M E L I T A
No one had ever schooled Melita in the ways of accuracy, though she’d never blamed them. There hadn’t been time, there hadn’t been those brief intervals of repose and sanctuary, where the heavens and heavens opened up, allowed them those quiet moments of peace and safety, when she could’ve obliterated targets with a skillful thrust, instead of blindly scalding, ripping, and tearing. But there hadn’t been – disaster and oblivion had been around every corner, nightmares had stretched across their eyes, and devastation would’ve come to them in the blink of an eye, in the letting down of one’s guard. She could only imagine the amount of damage she could’ve dealt, out there in the shadows, upon the length of demonic sands and nefarious mires, had someone been able to show her the true meaning of combat.
So it was only appreciation and gratitude in her gaze, in her stare, as Alistair offered the tutelage. It was thank you in her heart, in her lungs, in her spitfire motions, in her silent, unsung declarations. Her wrist followed his touch, fingers taking hold of the gourd placed in her palm, and the more exuberant smile gleaming across her face. She nodded her compliance as she maneuvered behind her, thinking naught other than endless excitement over learning a new skill, acquiring the ability to calculate, to slow down, to breathe in those feral moments of assaults and vehemence. This wasn’t the battlefield, but perhaps, if she could practice more, it would become much more natural than bounding straight into hell, than recklessly, heedlessly, annihilating; blending into an art.
Her figure obliged his requests, arm winding back, fingers gliding along the lines of the rind, where the grooves were more prominent, noticeable, apparent. She’d never even truly thought about them like a grip – she’d just flung, thrown, gave over to speed and hasty notions. The girl even gave pause to recite his commands in her head, the rasp easily flowing into her ears, along her thoughts. Your legs are the bracers, your hips the band, leaning into the concept with youthful abandon, likely too fast and unsettled, but clinging to the education like a lifeline, completely comfortable with being guided into the fray. She slid her toes to point in front, envisioned the days of slingshots, impish delight when a stone pummeled some newfound enemy. The mimicked motion, the picture in her head, fostered fundamental clarity – brows furrowing in obvious thought, pouring all her attention into the matters at hand.
When she realized he’d proffered a first attempt together, she finally collected herself back together, the feral, savage intricacies blending right across her face, as if she were ready to face demon after demon, fiend after fiend, instead of sticks, stones, and irritating vegetables. “Sure! Ready when you are!”
