Melita
Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down
to swallow the flame down
She stepped out into the light too, a breadth and breath of its own glory. Once a child created and contorted beneath its infernal wings, and now something else altogether; alive and whole still, persevering in the depths of heartache and demolition. Melita lowered Fangorn to the ground, where the gourd happily bumbled across the sand, and her gaze softened to glance upon the pumpkin, to be out of the reaches of the cave, amongst and amidst other memories. Only when Aurelia started speaking again did the gilded stare snap back to attention, listening to the other woman’s opinion on the deity that had brought the Outlanders here.
And she could have her hatred, her contempt, her wrath; Melita wouldn’t begrudge her that. The honeybee hadn’t been snagged from any place less treacherous – the world she craved had been long gone, and she’d merely been sent from one hellish realm to another. Her family had already been destroyed, mutilated, and gone. She’d already become a feral, wicked little thing, the blurs between compassion and wild, untamed savagery blurring, bending, blending until that was all she’d known. But it made sense that those who had something, who’d been immersed into their peace, their repose, and everything they’d ever known, would be embittered, rancorous.
So no judgment careened from the sprite, stare glinting back over the horizon, the roll of the waves, the undulation of the coast. “We survive because of the people around us, and we give help in return. She might have brought us here to try and further her agenda, but I have no intention of doing so.” Not intentionally, anyway – her arms crossing over her chest, instinctively pulling back to the thought of knives and daggers.
“I have nothing against the Ascended. It’s the Voice I don’t care for.” She thought of Nate; favored over Sunjata. She thought of the Wraith, the woman who’d strived to train her and how things had crumbled, crumpled, in the siege of Fae whims and blight masquerades. “I’m capable of making my own decisions. I don’t have to follow everything the Gods say.” Perhaps an emboldened, seditious statement – but that was Melita to the core.
And she could have her hatred, her contempt, her wrath; Melita wouldn’t begrudge her that. The honeybee hadn’t been snagged from any place less treacherous – the world she craved had been long gone, and she’d merely been sent from one hellish realm to another. Her family had already been destroyed, mutilated, and gone. She’d already become a feral, wicked little thing, the blurs between compassion and wild, untamed savagery blurring, bending, blending until that was all she’d known. But it made sense that those who had something, who’d been immersed into their peace, their repose, and everything they’d ever known, would be embittered, rancorous.
So no judgment careened from the sprite, stare glinting back over the horizon, the roll of the waves, the undulation of the coast. “We survive because of the people around us, and we give help in return. She might have brought us here to try and further her agenda, but I have no intention of doing so.” Not intentionally, anyway – her arms crossing over her chest, instinctively pulling back to the thought of knives and daggers.
“I have nothing against the Ascended. It’s the Voice I don’t care for.” She thought of Nate; favored over Sunjata. She thought of the Wraith, the woman who’d strived to train her and how things had crumbled, crumpled, in the siege of Fae whims and blight masquerades. “I’m capable of making my own decisions. I don’t have to follow everything the Gods say.” Perhaps an emboldened, seditious statement – but that was Melita to the core.
to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun
to be the sun
