MELITA
Sorrows built up in ways that one couldn’t fathom. Grief was never quite linear; found in pieces and pockets of memories, of realities, of decibels that rang louder and louder until they demanded to be heard. Melita carried some, but didn’t know what to do with the ones largely unknown: the man who’d been broken apart in their efforts to demolish and hunt, and then how to work in her guilt.So instead, she clambered along the shoreline and didn’t go home. Didn’t cry into her pillow. Didn’t stay awake in the pitch black of night and wonder about how another’s story had come to a brutal end. Didn’t wonder about these miserable journeys. The honeybee shoved them all down into her throat and down into her chest and decided to ignore wherever they landed; embracing the waves today, with the bag over her shoulder, with Fangorn at her side, with everything else traipsing around her in the same speed; as if nothing was amiss.
Life moved on. And sometimes she didn’t think that was right. Why didn’t it ever stay still, just for one moment, so they could recover?
Refusing to pout or sneer, she wandered further – not noticing Maeve’s appearance, or the dragon’s. Instead, her eyes were to the ground, bare feet pressed into the sand, hands grabbing for anything of note, of worth, palm already checking out a handful of stones and pebbles that had bounded off of tides and currents.
Fangorn, with his recent upheaval with Umbra, noticed the companion right away, and grumbled something either in greeting, warning, or simple acknowledgement.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
