MELITA
You can’t let them something in her blood stirred. You can’t let them an anthem, an echo, a reverberation beneath her skin, swallowing, consuming, devouring her movements. There was no little honeybee girl lingering on the surface now, too much fire, too much vitriol, too much blackened madness pulsing and pervading, like knives and daggers, like the staff held in her hand, Stygian and unattainable. She practically slithered and crawled along the ground, body low, a feral hiss on her tongue, below her breath, simmering, smoldering, in her brutal haze, mind too twisted to recall what she’d been doing when she wandered out into her yard and down into the pathways, barefoot and bewildered. There was no compassion in her gaze. There were no heartfelt, exuberant ploys in her steps. Each motion seemed a little manic, a bit savage, ruffian, wild, Fangorn at her heels with vicious yaps and growls, too bonded and broken, fettered at the frayed ends just like his companion. She launched towards one of the roses – locked in her sights – impulsive and impetuous again, but all the more blistering and seething, nothing holding her back, animalistic, carnivore. Then she raised her staff and brought it down upon something beautiful, something pure, something vital, laughing when it fell apart beneath her power.
See I've come to burn your kingdom down
