MELITA
There’d been no training in Helovia (too young) or the Rift (too hellbent on existing). She would’ve relished or cherished anything amongst siblings or friends, but her sister had been gentle, lovely, and tender, and Melita had been the rough thing on the wind, grating against the world. None of them had expressed interest in fighting except to stay alive, and even then, some had fallen to pieces. The honeybee youth had bit down on enamel and rested her laurels in abhorrence and revenge; which might have been how she endured or persisted at all, when others didn’t, when they were nothing but memories and scattered souls.Sword movements were enough to regard the state of memories gone and vanquished, attention riveting to the tactics employed by someone with far greater experience. Weaver spun, and Melita attempted to do the same – though with much less depth and skill – not wanting her side, her back, exposed to the drop of the blade. Instead, she raised her arm, her blade, and tried to catch Weaver’s again, irked that she was constantly on the defensive, lacking some fundamental aspects, fighting down the nature of ignorance.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
