Melita
they should have checked the ashes
of the women they burned alive
of the women they burned alive
“Yes, please!” Notes of encouragement, of wickedness, dazzled from her grin – a savage, ruffian, feral interlude of promised destruction and little machinations behind them. To acquire knowledge of the knives, as she’d done with the bow, daggers, hand-to-hand, staff, and occasional swordplay would be a welcome accomplishment in the youth’s eyes. To have the ability to press her weight, her abilities, into the world of might and menace, to enact her own upon its malicious wakes, would always be something the honeybee found worthwhile. To sting and sting and sting again. “And you need to keep practicing,” her nod towards the bow ensured and assured what she was talking about, the pinpointed arch to her brow indicating it all as well.
Another swig of her drink, and she was glancing over the horizon, looking towards the waves. Home was something else the girl had only glimpses of. Memories of warm, hot, molten sand beneath her feet and rising clifftops bearing draconic heralds. Leathery wings flying across the sky. An oasis where she could pretend to be a monster before she ever became one. A mother and a sister, tender and loving, before it all came crashing down.
And here – home in a semblance of other ways. Her head swung back, and she smiled, the grin dimming into something less predacious, and more quiet, subdued. “Yes. Whatever you want to make it become.” Molded, created, crafted, sculpted – taking hold of it in both hands and never letting go.
The subject of naming weapons gave her some pause, and then the suggestion of which ones crackled and unleashed a steady stream of laughter. “Gods, blubbershredder?” The giggles turned into howls, erupting buoyancy and exuberance (probably heightened by the alcohol) over the noise of the rest of the crew. She absentmindedly wiped a tear from her eye, though this one had been concocted by merriment. “Okay, wait. I got it.” Clearing her throat for a moment, in a moment of mocking seriousness, Melita unfurled her suggestions. “Bowregard.” A pause, an intake of breath, trying not to quake into laughter again. “Archibald.”
Another swig of her drink, and she was glancing over the horizon, looking towards the waves. Home was something else the girl had only glimpses of. Memories of warm, hot, molten sand beneath her feet and rising clifftops bearing draconic heralds. Leathery wings flying across the sky. An oasis where she could pretend to be a monster before she ever became one. A mother and a sister, tender and loving, before it all came crashing down.
And here – home in a semblance of other ways. Her head swung back, and she smiled, the grin dimming into something less predacious, and more quiet, subdued. “Yes. Whatever you want to make it become.” Molded, created, crafted, sculpted – taking hold of it in both hands and never letting go.
The subject of naming weapons gave her some pause, and then the suggestion of which ones crackled and unleashed a steady stream of laughter. “Gods, blubbershredder?” The giggles turned into howls, erupting buoyancy and exuberance (probably heightened by the alcohol) over the noise of the rest of the crew. She absentmindedly wiped a tear from her eye, though this one had been concocted by merriment. “Okay, wait. I got it.” Clearing her throat for a moment, in a moment of mocking seriousness, Melita unfurled her suggestions. “Bowregard.” A pause, an intake of breath, trying not to quake into laughter again. “Archibald.”
because it takes a single wild ember
to bring a whole wildfire to life
to bring a whole wildfire to life
