MELITA
The wobbling stones and the faulty columns failed to persuade her in ceasing – there was no desisting in her clambering motions, the singsong notions still on her lips, across her teeth, over her tongue, brandishing fire and vitriol in her wake. She would have liked to see this damned thing topple down too – every inch of the Spire laden into dust, the blackened contortions of her mind warped to regard everything and anything as a threat, as an omen, as an ominous, foreboding challenge. The Wraith’s words had little effect, naught stopped her movements now, clinging to sides, sliding over rock and marble, as if she were one of the Naiads, gone and lost their way across human and earthen-made floors. There was a habitual, monstrous dance in her wake, in her otherworldly essence, shattered savagery and flickering bouts of irreverence, missions of devilish proportions, staff in her hands, clattering into the wayward expanse, the riddled, mired contortions of more rubble, more ruin. It was like her heart, like her mind, in shambles, in fragments, in torn, embittered traces. “I keep my promises,” she uttered, loud and strident against monuments and the beckoning unknown, slithering in amongst the flecks of sunlight and shadow, a part of them, every inch of darkness and light. The softened words from Wessex’s mouth were the last things she ever thought she’d hear. A Melita without the blight would have dulcet regrets and shelled rancor, caught in the tides of forgiveness and despondency – this honeybee girl embellished stings and torment. Did the Queen want her forgiveness? Did the Queen want her to say everything was fine? Did the Queen want her to bow and pretend that naught was altered, changed, or morphed? Should they all go about their merry ways, on pretenses, on stages? “That’s all anyone ever says.” She was quick and swift, at Wessex’s side in haunting, fleeting movements, not caring about her blood-soaked feet, not drawn into the chill, only a persistent, fanged infidel, hackles raised, a petulant, consigned beacon. It had soaked into her irritation, her exasperation her consternation, the weapon across her palms drawn closer, wicked and cold and feral. “But does that make it any better?” Then she swung, no warning except her untamed existence, aiming for the Ascended’s skull – and even if her body could feel no pain, no agony, she hoped it would somehow simmer and sink into senses, into sentiments, so Wessex could understand, so she could fathom, the loss, the madness, the bloom of disaster written across once halcyon pages.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
