M E L I T A
These amiable efforts were far more exalted than the turbulent, tumultuous intervals of LongNight and its disastrous touches; she nodded in rhythm to her hums at the information
She’d been hoping to gain more information about the upcoming festival – the Rift had no happy celebrations except the latest night’s survival, and Helovia had been content, beautiful, in those sparse moments before the end. “Do you know what we’re honoring?” She asked anyway, even if Phoebe remained uncertain; the depths of her gilded gaze settling on the girl briefly, before attending her attention back to stems, leaves, and blooms. Honeysuckle was contentment and loyalty, constancy through storms and tempests. Daffodils were renewal, resurgence, the sprigs of spring after winter’s frigid touches. Lilies were ardency and fervency, deep-rooted passion draped in orange, cheer adorned in yellow. Love, no matter the reaches, curled and pearled in yarrow. Her eyes floated to each, clucking with her tongue as she attempted to decide which she’d pick for the first crown, for the diadem and tiara stretching over skulls and craniums. “Sounds perfect,” she proffered back, grin restored, as her hands reached for honeysuckle and yarrow, clutching hold of the stems and beginning to weave them in place, as if she’d done this for her entire life.
The honeybee girl tried not to cry at the incoming of feelings, at the whistling memories coiling their into her mind, all at once, beatific and wondrous, segments of a better time, of a better place, before the bitterness, the nightmares, the horror crawled in and burrowed its way into her core. She blinked rapidly, fought them away; and recalled a sweet little girl placing whatever blossoms she could in her hair.
