Green Labyrinth
For the first time in her life, she began to wish for the past – because it’d been perfection, it’d been endless curiosities, it’d been dozing with the sun in her face, the wind in her mane, the eternity of restlessness and bounding forth to inquire, to love, to cherish. They’d explored, they’d laughed, they’d whistled into the air, they’d challenged one another for supremacy in splashing the longest, in dreaming the farthest, in gallivanting across the heights of dunes, the curling, coiling, twisting bouts of the breeze. She’d beamed beneath her mother’s stalwart, gentle gaze, raced beside Clementine’s sweet-smelling frame, and investigated new landforms with her friends. There’d never been any cause for concern, no worries, no anxieties, no apprehensions – and now, that’s all there seemed to be. The weight of the world pressed down between her shoulder blades, wore away the infinite graces of her grin, traced arrows along her chest, so that every hour, something gnawed at her, chewed, smothered, clawed its way amidst her marrow, her ribs, her bones, her entity. She wondered where her beautiful dam was every second of every moment, she tried to keep Clementine safe from the monsters in the crypts, in the catacombs, in the shadows and in the sunlight, and she bristled when chaos continued to ravage, contort, and control an entire region she was wholly unfamiliar with. It burned away at her core, left her gaping, left her listless, left her devoid of what used to be, and could never be again.
The pining returned as Iskra swept her up into a boisterous, ebullient hug (tears clawed just behind her eyes, and she blinked them away, quickly, because it shouldn’t have been painful to enjoy precious time with one’s friends) – she smiled and laughed too, allowed it to echo, to buoy, probably where it didn’t belong. This wasn’t the time or the place to revive play and antics, but lord, how she longed to, if merely to forget the war waging on around them. She felt him stiffen beside her as bedlam howled again, and the mere, trifle diversion was gone again – sudden, another ghost in a series of poignant, haunting memories. It wasn’t fair. None of this was.
We should be back in the sands. Iskra should have his mother back. Otem should have her mother back. Everything should be normal. But they couldn’t. It wasn’t an option anymore.
The honeybee girl didn’t want to listen to the commands of Kaos. The urge to curl her lips and draw back a sneer, some boisterous, bold movement, motion, comment towards the beast bombarded her senses; ferocious, unyielding, fierce – it harked and it coiled, wrapped itself around her heart and dug in. But there was naught more she could do – so the girl thought better of it, swerved her gaze so it filtered on Otem, on Iskra, on Pippigrin, instead of the conniving beast beckoning orders. She wondered if Iskra’s grin hid something deeper then, as he nudged her away, as he shuffled them back into the folds of darkness. Did he want to conquer their new foe too, lurk in the shadows, bide his time, or agree, do as the false God commanded? “Okay,” Melita whispered back, despite the fact that she wanted to do everything but listen (and why – why did Iskra do as he said, when that beast had been the one to destroy his mother?). She bit the inquiries back, smothered everything down below, into her pockets of stones and forbearance, funneled and followed, traipsing into throngs of chaos, and remembered a brighter world where they didn’t have to plot, didn’t have to scheme, didn’t have to foil elaborate ruses – when they’d been children, allowed moments to grow, to thrive, to blossom.
The pining returned as Iskra swept her up into a boisterous, ebullient hug (tears clawed just behind her eyes, and she blinked them away, quickly, because it shouldn’t have been painful to enjoy precious time with one’s friends) – she smiled and laughed too, allowed it to echo, to buoy, probably where it didn’t belong. This wasn’t the time or the place to revive play and antics, but lord, how she longed to, if merely to forget the war waging on around them. She felt him stiffen beside her as bedlam howled again, and the mere, trifle diversion was gone again – sudden, another ghost in a series of poignant, haunting memories. It wasn’t fair. None of this was.
We should be back in the sands. Iskra should have his mother back. Otem should have her mother back. Everything should be normal. But they couldn’t. It wasn’t an option anymore.
The honeybee girl didn’t want to listen to the commands of Kaos. The urge to curl her lips and draw back a sneer, some boisterous, bold movement, motion, comment towards the beast bombarded her senses; ferocious, unyielding, fierce – it harked and it coiled, wrapped itself around her heart and dug in. But there was naught more she could do – so the girl thought better of it, swerved her gaze so it filtered on Otem, on Iskra, on Pippigrin, instead of the conniving beast beckoning orders. She wondered if Iskra’s grin hid something deeper then, as he nudged her away, as he shuffled them back into the folds of darkness. Did he want to conquer their new foe too, lurk in the shadows, bide his time, or agree, do as the false God commanded? “Okay,” Melita whispered back, despite the fact that she wanted to do everything but listen (and why – why did Iskra do as he said, when that beast had been the one to destroy his mother?). She bit the inquiries back, smothered everything down below, into her pockets of stones and forbearance, funneled and followed, traipsing into throngs of chaos, and remembered a brighter world where they didn’t have to plot, didn’t have to scheme, didn’t have to foil elaborate ruses – when they’d been children, allowed moments to grow, to thrive, to blossom.
Melita
let me live that fantasy
@Iskra @Otem
