MELITA
While the man had been a stranger to them, he hadn’t been to others, proving they were lost to the sands of time, to the artifices of life, to the bewitching hours of naught – she found herself mimicking his actions, raising her head again, leaning on her staff, until she settled her lithe frame on the water – dress soused and drenched, bathed in the chilling rapids. She listened to anything and everything, and wondered why. Why did she care about someone, about something, that hadn’t given a damn about them? That hadn’t yearned to do anything but stare, but scowl, but deny, but reject? Was this what it was like to be truly deserted, a little hollow, a little grave, a little empty? Her heart sunk, stung, crossed vitriol into its chambers and bled cloak and daggers; but her defiant little airs and thoughts still took everything he offered.They’d known one another, houses and cities – of Arms, like munitions, like guards, like bounties of weapons stored away, and she could recall him having the look of a warrior, entirely too broad and intimidating, an overpowering force of nature, sullen and forlorn. She’d still smiled at him, asked him questions, crept in curiosity, like a lost soul, like an idiot, like an insipid fool, and it clawed at the back of her throat, a dying wail, a withering scream. Graasovel, something her tongue could barely wrap around, but her mind grabbed hold and chased down, not with dreams, but with bitterness and rancor, one more rue and regret to harness and harpoon. You weren’t wanted the dubbing signified. You were naught to him the title ensnared. He left the calling sanctified; in her heart of hearts, likely comprehending they weren’t the only ones.
Even a last name; something she’d never had, taking her mother’s with her as the portal spit them out into midnight oils and desecration. Kahare; she’d never pen it with her signature, never put it next to Melita Najya, never snag and embolden Clementine’s with it either. Noble born and set to rule – a lifetime of achievements and peculiarities destined on his back and shoulders and disregarding it; ladies, starting wars, useless…
And she hoped, she hoped, she hoped, she’d wouldn’t become like him.
Gaal, the Goliath.
Supplied with information about a beast she’d never see again, a father with no connection to his daughters, only blood, only secrets, only nothingness, her gilded eyes (and were they like his?) settled on Sunjata’s, a withering sigh hastening from her chest as she sought to process, to redefine herself on the nature of the unknown reshaping, resculpting. “My mother was Najya,” her voice boasted, something like pride, so she’d be remembered too, so one other person would recognize a name meant for the heavens and not this blistering hell. “A healer – she was gentle and kind and sweet. She sacrificed herself for us.” Tears threatened to burn her eyes, but they never fell, too strong, too determined, too willful, glory in the pitfalls. “Clementine loved flowers, singing, and dancing in the meadows,” and Melita had protected her until she couldn’t anymore, until she wasn’t enough, and it seemed to be a pattern, a ritual, to be left scattered, torn, and nothing. “Thank you for letting me know.” Her gaze shifted onto rocks and ledges nearby, tilting her head, leaning it against her staff, like it was shield, like it was a sword, while the water roared beneath her, while they chased memories. “Why are you telling me all of this?”
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
