who is the knife

// it's a lonely road, with one grip on several psalms and one grip on the gun
and it holds the rope, it spins me in circles and dizzies my head then says sleep when you're dead //

There’s a moment of internal surprise as he watches Melita chug the drink he’d poured for her. But he doesn’t question it as he retakes his perch by the window, drawing up and closing off again as he lifts a hand to rest on the chair’s arm, propping his head onto it. “I don’t know what it means.” He says quietly, almost sadly, looking back to Melita. As for her question of what would happen to them, well, he doesn’t think much would happen. “It’s different, I think. We’re not… Tied to them like the Ascended are to the Voice. We don’t have to replenish anything from the old gods.” As he says it, a muscle feathers in his jaw.

They may lose their fancy items, their shifts, but that’s all conjecture. Nobody knows what might happen. So he doesn’t dwell on it. He knows what would happen if the Voice were to be destroyed, he knows what would happen to Nate.

But Melita understands his conviction, and it’s with a nod of understanding that he props his head up on a fist. “Family is best at that, you know.” He murmurs, a ghost of a smile creeping across his face before he does a mental check of what they’d need. “Well. We have to carve it out, first of all. Two exits just in case one gets compromised, trap them both.” Magically or otherwise, wondering if there was a possibility to ward it in a sense, so that only those welcome or wanted into the bunker would be allowed to go. But again, it’s conjecture, and the alcohol soothes some of Sunjata’s nerves but fuzzes his mind for specifics.

were you ever here? or just lost on the surface that at the first touch, evades in the dust?

SUNJATA

Melita

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

Different in ties and knots; the girl nodded, clarity springing into action. They didn’t have to draw themselves to shrines and linger in the threshold of their heralds and deities. It was a choice, an option, to bend their heads and scrape their knees, deliver offerings and prayers. The Ascended were limited in that coercion; and if the Voice was mauled, what happened to the rest of her flock? Dangerous propositions all the way around – even while Melita wondered if a change wasn’t necessarily a bad thing  (would they gain their own dependence, away from the goddess?)– or if mere supposition, and the alterations might be ever more severe instead of good.

She wrinkled her nose and breathed in deep, before pouring herself another glass, content with the notion of everything else blindingly fading out of her senses. “Would he need anything else down there?” What for supplies, once they’d carved it out? “And what kind of traps do you want?” There was a thought about asking Ludo, and then the notion was hastily shoved away; considering how the herald had wanted the Ascended murdered at one time, she doubted warding something off for that particular race wouldn’t go over well.

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

// it's a lonely road, with one grip on several psalms and one grip on the gun
and it holds the rope, it spins me in circles and dizzies my head then says sleep when you're dead //

“I’m not sure.” He admits, a touch distractedly as he watches her down another glass, no judgement at all in the motions because he was absolutely one hundred percent the same. “I had planned to wait until he was back before deciding anything.” Because if anyone would know better what to include, it would be Nate.

So he wraps an arm around his knee, drawing it up to his chest to perch his chin on it as he stares at Melita – stares and doesn’t quite see her, as if he’s formulating the plan in his mind and using her as some sort of backdrop for it. “Only we will have a key.” We, as in Nate and Melita and himself. That’s all that needed to know about it, all that needed to even care in the first place. It was something that couldn’t be compromised. But beyond that? He hadn’t put much thought into it, too distracted by everything else to really think about it.

were you ever here? or just lost on the surface that at the first touch, evades in the dust?

SUNJATA

Melita

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

Indeterminate lengths of blades and knives, the uncertainty waging still, impacted by Nate’s absence. And even then, Melita wondered if they should be worried, some coil of apprehension knotting its way down her spine – the alcohol apparently incapable of warring the remains of its dirges and dregs away. “Okay.” She took another swig of her drink, not downing it like the first, taking heed of edges going fuzzy and lines blurring, of ghosts cycling back over, of the charitable, cherubic laughter in the background. Audacity and boldness stirred even farther though, and her brows furrowed. “What is he doing anyway?”

Only three keys then – family clutches and grasping holds, nothing more, nothing less. She nodded and ignored the subtle spiral of the room, placing the drink down on the table, instinctively leaning on her staff to remain upright. “Let me know what you decide and I can grab what we need when I’m not sailing.” Somehow her speech still maintained coherency, though that would likely rapidly decline too – eyes sliding towards windows and the rush, the roar, of the sea.

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

// it's a lonely road, with one grip on several psalms and one grip on the gun
and it holds the rope, it spins me in circles and dizzies my head then says sleep when you're dead //

”Okay.” She agrees, and it soothes some of the worries that have settled in his gut. But he focuses on her next comment, letting his gaze slip back over toward the honeybee youth, silver eyes shadowed by everything going on, darkened with the alcohol burning in his gut. “He’s making a shrine in the Climb.” He rumbles, keeping his arm tight around his leg as it remains drawn up, attention drifting away from her again as he goes to rest his forehead against his knee. “And I think… A portal to get to the Climb. So nobody will have to go through Halo anymore.” And despite the worries many had about the portals, Sunjata enjoyed them very much.

But then he’s letting his brows furrow together, eyes shutting tight and blocking out the light and other sights he might see, if only to think about what they could make for the bunker – how they might protect Nate in any way possible, by any means necessary. “I will.” He tells her quietly, his tattooed arm tightening around his leg with a bit of an instinctual tensing.

were you ever here? or just lost on the surface that at the first touch, evades in the dust?

SUNJATA

Melita

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

Shrines and portals, and then a semblance of understanding, nothingness, followed thereafter – promises of things she wondered if he’d keep (because hadn’t she heard those uttered before?). The alcohol buzzed in her ear and she knew better than to continue escalating or skirting around the subject, leaning heavily on her staff as she waved, intending to meander and make her way down the stairs, fumbling along to her own room. Gonna keep this one? she wanted to ask, as it waned along her mouth, as it settled in behind her teeth, with a crooked, malicious edge. Perhaps she’d learned not to set it all alight, or she was merely droning and drowning along the restless ghosts shaping along her eyes. “All right.” And with a half-hearted shrug, she lingered away, down the ramparts, her information granted and knowledge extended.

{FIN}

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