Melita
Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down
to swallow the flame down
She stared at him – really and truly stared. Her features could have been hallmarked as dumbfounded, bewildered, or merely confused, the perplexity in her brows shifting and turning with each phrase. Melita had no room to comment, not really, given her proclivity for impulsive actions, for wandering out into the regions without a rhyme or reason - distractions from her current debacles. So they were in the same quandary, with only wandering means and knives to brandish at one another. Delightful. Maybe someone had sent this stranger off on a wild goose chase just for kicks and thrills; it would’ve been a Torchline thing to do. “What man?” She shook her head, eased back some of the wild locks away from her face.
Which might’ve been a decent notion, for suddenly her discontent pulled into something else altogether – mentions of important man and meeting with the Governor (her uncle), and then the name itself. “Adam?!” She laughed, and it was an exuberant, loud cacophony of sound and joy, remembering the boastful individual whom she’d taught to shoot an arrow, the news that he had perished, the lantern she’d placed along hooks for his companion. The confounding notions at the latest lantern festival hadn’t escaped her – she’d mostly stood there dumbfounded (and maybe a little caustic; that Kiada had died without her knowledge and then was reborn was another blasted notion altogether). “You must be Peter then.” The ease came over her, less rigid, less drawn into battle, extending the hand not holding her dagger towards his. “I’m Melita.”
Which might’ve been a decent notion, for suddenly her discontent pulled into something else altogether – mentions of important man and meeting with the Governor (her uncle), and then the name itself. “Adam?!” She laughed, and it was an exuberant, loud cacophony of sound and joy, remembering the boastful individual whom she’d taught to shoot an arrow, the news that he had perished, the lantern she’d placed along hooks for his companion. The confounding notions at the latest lantern festival hadn’t escaped her – she’d mostly stood there dumbfounded (and maybe a little caustic; that Kiada had died without her knowledge and then was reborn was another blasted notion altogether). “You must be Peter then.” The ease came over her, less rigid, less drawn into battle, extending the hand not holding her dagger towards his. “I’m Melita.”
to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun
to be the sun
