M E L I T A
Phoebe reminded her of tangible warmth, the sun’s luminous rays, the ebb and flow of sea waves, the gentle, lulling trace of breezes and petals. It was peace and repose, a humming sanctuary right beneath her nose, and Melita smiled, her bright, ebullient grin folding over her lips easily, naturally swayed by earnestness and compassion; she’d once thrived on it, leaning into her mother’s embrace, listening to the heart of myths and legends. She’d gladly render her efforts and might.
The tasks seemed fair enough – though sorely lacking in fighting monsters or foes (perhaps one of the few talents she possessed besides recklessness and a raucous atmosphere) – the others taking up their talents with maneuvering furniture or stringing together a new bell. All that was left were the teas and tonics, and for a moment, Melita hesitated. Anything regarding delicacy or grace was bound to be mired into the chaotic simply by her actions alone, too impulsive, too bestial, too ardent; she was suddenly afraid she’d ruin things. Didn’t this require precision, attention, and carefulness? These weren’t facets the girl currently possessed – though steadfast and valorous, she was also one of the first to always rush into the fray, not meticulous or scrupulous, a bit of an untamed, wild thing. She steadied her breath and her trembling hands, nerves getting the best of her, for she didn’t want to fail, didn’t want to waste this woman’s time, didn’t want to be regarded as inept and stupid, blinded by ignorance. “To the teas and tonics then!” She winked, rushing forward, pretending to forge on ahead, a pattern, a ritual, she comprehended very well.
A recipe book isn’t a demon, she chastised herself, but her glance indicated otherwise, and she’d be much more comfortable if it was. She took in the light herbs, the hanging strands of future, beneficial rights, and hoped her efforts wouldn’t blight the whole thing. Her eyes peeked at the papers, trembling fingers running through the pages, scanning over plants and leaves she recognized, could put together without bludgeoning and destroying the precious artifacts. The mortar and pestle were at least a grand tool, and she’d be able to grind things down, shove her strength and might into the substance, watch them pulverize, grant herself the luxury of movement and power. She willed herself to be slow, methodical, sent up a silent prayer and plea to whatever gods watched over her now, taking the fronds and placing them in the container, maneuvering her newfound weapon in strict verity; checking in every once and while to see them turn into tiny fragments, become something other than a blossom from a brook’s edge.
