Looking for Trouble

MELITA

“Of course,” she said without further regret or rue, a maiden long since mired and rooted in dangerous outlooks. They might’ve been spectacularly different, but similarly connected in kindness – Melita rarely opted to sway or dart away from those who needed a helping hand, a guiding squall, a oeuvre of treachery and distinction in their wake. She presumed Phoebe was much the same, healer and supporter, capable of wielding bandages, soothing hurts, assuaging aches and pains. Two sides of the distinct coin: Melita’s hands went for defense of her friends, Phoebe’s concoctions went for nourishing and relieving. Both could be heralded on the same larks and whims, and where the honeybee youth was clearly lacking in all healing departments, Phoebe was the opposite, knowledgeable and precise. Melita was wild. Phoebe was tender. There was nothing wrong with either thing; it made them pronounced and prominent in their disciplines, made them different, made them raw and real. Experiences marked growth, and they sprouted in alternating channels, reaching for the sun in varying ways, but still there, still bright, still devout, still reverent to their chosen realms.

The girl hastened her staff to rest on her shoulder, arching her brow, looking out past the labyrinth confines, to what could lurk within, to what danger sparked and sizzled, to what she could find in those blistering routes and valleys. “Are you ready?” She asked with an untamed, savage little grin, beholden to only rebellion and calamity, limbs suddenly itching to savor the tenacity and treachery lurking amidst the woods, the crags, the vines. Fangorn loosened his own feral growl, but its meaning was lost in the murky fathoms.

See I've come to burn your kingdom down