MELITA
Come she heard through her waltzing, her bliss, her relief. Come echoed again, causing her to turn her head, face to the wind, to the balm of autumn and its chilling flesh and blood; the singsong quandaries hastening over her mind. For a moment, she was unsettled, anxious, a weird, strange trepidation piercing on her skin – teeth worrying over lips, and she didn’t know where it had come from, because hadn’t she always followed, yearned, and craved? Hadn’t she always run straight into the ether, no inquiries asked? The heedless, reckless reverberations didn’t scrape at her here; instead, it was a coiled apprehension gnawing at her sides. What’s going on? she wondered, not even noticing the trembling in her hands.
But she followed, like a dutiful little soldier, Fangorn at her heels, growling some version of inquisition at why she wasn’t rushing into the fold, at why they weren’t racing headlong into the abyss, into the void. When she glanced up, they’d managed to meander towards the Wildwood, and the beautiful Fae before them, compelling them onward and onward. Our wishes? They were being rewarded for the great pumpkin disaster? “Thank you,” was all she could manage to conjure at first, the boldness oddly lacking (and even that was irritating, usually so audacity, so quick to act). She didn’t even know what to ask for – her wish, what was her wish – before Fangorn nudged her, and the gilded set of her eyes flicked back to the kind Fae. “A new bow?” She wondered aloud; timid and sheepish, while the rest of her seemed dying to claw out – her breath and lungs in a rush, rapid inhales, palms quivering. Her other one had diminished in the fight; she’d yet to pull at the strings again, afraid it would crack and fall apart.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
