[se] I will be tempests

Melita

Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down

Some portion of her was glad to see him shirking in her presence, not looming closer; her flares and infernos gathered and righted and just, dangerous, treacherous, exactly as she’d always been below the compassion. The beneficence and kindness was gone now though, replaced by battle cries and wildfires, the fervent gales, the hungry coals. Her anger was for Nate, who hadn’t been given any choice but to accept this gaping hellhole or leave everything behind. Her anger was for everyone else who believed in Sunjata, who thought him good in his efforts, who thought him beyond playing with matches and seeing what he could set alight – when he simply seemed to pour incendiary devices over his entire life. Melita would’ve forgiven him for the multitudes before, but this was done by his own hand. He’d held the knife, the dagger, and wielded into others’ before embedding it into his chest.

War. She wasn’t worried about that one, in the distant future, when they’d all be consumed in some way shape or form. Her concern rested in this moment, in this skirmish, in this duel of impulsivity and emboldened natures, where hers would tower and soar over his mask and his shame. “Aren’t you ever tired of this?” Forging his way on the most bewildering, stupefying paths? On the hardest ones possible?

The honeybee didn’t care if she hurt the Flood. He’d hurt her countless times before. He’d hurt so many others on his march of astounding, dumbfounding depths. Where he sunk and strangled, where he tethered and moored.

And to think, she’d been proud of him for finally putting an end to his father.

There was no pride for him currently – not in her pinpricked gaze, not in her seething temper, in her voracious indignation. His responses didn’t quench the flames either, rising and eating away at the corrosion, at the blinding ridiculousness of it all. “No shit. Maybe you should’ve started a little sooner.” Before everyone else got pulled into his vortex of delusions and selfishness.

And she wasn’t going to help him on this either. She wasn’t going to try to ease the burden on his shoulders. She wasn’t going to offer any words other than this damned storm.

The youth stepped off her stump, staff in hand, thinking to lunge towards him, very nearly reaching out and thrashing; but instead, she evaded him entirely, continuing her stomp, her walk, her outrage, into the midst of the fronds and ferns.

to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun

when the world turns upside down, you should blame it on me

That mask solidifies, it burns and glues itself back into place. And he stuffs everything else down with it, thrown into hollow bones and a painful mind, finally bringing his gaze back to her, dull and far away. “Of course I’m fucking tired of it.” He snaps, letting some of the flame back into his accented voice. But what could he do? He tries to do what’s right but it always ends up wrong.

He always ends up wrong.

So he withdraws from her, using Haai as his tether because it’s the only one he has left it feels like. There’s a burning flame in his gut and he keeps his eyes on her as she stands, breezes past him. He expects something, a strike, a lash out, and it’s evident in the way the armor plates crawl upward again.

And sure, maybe he should have started sooner, but the problem is he doesn’t know where to start. How does someone work on bettering themselves and getting out of their mindset when there’s already too much? It overwhelms him, suffocates him, and he draws in a deep breath as she marches forth, between debating whether or not to continue this trek or leave her be.

But like before with that thought process, he stays. He gives her his space, he swallows down everything else, places that mask into place and drowns within it, following her with Haai at his heels in silence.

sunjata

Coding base by Odd!

Melita

Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down

He could have his masks. He could squirrel away and hide. She didn’t know how else he’d recover or lament, and she couldn’t care either. With her jaw set, clenched, and teeth ground together, her vicious steps persisted and continued, ignoring his last words entirely. Then do something she wanted to echo. Then stop being such an idiot she wanted to hurl. But how many times did it need to be said until he changed? Until he altered? Until he became something other than this damned mess?

But her words were done, even if the maelstrom remained, brimming and brewing in her veins – combative, intending, yearning, for some amount of destruction.

Fangorn hastened and hustled behind her, and she permitted just a moment to gather him in her arms, and place the companion on her shoulders. “Sorry,” she whispered to the gourd and the gourd alone; she wasn’t apologetic for any of the other enraged tones. The honeybee noted Sunjata remaining close by, and snarled, sneered, before continuing onwards.

Her faithful pumpkin snaked his vines around her, perhaps for some volley of comfort, but she wouldn’t relent. There’d been no moment to release her ferocity, and she’d have her blood in one way or another.

Opportunity, of course, came on the hinges of another growl – and she stopped in her tracks. It wasn’t a recognizable feature – not like Fangon’s at all. Perhaps they’d attracted something with all their yelling and shouting; lured out of the jungle and into notched, nothing pathways, for the chance of making a meal out of distracted individuals.

And then it stepped out of the thicket of vines and brush; predacious and ravenous, tiger-formed save for its metallic outset, a lustrous silver hue. All Melita could do was roll her eyes, making a maneuver to draw her bow, a hiss, a mutter, and another howl. “Oh, fuck off!”

to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun

And I can taste it, it's my sweet beginning

Silence draws over them, pulls him into a lull of following her if only because he wants to make sure they make it out in one piece. The wilds had always been full of surprises — like Aurelia and the water mist horse, like when he’d stumbled across his father and had his wing broken. It was any number of things that lived in these jungles, unexplored and left alone for so long that Sunjata doesn’t trust it.

