M E L I T A
“It’s fine.” It was a ridiculous lie, embedded and stuck behind her clenched teeth, her features incapable of hiding the torment clawing its way through her senses. Her hackles raised and she stared at the ground, at her wound already bruising, visibly coloring, more vexed and irritated with herself than anything else. She’d endured far more than this ridiculous, asinine development; she’d been a makeshift shield for her sister, lanced and lacerated by electric waves cutting into her back like a knife. She’d been dragged through the muck and mire, she’d been a rampaging little bastion at the front of the lines, she’d been choked by the hands of her own mother’s ghost – and this was going to do her in?
Not likely.
Melita was an unrelenting, ferocious foe to others and her own damned soul. Part of her trials and tribulations would always be the impulsive, impetuous nature of her designs, incapable of plotting out embroiled machinations, eternally ready for the next reel of movements and motions, but not the broader plan. All she wanted to do was fight. All she wanted to do was train. All she wanted to do was become better, a vicious, terrible onslaught for her enemies to shudder and quiver upon. “I’m fine,” came the next falsehood, invented on a rash, rough inhale, bending back upwards from where she’d been inspecting the flash of colors sizzling and blooming along her skin. “We can keep going.” Her nod was tenacious and defiant, every essence of her existence, her gilded eyes a dazzling array of persistence, an emblem of her being, foot splayed out at an angle deemed comfortable for the moment.
