Melita
they should have checked the ashes
of the women they burned alive
of the women they burned alive
Her bow drawn downwards, firm in her grip, tied to her existence, the youth was quiet in her scrutiny once more. It was time for Aurelia to prove her merit and mettle, without the fire and flames surrounding her, without Melita’s insistence droning into the back of her mind. So the honeybee became a mere witness as the other woman instigated her stance, notched the arrow, and released its training accord. On strength, fortitude, or just plain fortune, the weapon launched its little tirade, making a resounding beat and decibel upon the ghost whale effigy. Her eyes widened, and figments of a smile registered on her mouth, a snort, with no attempt to be muffled, exuded and reverberated on the same intonations. Fangorn might’ve grumbled something congratulatory, but it was difficult to decipher.
“Well done.” She shrugged, turning back towards Aurelia, grabbing hold of another arrow of the same regiment, of the same ilk. “Let’s see if it was beginner’s luck.” A dare, a challenge, a provocation in the sprite’s gaze, the heralds of a smirk intertwining. She offered nothing about trust, about confidence, about assurance; waiting for all of that to fall apart too.
Not to be outdone, not to be outshone, Melita took her bow back along her arms, inhaling, exhaling, the arrow already bound and traced to the strands. A honing eye, a guiding hand, a blistering, malicious little star – her embers crackled, fizzled, scathed in her heart, and she released the string, taking in the Sunjata painted target, as the arrow loomed and zoomed. It spun wildly, wickedly, into the farther goal’s leg, meant to be an irksome, irritating wound.
Then she ceased, and handed another training figment to the fellow smuggler, the demand on the air. “Again.”
“Well done.” She shrugged, turning back towards Aurelia, grabbing hold of another arrow of the same regiment, of the same ilk. “Let’s see if it was beginner’s luck.” A dare, a challenge, a provocation in the sprite’s gaze, the heralds of a smirk intertwining. She offered nothing about trust, about confidence, about assurance; waiting for all of that to fall apart too.
Not to be outdone, not to be outshone, Melita took her bow back along her arms, inhaling, exhaling, the arrow already bound and traced to the strands. A honing eye, a guiding hand, a blistering, malicious little star – her embers crackled, fizzled, scathed in her heart, and she released the string, taking in the Sunjata painted target, as the arrow loomed and zoomed. It spun wildly, wickedly, into the farther goal’s leg, meant to be an irksome, irritating wound.
Then she ceased, and handed another training figment to the fellow smuggler, the demand on the air. “Again.”
because it takes a single wild ember
to bring a whole wildfire to life
to bring a whole wildfire to life
