M E L I T A
“Yes!” It was a wholesome declaration weighted down by the potential, by the potency, layered in its sanction. She was impassioned and fervid in her tempestuous drive for an education; her heart rapid, her breaths swift, her restlessness curling its way through her limbs. Melita had plenty of drive – it’d been an uncontained nuance since her childhood, chasing down butterflies and bees through fields of clover, through meadows and ferns, pursuing anything and everything that could satisfy an endless, bountiful curiosity. She’d craved boundaries and warrens, puzzles and pieces, dove-tailing into labyrinths and caves without the slightest bit of hesitation, a child of the earth, the sun, the dirt and dust. Then it fell apart, and she was forced to yearn and long for other things: suitable weapons, a day of safety, sanctuary and fortifications for her friends.
Now, it didn’t have to be simply a wish.
Melita thought of tranquility, of serenity, of small, spring winds and the sounds of swallow songs. She thought of sweet nectar nestled between flowers. She thought of laughter and radiance, the sun beating down from its humid wake across the Dragon’s Throat, the perennial war cry of Sun Gods and their hasty, brazen nuances.
But then she thought of the world falling to its knees, of deities floundering, of losing everyone; she ground her teeth, she clenched her jaw, and her foot fell to the ground.
“All right,” she admitted, head downcast for a moment. “Maybe not.” A sigh fluttered through her, and she glanced sidelong at Fangorn to see the pumpkin shaking, either with laughter or disappointment. Then she lowered her frame down to the ground, hands splayed at her sides, before pushing up off of the earth (and she didn’t confess how difficult that was; her muscles roared on the third, the fourth). Sheer determination and willpower brought her to the tenth, but it’d been a damn effort. Her arms felt like jelly, loose and fatigued; and this was all suddenly very stupid. Her skinny limbs were well suited to speed, but not to strength; might only exist in the forefront of her resolve and tenacity. She rose, stared, and looked at her makeshift staff, wondering if she even had the right to wield it.
