Melita
they should have checked the ashes
of the women they burned alive
of the women they burned alive
It was kind of Aisha to say, but the youth knew she was the most inexperienced in regards to swordplay. The staff and bow were ranges of competence, skilled from childhood until now, where her bare feet rested into the sand, calves stretched to ground herself into their pinnacles. A smirk was all Melita would extend thereafter – for then there was the art of the dance, of the frames and figures of potential lethality, of disastrous mayhem exuded amidst intricate movements.
Aisha’s were far more at ease, comfortable, as if she’d been born with the blade in her hand. Melita had been thrust into sand and fire, and while the movements weren’t intrinsic, she’d blended them into her everyday notions and motions, so eventually they’d become her own form of walking, of pacing, of striding, of binding, until each step was a promise. Perhaps of bloodshed. Perhaps of abominations. Perhaps of danger. Perhaps of treachery. Perhaps none of them at all, and the world would be none the wiser until it was too late.
Her eyes watched and followed Aisha’s maneuvers, seeking to billow like embers, like stoked fires, like conflagrations after a kindled wind – raising her own sword to catch at Aisha’s, to repel and recoil and snag lest it come arcing into her side. It snagged on the edges, on the fringes, mettle against metal, metal upon metal, and the snicker shined through.
To which she responded with an eager twist of her pommel, intending to notch the hilt down over the precision of Aisha’s munition, to seethe and sear enough strength to knock the weapon askew, out of her grasp, or otherwise make it unwieldly.
Aisha’s were far more at ease, comfortable, as if she’d been born with the blade in her hand. Melita had been thrust into sand and fire, and while the movements weren’t intrinsic, she’d blended them into her everyday notions and motions, so eventually they’d become her own form of walking, of pacing, of striding, of binding, until each step was a promise. Perhaps of bloodshed. Perhaps of abominations. Perhaps of danger. Perhaps of treachery. Perhaps none of them at all, and the world would be none the wiser until it was too late.
Her eyes watched and followed Aisha’s maneuvers, seeking to billow like embers, like stoked fires, like conflagrations after a kindled wind – raising her own sword to catch at Aisha’s, to repel and recoil and snag lest it come arcing into her side. It snagged on the edges, on the fringes, mettle against metal, metal upon metal, and the snicker shined through.
To which she responded with an eager twist of her pommel, intending to notch the hilt down over the precision of Aisha’s munition, to seethe and sear enough strength to knock the weapon askew, out of her grasp, or otherwise make it unwieldly.
because it takes a single wild ember
to bring a whole wildfire to life
to bring a whole wildfire to life
