M E L I T A
Disappointment didn’t come to Melita easily. She was too determined, too fortified, too persistent to ever back down from a challenge. It was a likely flaw and defect, something that would probably jeopardize her in the future, but for now, it was just the toxin she required. Her face was settled into a serene stare, eyes fixated on the remaining sticks, on the trial hastened before her. The girl could have been the portrait, the picture, the essence, of defiance, spirit and upheaval measured in the weight of her gaze. But they all seemed to embody that look – as her gaze took in a rapid, swift study – as if the weight of the world couldn’t stop them, couldn’t top them, couldn’t make them beg or plead. Her jaw clenched, and she smiled once more as Wessex tossed her the ultimatum.
At the very least, the girl always tried.
Tenacity and stubbornness was a lifeline, the flowing ichor in her veins, the catalyst to her existence. Had she no will whatsoever, she wouldn’t have been there. She wouldn’t be alive.
Melita breathed deeply, grabbed hold tight of the final gourd as it squirmed in her hands. She ran her tongue behind her teeth and delivered her silent pleas, her fortitude, her might. Don’t look down on me, she whispered between the blades of grass, within the midnight air, alongside the hushed winds, the tense ether. She lowered her arm, swung it back, and released the bounty of energy flowing through her limbs.
The gourd didn’t have a prayer; it sailed like its past brethren, landing upon the grass in a righteous fury, bludgeoning three of the remaining sticks with ease. One of its comrades landed upon the final, upright stalk; but it stayed, refusing to falter or fall, as obstinate as the girl.
So she’s failed. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. The youth released the breath she’d been holding, and closed her palms into fists, felt them dangle by her sides, before destroying the tension, unfolding her fingers so they splayed out. You gave it your all her sister would’ve said, beautiful and charming, always attempting to find the brighter side of the disastrous world they’d lived within. Another day, her mother would’ve said, patting her crimson curls and inviting her to warm tea, to stories in the sunset, to forgoing transgressions and losses. So she stood straight and tall, spine as defiant as the rest of her frame, nodding to both Rory and Wessex. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity.” Then she didn’t know what else to do – leave? She hadn’t earned her right to continue with the game…but perhaps they’d let her stay? To watch? To bear witness to those better than she?
