M E L I T A
Melita was drawn from the embers and coals, pluck, might, and spirit sketched in her veins, outlined in her steps. She was a flare of phoenix fire, a piece of the wilderness lost and left behind, emboldened and broadening out of pure resolve and determination, vigor and refinement in the savagery of survival. The girl should’ve been a broken bird, wings cracked and frayed, feathers lost in the flare of life – but she was mightier, tougher, persistent, sculpted and carved from perseverance and valor. Her heart set upon moments and matters, and she stuck to them, inch by inch, nerve by nerve, cut her teeth on tenacity, wore her armor in ruin and redemption. Perhaps it was too much boldness amidst the melancholy, twisting and turning her misery into some potent dauntlessness, where she dared, where she howled, where she roared back into heavens and hell, grasping and clenching at the last few elements that would have her. They fizzled and tore, and she promised, pledged, vowed, and assured, and each movement, each motion, held those frenetic strands, ardent and passionate, barbarian grace in fledgling upheaval, born in the desert sands and sent to devastation. Sometimes she wondered if she’d deserved it – beatific blessings ripped from her hands, failure after failure, because she failed to yield when the world said to bow, because she rarely fell to her knees and prayed for forgiveness, because she carved and forged her own path, and rarely listened to the greater omens, the harsher truths. Melita could paint the world in the echo of her losses, in the spells of her tirades, in the unrelenting force of her ferocity, desperate to claim everything as hers, struggling to hold onto the pieces and portions she’d always had. You lost the realms, the kingdoms, the sovereigns seemed to bellow, screeched, and screamed, but she’d glance their way and spit some audacious splendor, some emboldened discord – and here she remained.
Her gilded gaze caught sight of settlements and sanctuaries, and her heart leapt at the notion. Perhaps there were more of her friends, her family, lurking amidst the fallen columns and newly-formed buildings; the hope blossomed in her chest, in her soul, and her senses bounded in earnest. The youth thought about flowers, about petal-soft scents, about gardens drifting in amongst overwhelming gardens, beatific, golden, intangible in the morning’s radiant light – Clementine stopping everything to sit amidst the butterflies and bumblebees. So she traced those foundations, anticipation pulsing along her motions, aware that she looked half-wild, half-feral, in leaping bounds and cherished dreams; pondering if her sister, if her twin, would’ve fallen here too, and they could be reunited, finally amongst the same sun, the same stars, the same moon. While the honeybee girl had always drifted in amongst the shadows and doom, insurrection on her tongue, sedition on her smile, Clementine had been the gentle breeze, the easygoing wind, the peaceful, blissful tide. She would’ve gone to sanctums and havens, sought out a refuge to weather the storm – Melita bent and broke and hissed before wandering into the villa, poised to strike, to melee, to brawl, to survive.
It was not to be. The longing perished on the stretch of alleyways, on the enigmatic incline of cold streets, on the dusky, hollowed contortions of houses and lots. Her stare settled on broken windows and fallen glass, on the haphazard discord brimming below the surface. Clem wouldn’t have been here: she would’ve stretched her wings along the fields at the first sign of discontent, tender and wholesome, flying on the ether, on the whims, fairy qualities and ethereal bounties. Melita sighed, brushed some of her curls aside, and tucked her long shawl back up over her shoulders. Maybe she should’ve checked the fields beforehand; but even they had their drawbacks, and it gave her a sense of apprehension. What if her sister wasn’t here? What if she had been taken, snatched, and stolen into some violent terrain? What if she never got out of the Rift? What if they never saw each other again?
She swallowed down the choking, suffocating nuances, pushed them down, down, down, into her ribs, into her lungs, and set along further down the street, jaw clenched, chin stuck out, determination set neatly back into place. She wouldn’t fall apart here, not now, not after everything they’d gone through. Everything would be all right; she would make sure of it. It was a vow. It was a promise.
But the elements had an intriguing way of distracting her; catching her along the canals and roads, ensuring she drifted closer and closer across the cobblestones. It was music – a little melancholy, enriched by mournful, solemn edges, and her ears were still entranced by it, inching along the borders of walls, between corners and hostels, before she found the bard settled amidst the courtyard. Tunes and melodies had been a part of her life in the early days; her mother’s hums and hymns had always been beautiful, songs of intrepid Amazons or doomed sirens, gods inhabiting the earth, hallelujahs sprung from nature and enchantment. This one didn’t have the same harmony – it was bleak rather than blissful, but soulful all the same; and despite having no singular talent in the same regard, she’d been blessed by the musing, by the talent, of the man echoing upon the boulevard. Melita should’ve been a bit uncertain in her approach, but the girl had never let fear rattle her bones, chill her spine, or fill her core, weaving her way through crowds and stones, smiling, despite the somber refrains. “You have too much talent to be gone,” she uttered, all radiant sunshine and appreciation, head tilted in quiet perusal, careful study, eyes ghosting on the guitar and its strings. Had she any coin to her name she would’ve tossed him one for capability, flair, and art alone. “Where did you learn to play?”
