MELITA
She followed him with her eyes, movements akin to predator extensions, barbaric and bestial measures once grown from protection, now scarred, mutilated, and unfurling; no longer a picturesque scene of youths fighting for what was right. Now she was wrong, wrong, wrong. He didn’t respond to her – which was a bummer, because manipulative tendencies would have been far easier to deal with; instead, her bow balanced lightly on her arm, the quiver of arrows on her back ignited and ready. It was his fault he hadn’t listened.He kept backing away though, so she advanced, along branches and boughs as if she were a part of its earthen roots and fortifications, not even bothering to hide her motions – monster, monster, monster, once a dream and now a reality, no longer in control of her irreverent intuitions. She notched an arrow onto the rigid, taut line, crawling along ancient, primordial timber. Her aim was not for the luxere – because some portion of her compassionate heart might’ve remembered the light, beatific creatures, how she’d fed them apples from her hands, how she’d sung hums and hymns under her breath, striving to pulse her mother’s whimsical chords.
It was for the rose.
The youth pulled the string without a second though, the blaze of the arrow’s path directly solely for Loren’s belt, where gilded petals and thorns laced their way into protection - oh, not for long she wanted to shout and scream and howl into the day.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
