MELITA
A year before, Melita would’ve clenched her jaw and hissed at the notion of gods; of those dastardly beacons who’d done nothing but trick and deceive. She would’ve spoken resolutely of a Sun God, varnished and lacquered in fire and embers, in beatific strength and dignity, she would’ve boasted of his power, of his abilities, of the world he’d cultivated: the Dragon’s Throat, risen to the heights of sand, dunes, and cliffs. But that was before everything had shattered around them. That was before avarice took over. That was before she realized even primordial beings, things that had existed for eons, for centuries, for eternity, could be duped, trapped, and ensnared. That was before every nuance of a nightmare seared across her skin.Ludo’s muddy portrait completed, she moved on to embellishing lanterns at its side, some long, with little lights she wished she could make glow, some short, swung from fabric and rags, and the mask perfectly in place. She listened, listened, listened, about Ludo’s tricks (warnings she’d once received herself, and then gone on to ignore), Frey (one she avoided), and Safrin (did some cool stuff). But then nothing more.
Which was slightly disappointing, when her own experiences had been offered, ready to share. In truth, she’d never discussed anything about channeling, about summoning, about calling, calling, calling for those illustrious deities in their time of need, how she was merely mortal and savage and ridiculous, and they still came. Maybe Oliver didn’t want to know. Maybe it wasn’t interesting. Maybe he hadn’t been listening at all. Maybe he thought he'd already learned everything there was to know. Maybe he’d yet to understand that there was more than just clambering about in the bits and pieces, in whether one was playful, in whether one enjoyed fruit – and more about what they represented, more about what they were. The honeybee child wouldn’t have been able to answer all of those contortions – that was best left to the Naturals, those like Amalia, who’d spent their lives in reverence – but she would’ve tried.
She brushed her hands, streaks of mud down the length of her palm and fingers. Perhaps he was proud of what little he’d obtained. Perhaps he should’ve been. She shrugged, uncertain if she was even in the right to judge – but it stung a little, to be not worthy of asking. “Hopefully you’ll learn soon from your own experiences,” the lithe warrior said instead, eyes not even bothering to glance their way at him.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
