M E L I T A
Hours spent amongst comrades in arms had been full of nefarious blessings: she hadn’t been alone in her fights, in her trials, in her pledges and vows for vengeance. They’d been one and the same, hundreds of strangers come together to solidify bloodshed and terror, to unleash hell and upheaval upon those who’d stung them first. They’d roared and crooned, screamed and screeched, rampaged and decimated, merging into a seditious splendor. Perhaps that’s what she missed the most – and it seemed odd, peculiar, between the anguish and despair, the melancholy and the rage; but she’d been a part of something. No one had underestimated her. No one had told her to stand back. No one had nudged her behind a rock, yelled at her to hide. They had all combined forces and everyone had been beneficial, everyone had played a role, everyone had surged in a unit of animosity, violence, and insurrection – and for those paralyzing moments, it’d been glorious. She had the scars, the marks, the stigmas of brutality draped across her skin, but they scarcely mattered. It’d been worth every bite, every tear, and every laceration.
The makeshift staff wasn’t the same as a sword, and the gourds weren’t the same as monsters and demons, but it was enough for now, laying siege after siege, blow after blow, cackle after cackle. They reappeared just as quickly as she’d ensued their demise, and it was a zealous, ardent rush, to combat the unknown all over again.
The call of not bad came across the streams and embankments, and the honeybee girl took a scarce moment to brush aside a tassel of curls from her face, to see who approached. She didn’t recognize her; but that wasn’t a difficult prospect, Melita was more the stranger in these parts, another token being of enigmas and quandaries. She was mesmerized for those entangled seconds, bewildered by bobcat kittens racing off and the glow of fire – grinning, laughing, and flames tore gourds and vegetables apart. “Well done!” She shouted from her inlet, using one arm to sweep her stick across one more stray pumpkin.
Magic, she thought, the smile still there, embedded in her lips. She’d been witness to enchantments and invocations, but never possessed any herself; she might’ve been an absolute nightmare if given the right opportunity to unleash hell and havoc. Instead of harboring any envy or jealousy though, the sprite was always enamored by the fixtures, by the wonder, of the abilities and talents. “Could you do it again?” The youth laughed, standing aside as more gourds came rolling into the area.
