a eulogy for roads untraveled

Melita

yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard

Melita’s glare was solely for the dragon – the curl of her stoked gaze puncturing, gilded and flared, as if struck by fire themselves. She felt no sympathy for his whine. For his placating. For his guilty missteps. There’d been enough warnings instigated, unfurled, and he’d barreled onward anyway. At the very least, Seren acknowledged it, rather than letting it go, laughing it off, or reeling back upon her in some manner of anger – there was a lesson instilled, fabricated, in all of this foolish melee.

But at the thoughts of an apology, she’d let Fangorn decide. Her eyes went to the bundled gourd in her arms, a pressing arch of her brow, and he rumbled something low. It could’ve been regrets. It could’ve been faith. It could’ve been something about bugs. Thereafter though, the youth inclined her head towards Seren, implying the dragon could apologize, but Fangorn would remain in her arms for safety. So she held him outward instead, turning him around to face the obliging dragon. “We’re listening.”

I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury