M E L I T A
Wessex saw right through her, straight into her core, her heart, her overwhelmed, blessed, seditious soul. Melita wanted to be something other than this inept, weak girl, capable of enduring but not much else. It would take time, and Wessex assured her of this; nothing was instaneous, no matter how badly she wanted it – her jaw clenched, but she nodded at the kind oath, eyes still not daring to look up into the Ascended’s, but pausing at the small smile; pondering layers of disappointment, and if there were any after all, if the youth had simply set herself up to fall, but rise, rise, rise again, a stunning little phoenix after everything was said and done.
Her staff was taken, and her fingers might’ve reached out for it, a minor complaint, comfort in the solid wood, in the ability to wield something that could protect, that could destroy, but Wessex’s finger was in front of her face, wagging and encircling her brow. You don’t have to prove yourself to me echoed along the calm, quiet refrain, and she felt something ghost and billow behind her eyelids, pressing in on her; for she’d spent her entire life desperately trying to show the world what she was capable of, that she couldn’t be denied, that they shouldn’t dare look away from her form, not when she was fire and vitriol, not when she was exuberance and wonder, a tempest on the horizon. It was how she’d survived in the Rift, it was how she’d explored in Helovia, it was how she’d maintained any semblance of existence in Caido. It was a defensive position, a way for the world to see what happened when they collided with her fangs, with her talons, with her claws, with her insurrection, flames and infernos, struggling to let it go. “I’m serious. I’ll do my best,” she nodded, breathing in and out, tampering down the essence of her melancholy, of her anguish, of her yearning, burning wish to be something so much better than what she was, the hint of a smile peeking along her lips. Her arms trembled and her legs were shaking and she was so weak compared to everyone else, but she’d be damned if she ever gave in.
She watched as Wessex dropped to the ground, followed the specific movements in silence. She knew they wouldn’t just be staring at the sky, at the endless, dark void and the stars above, but her body was quite content to relax there for a moment, shifting once or twice, indicating which limbs were sore. She still followed the silent directions, lifting her legs (and feeling them tremble; her abs clearly not ready for any of this), then her shoulders, inhaling big puffs of air as they continues. By the time they worked themselves to a plank, everything hurt, tiny muscles trembling, arms aching, her body stunned into this sort of work. Dashing through fields and hurdling herself over logs, chasing down stars and the heavens, and running amidst shadows and caverns hadn’t set her up for this sort of work. But it was fine – she’d adhere and deliver whatever Wessex had her do – no rest for the wicked or the weary. As she stretched, she nodded, hiding her pant, agreeing to the measures while her body ached and cajoled for no more. “I will!” I will persevere. I will be strong. Then she shook her head about inquiries, and just mustered acknowledgments. “Thank you. For everything.”
