodlines and friendships, comrades in arms, over the entanglements of vengeance (though that was enticing). “And as much as you all piss me off, I’ll always put my family first.” A pause, a reflection, something for now instead of later. “What do you need for the bunker?”
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
