MELITA
Her eyebrows lifted briefly at the notion of not liking the chickens – half a question within those movements – as if to ask, as if to inquire why he kept them at all, if he didn’t care for them, why he wasted his time or efforts. The girl had always ferociously dedicated herself to things, people, and places that she cherished; lackluster ambitions and emotions weren’t quite in her essence. It sizzled and seared and simmered in her mind, but she didn’t give it voice; afraid to break apart the notions of peace and repose. Perhaps that was growth for her too – when ages before she would’ve launched automatically into the notions, spiraled and courted them from her mouth like flames, unafraid of who she burned or seared in the process. Instead, the click of her needles formed something; if one glanced at it quickly they might say it resembled the beginning of a collar, or some bungled, tangled up knot of thread impersonating any semblance of order. But Melita persisted, as she so often did, determined in her convictions, whether it be power, prowess, potential, or this damned sweater – certain it wouldn’t prove to be her downfall, unwilling for its manifestation to be anything but successful.
The youth lifted her head from her work at Nathaniel’s inquiry, a minute tilt, a silly little smile sparking at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, I gave them some options,” a haphazard shrug; as if it didn’t really matter, and the weight and notion of surprise was the more exciting faction. “Food, weapons, or shiny things.” Perhaps she should’ve been more specific: but the youth rarely thought of anything she craved save for strength, might, and dominion, and that was found only within herself, couldn’t be handed over by another. “What would you have wanted – if you participated?” A hum escaped under her breath once more, some devilish, mischievous accord now.
She's so hard to please
But she's a forest fire
But she's a forest fire
