Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
The youth and her companions managed to sequester their way into the Feverlands again, beckoned by the notions of spirits, by the quandaries of festivals, by habitual layers of years gone by. Her hands grasped her sister and mother’s lanterns, a given at every interval and year, and those of other lost companions.
Strolling by the table, with Sila on her shoulder and Fangorn bobbling around her ankles, she snagged a few morsels for herself and them, stuffing a candy into her mouth, while contemplating where best to snag and put her adornments. Her eyes went to her uncle, some distance away, but avoided the notions before they could even truly begin, not willing to swarm into open hostility amongst a world already brimming and brewing with it.
So, the three of them ambled over to a tree not yet occupied, and she began to fix the lanterns to the branches one by one, tenderly touching over each – in fond memories.
Strolling by the table, with Sila on her shoulder and Fangorn bobbling around her ankles, she snagged a few morsels for herself and them, stuffing a candy into her mouth, while contemplating where best to snag and put her adornments. Her eyes went to her uncle, some distance away, but avoided the notions before they could even truly begin, not willing to swarm into open hostility amongst a world already brimming and brewing with it.
So, the three of them ambled over to a tree not yet occupied, and she began to fix the lanterns to the branches one by one, tenderly touching over each – in fond memories.
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
