M E L I T A
As the man shifted, she realized he really wasn’t a stranger at all. Though she had no name to the face, she’d seen him before, amidst gatherings, along the discussions pertaining to monsters, mayhem, and death that wasn’t. “Oh! It’s you!” Her words took on more luster, softness giving way to her persistent effulgence. Her approach was less guarded too, no longer stationary, maneuvering along the wood line, closer and closer until she was a few yards away, bag tucked against her shoulder. The youth reflected his brightness – no need for alarm, for peril, for treachery, for devastation and annihilation; it was in the ease of their meeting, the gentle sway, the lack of danger. She noted his gaze pinpointing on Fangorn, and the pumpkin responded in kind by retreating further behind her figure, and she would’ve explained everything right then and there (he was the last and I had to try ready to set free from her lips, like she hadn’t been amongst the many fighting and obliterating them), had another not popped out from the thicket.
There was moment where Melita was irritated at herself for not noticing the other one; too distracted, maybe, or her senses were going (those clear-cut ones from the Rift, where demonic essences overflowed, overwhelmed, and the note to run or to fight bewildered every other nuance and emotion). Otherwise, she was perfectly content with more flaming-red hair and confusion, proffering a more generous smile despite the inquiries bombarding them. They weren’t technically for her anyway; Melita had been born into realms of magic, of enchantments, of invocations sprung from gods’ lips and deities’ dreams, of ambitions flanked by sorcerers for hundreds of years. She just hadn’t been amidst the blessed, had been forced to forge her own path by sheer dedication, persistence, and sometimes dumb luck. Her friends’ consecrations had been beautiful to see, to know, and to understand, but she could see where one would be bewildered, shocked, by the existence of shifting beasts and figures, of men changing to lions, of oblivion resting on the heels of mortals. The honeybee child would allow the man to explain it anyway – it wasn’t her place, nor her talent.
Instead, she proffered ways of introductions and laughter, a spring of her own radiance and brilliance. “I’m Melita, and this is Fangorn.” Her hand extended towards the gourd, who glared at them from her ankles, and she softened her smile, lowering her frame so her fingers could glide over the top of his stem in a show of ease and faith. The little beast nearly purred. “He managed to survive the great pumpkin purge.” She shrugged, as if this didn’t give her any cause for concern, that he’d somehow either outwitted or outlasted members of the human race for this long, but it was the only explanation she had, because half of it had been on impulse, and the other one basic benevolence. Why this one and not the others was lost on her though – possibly because he’d been the runt, but wise, calculating enough for the both of them. “So I took him in.” The girl settled on this argument as if she’d do the same to any creature – one of those foolish maidens who would try to befriend the most feral of dragons or monsters.
