M E L I T A
The other girl must have sensed her unease; no sooner had Melita completed another packet than Phoebe came swooping in, friendly and amiable. For once, the youth’s eyes fell, slightly downcast, expecting to be chastised despite all her efforts, because that was how some moments had played out. Her world and motivations had been impulse after impulse, heedless, reckless, and steadfast, and this time it might’ve cost her some pride, some hubris, weighting her down and coiling across her shoulders in a band of apprehension. Maybe Phoebe didn’t think she could do it. Maybe she’d caught her in the stranglehold of ineptitude, shaking her head in dismay when it became crystal clear that the honeybee girl was out of her element. Her essence was oil and fire, incensed determination, provoked mayhem, melee, disaster and ruin; this was carefully cultivated roots and berries, herbs and teas, sprung towards lips in signs of creation and healing, mending and soothing. Melita was none of those things, and it stung a little.
But she wasn’t down for long; the blistering fortitude of her might didn’t allow or permit dismay for long periods of time (she’d still be in the Rift, dead, sinking beneath rime waves, awaiting her eternal catacomb), hastening another long breath, a brilliant smile. She could see Phoebe’s kindness radiating along the corridors and parlors, how she was willing to assist, even offer the shield maiden a way out. Escape was there, proffered in furniture arranging, where she could use her strength and fervor to finish the accommodations. The temptation was there, lying in her heart, swayed by the idea of deliverance from the lines of trepidation; but then, if she was to succumb, when would she ever get better? Would she be destined to simply flee at a moment’s notice, whenever something got rough, difficult, or hard? She’d never done such a thing before – she’d been bullheaded and irreverent, ridiculous and catastrophic, a defiant chin raised against false gods and deceitful patrons. Cowardice was unlike her. Why would she start now?
She could learn, and she’d accept it, wholeheartedly. She’d soak it in, every speck of knowledge, every ounce, every granule of sagacity until she was consumed with wisdom; it was a measure of sedition and challenge in the weight of her stare, in the resolve curling between her fingers. “I’d love some help. My mother was a healer, but I didn’t acquire much of her skills.” Her tone was ebullient, a spark, a sizzling torrent, lacquered in the don’t underestimate me quadrants and the gentle breeze, because the whole realm was not out to spite her, and she understood that, could meld and mold the reasons within her mind. “Is this enough?” She gestured to the latest steeping leaves.
