MELITA
Does someone ever get over the deaths of their family? Does someone ever truly move on from those horrible, tragic events, the stories that predetermined them, or the ones that came after? Did time heal all wounds? Or was Melita simply too bitter, too ensconced, too rattled and chained by her past to every let it truly go?She had her rage now – it smoked and fumed, piled on top of any other collective thoughts, nothing but a storm, an inferno, ready to launch, ready to howl, ready to roar at the slightest provocation. She couldn’t let go of her hate. She couldn’t let go of her contempt. What would she be without it? Some lost little girl, striving to become something with no one to defend? With no one to blame?
There was some small satisfaction in watching her staff collide into Kiada’s stomach and chest, listening to the wheezing sounds filling the underground echoes, a staggering, a sliding of limbs. Melita probably took too long in reveling in it – before she realized it, the Harpy stood above her again, striving to ground herself while she pulled against the honeybee youth’s staff.
She growled, a menacing little thing in the torturous angles of the darkness; attempting to use all the weight she had in her current stance, arms raised in defense of her weapon, unwilling to let it go. Her strength persisted, but her muscles wanted to resist, wanted to scream out into the false evening, tired, fatigued, wrestling with similar statures and sizes; and then she maneuvered her legs, attempting to kick out, distract, hoping to angle them in some way that Kiada would be maimed or diverted, granting her an opportunity to get up, and strike again.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
