M E L I T A
The honeybee child had always been enamored with stories. When she was even younger, undaunted by the trials and tribulations wound within myths, entirely unaware that the same things would be her plight, she’d sit by her mother’s side and simply listen. There’d been tales of mighty sun gods and their blinding, beatific rays coasting across the land, igniting the sky, the realms, the kingdoms, until peace and bliss had been completely restored. There’d been breathtaking wiles contorting in the traces of murder and condemnation, innocence torn asunder, fingers pointed, trickery and deceit employed until the mysteries had been uncovered. There’d been mystique and wonder along the thresholds and boundaries of men turned immortal, so powerful, so heroic, that their names spellbound their fellow creatures, when statues were erected in their honor, when horror arrived in their throats at the promised omniscience gone to wither, gone to decay. All of this had been before the Rift, when a girl could enjoy the merriment, the exploits, the adventures of others without the chaos and destruction settling around her; and she’d pretended to be the seaside monsters, the sword-bearers, the shield maidens, until the world cast her in the very same roles.
This one wasn’t without its chronicles and narratives. She’d helped with the perch building of the Spark Bird because she’d yearned to see it, to be one more witness to the broadening of flames and the screeching of embers, because it reminded her of those sweeping sagas, curled in her mother’s lap, playing with her sister’s hair s they wore pretenses of flower crowns and feinting paupers. Now, she scoured the fields and woods for the Luxere; parables of their glowing antlers, of their compassionate graces, had all but consumed her.
So Melita was a waltzing contortion of motion; a hum beneath her lips, a song in her heart, and movement bristling through her limbs. She and Fangorn ran along the thickets, expecting impending damnation if she didn’t reach a proper hiding space in time, if she’d managed to ruin another opportunity to catch a glimpse of the aforementioned deer. Dusk loomed and haunted, and she barely had time to hide behind a massive oak, grabbing hold of her gourd companion and shimmying up its containments, into its boughs, before nightfall washed itself over the branches. She didn’t have anything to offer but a gentle, merry tune bubbling in her throat, so she let that wash over the void, tucked in the strands of pine needles, hoping it would coax a legend out of hiding.
