to be lit up from within
vein by vein
After the housefire, after the mob, after allowing her lungs to recover, Melita simply set out along the world once more. She thought about scouring the town for Nate, because she found it odd that he hadn’t returned yet (and had no inclination of putting other potentials in her mind), but instead, alternated in light skips, in a haphazard pace, in a swing of arms and limbs and bare feet. Fangorn, blessed and bounding, followed at her heels, as they traced the outlines of the world, of the canals, of the ramparts, eyeing the void. With LongNight come and gone, with bonfires dimmed, with parties less enthused under the lingering darkness, there was preparation for monsoons. While she’d likely be sailing during that time, on board the Ark with her fellow smugglers, the honeybee had every intention of assisting before the wind curled at her cheeks, before the waves took hold once more.
Melita never frequented the Halenani. It wasn’t a preferred haunt. But she rampaged by, then noticed the porch, the stranger, the stack of boards, the obvious need for other hands and assistance. The youth hemmed and hawed very briefly, giving way to impulse and movement again, calling with a wave, her other hand on her staff. “Do you need help?”
to be the sun
MELITA
