MELITA
She absorbed his mischief, because it was far easier, far more comfortable, to do that then simmer and wallow in the foolish accord of her own making. She stepped back as the colosseum began to sputter into life; like copses, like glades, like beatific scenery befitting a true arena, where the world bared its teeth and bade them to hunt. But this was a show, a tease, a ruse, a way to entertain the masses, a way to exploit rules and regulations, trials by combat between comrades. On those instigating levels, she proceeded to try and act the part, to unfold pretenses along the high walls, to let the world view something not even tangible, not even corporeal. When he transformed, she acted as though she’d never seen it before – like she hadn’t been across his back and shooting at a giant pumpkin, like she hadn’t revered it, been impressed, been enamored by his abilities. She gasped, ran back, as if panic had settled into her bones and enamel, as if her limbs trembled, as if everything segmented straight into upheaval and ruin. I won’t hurt you her eyes said, mustered, before she ghosted her way behind a tree, a scream ringing out into the makeshift leaves and boughs. “Oh no, he’s been overcome by the monster!”
And while she pretended, a masquerade, while he flew towards the apertures and thresholds, a magnificent display of wings, barbs, and mane; she pulled her bow string taut – a purposeful murmur made into the fray for the crowd. “There’s only one thing I can do.” She breathed, a sharp inhale, Fangorn growling at her side, and let the fiery arrow fly into the sky – the movements not powerful or potent, but the image of the weapon beautiful and incandescent anyway. Don’t hit was a murmur in her heart, in her mind. Don’t hit.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
