Melita
Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down
to swallow the flame down
At the question, the youth shrugged her shoulders, a half-grin managing to situate itself on her face. “He was okay. Got better and better with practice.” As most did, if they picked up any knack or ability for it, if they listened, if they strived and tried. “I think he preferred his guns though.” Uncertain of where those were, lost in between realms, worlds, or death, the honeybee didn’t dig or pry any further, turning back in her swift, sure movements, even if she had no idea where they were.
Was it nice to have family? The inquiry struck her as odd; and she wondered what that signified for the man. If he simply didn’t have any. If he was amongst the many who’d lost them along the way, or never had the notions in his grasp to begin with. A sad, morose thought; Melita at least had the experience, the memories, of her mother and sister, happy and united for a time, underneath a sunshine, whimsical roof, dancing their way through meadows and sands. “Yes, it is.” When the rest of her kin weren’t ridiculous – which was a frequent amount of the time.
But then the sound came again, and Fangorn hesitated, stilling altogether in her arms. Out of habit, the girl readied her blade once more, growing rigid, quiet, hushed. A melody flitted in and out, as if orchestrated by its own devices and musings – and a low whisper, conjured by herself, followed through. “Do you hear that?”
Was it nice to have family? The inquiry struck her as odd; and she wondered what that signified for the man. If he simply didn’t have any. If he was amongst the many who’d lost them along the way, or never had the notions in his grasp to begin with. A sad, morose thought; Melita at least had the experience, the memories, of her mother and sister, happy and united for a time, underneath a sunshine, whimsical roof, dancing their way through meadows and sands. “Yes, it is.” When the rest of her kin weren’t ridiculous – which was a frequent amount of the time.
But then the sound came again, and Fangorn hesitated, stilling altogether in her arms. Out of habit, the girl readied her blade once more, growing rigid, quiet, hushed. A melody flitted in and out, as if orchestrated by its own devices and musings – and a low whisper, conjured by herself, followed through. “Do you hear that?”
to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun
to be the sun
