M E L I T A
When Melita wanted something, very little stopped her from trying to acquire it. Sometimes determination carved its opus straight through her heart, and the achievement rang sooner rather than later; sometimes fate played a different card and made it virtually unobtainable. She breathed a sigh of relief when this moment played out to be the former, when the soft velvet of the reindeer’s nose pressed against her and demanded more snacks, more treats, more apples. “Oh,” she giggled as it tickled over her skin, and she reached out for more, adhering straight to their commands without hesitation. “They like me?” Her grin was broad and airy again, as if it had been composed by fae and their whimsical, mercurial delights; head turning back to Phoebe, hoping beyond hope that the statement was true. The girl tried to stand perfectly still, but it was difficult, because Melita was Melita, and the need to move, to maneuver, to simply go do something was always an incensing force in her frame – hand twitching, itching to touch the soft fur or the glowing antlers within her reach. “Can I pat them?” Did they like it? Or would they run away? The youth didn’t want to break some tradition or mold; not when she’d suddenly become successful in her endeavors – but the mercenary, coveting aspirations were still curled and coiled there, nestled in her conflicted heart.
