M E L I T A
The streets were alive again; rejuvenated from the reckless winter’s reach, the knives and knots of LongNight loosening their grasp. Melita was just the same, breathing in the fringes of warmth, the touches of sunshine, and if she were a bird, she would’ve stretched her wings and flown to the heavens. Instead, she skipped down the lanes and avenues, rushing through corridors, unfurled her merriment and ebullience in forceful melodies gliding across her tongue, her lips. Sometimes there was purpose behind her steps, and other times it was simple restlessness, the eagerness to flee the confines of darkness, the belligerent shadows, the press of oblivion. Today’s adventure was marked in the latter, touching and igniting the fringes of wilderness in her untamed motions and movements, Fangorn bounding behind with his typical hisses and grumbles. But she couldn’t be waylaid today, by anything or anyone, not caught or trapped in the boundaries of melancholy, not in the foothold of anguish, not in the blighted, bitter snares of the past. The world was at her feet, and she danced on its gales, on its blossoms, on its threshold, with passion and fervor.
The pair crossed as a unit below the alms of houses and shops, billowing along the markets with their fineries and riches. She slowed, gaze flicking over wares and fabrics, honeysuckle limbs and boughs, ice and rime fading away on cobblestones, and then made her way back through the next set of roads and crescents. The youth would’ve likely passed right on through, without a care or concern, focused entirely on her whimsical delights, had she not heard a familiar buzzing. It was a hum, not unpleasant, but distinct, conducted by a favored orchestra of animals. A grin billowed its way along her features, and an almost impish, devilish sort of gaze settled its way into her eyes, following the melodic drone as it drowned out the notes she carried.
Eventually, Fangorn safely bundled in her arms, they reached the height of the swarm: unfortunately chosen where another being had already taken residence. Her stare glinted towards an individual staked out on the roof, building materials resting and jutting out in places, repairs set aside at the intonations and cadences of secondary hosts. She opted to call up to him, friendly, amicable, amiable, her decibels raucous and loud over the rest of the din. “Looks like you have a bee problem!” Her smile grew, a nearly tangible designation of reckless, heedless rhythms, before offering her assistance. “Would you like some help?”