But that’s what got him into this mess, too. Trust.

So he follows her, closing himself off, sticking the mask into place and watches as the trees turn into a bit of a clearing, as a growl that he nor she nor their companions had made, bursts through the air. And so he’s immediately attentive, already on edge, watching the tiger as it appears and drips what looks like metal. It snarls and it affects his own predatory instincts, though he’s torn between dragon or panther.

The dragon’s already out, however, and as he focuses on the tiger he tries to reach into that compelling part of his mind to reach out and tell it to fuck off, but it doesn’t work. Somehow. So he’s moving again, shifting into that sleek black dragon, winged flaring and brushing against the underside of the tree tops as the dragon snarls an agreement of ‘fuck off’ to the tiger, hoping its his size that wards away the tiger — without having to get involved too much more.

SUNJATA

Melita

Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down

Her mind wasn’t on Sunjata; not in these instances. He could be something she dealt with later. The world unraveled into pieces of the unknown for the moment – save for the dragon appearing behind, nearby, snarling, and she breathed.

She didn’t need him. She’d told him that before. Protection wasn’t something she required. The honeybee was fully capable of defending herself, and those around her. On an inhale, she pulled the sizzling arrow behind her, listening for the telltale crackle, the schism of electricity bursting from its form. She notched it quickly, efficiently, as she’d done a hundred times before.

Aimed with her eyes, narrowing, adjusting, while the tiger loomed, while it seemed to stalk, while it seemed to weigh out its options.

And Melita was done pondering hers.

The armament flew and cascaded, sizzling and scorching in the air; telltale elements she couldn’t place but knew from somewhere long before. And she watched as the tip embedded itself into the animal’s shoulder, as it howled and sputtered and growled, as it curled and contorted back upon itself, as the manifestations of torment volleyed and spasmed through its veins. It could do very little in the seconds thereafter, but suffer, instinctually beginning to turn away.

to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun

when the world turns upside down, you should blame it on me

It’s true, she doesn’t need his protection. But he could never stand there idly by and watch as something happens. He doesn’t have his bow and arrow with him, he doesn’t have Safrin’s daggers with him. All he has are the weapons beneath his skin to protect himself and those around him. But he stays back, not involving himself, not pushing himself into being involved — simply remaining there with a snarl to his scarred, draconian head.

Lightning crackles around his jaw, zipping through each row of teeth, but that’s the most that he does. She sends her arrow off and he watches as it lands, sinking into the tiger’s shoulder, watching as it hisses its pain and Sunjata’s lightning begins to dissipate. He steps back, giving Melita space, peering above her head from slit pupils to watch as the tiger begins to slink off, and he shifts back into himself once he’s sure the danger has passed.

He shoves his hands into his pockets as Haai finds her place beside him again, his gaze dropping to the griffin with a small nod as she begins to run off ahead again, scouting for something of interest — a creature for lunch, perhaps. And Sunjata? Sunjata remains masked and quiet, to himself, following her in case this venture had some sort of end result, wondering if he was even welcome in it after all of it.

sunjata

Coding base by Odd!

Melita

Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down

It was immensely satisfying to watch the tiger depart. For the arrow to fall against the ground, spent in its elements, for her to bend down and retrieve with the notching of its flesh and blood. For everything to have been taken care of smoothly, efficiently, and without his efforts. For him to stand back for a moment, to let someone else unfurl the aches and pains. To watch and bear witness.

Her eyes were still narrowed when she glanced back at him over her shoulder, mighty and menacing, the very image of spitfires, cinders, and molten crescendos, waiting for him to say anything. Anything at all.

Nothing.

Gods, when had he become such a disappointment?

Her smug grin shifted into a feral frown again, a roll of her eyes persisting, before she began a drifting, following maneuver towards more jungle outsets. “What are you looking for out here?” She snarled and hissed at him, no end to her callousness and irritation, settling into the rigidness of her shoulders, of the way her spine grew taut, of the movements threatening to unfurl, unravel, unleash into something brutal and barbaric without hesitation. Because the answers to his issues likely weren’t going to be found in the fronds.

to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun

when the world turns upside down, you should blame it on me

Maybe it would be best for him to simply leave. He has nothing to say, nothing that wouldn’t get spun around, nothing that wouldn’t get mixed up and misunderstood – of the reasons why he did what he did. Did it matter anymore anyway? Should he simply continue to go about trying to fix himself by trying to care less? By trying to be less involved? He wouldn’t be able to get away with that.

Not with the war, not with being Governor. Perhaps he should step down, let someone else handle the reins of it while he focused inward. But deep down he wonders if his father wins if he does that, if his father would mock him from the watery grave he’d given him.

Her words are a snarl and a sneer and were he in a shift he would have his ears pinned back. He isn’t, and the most he can do is ball his hands into fists at his side, in his pockets where he had stuffed them. Why was he out here? Because they were to go and explore together – that was the assumption he was under. But it seems it’s unwelcomed now. He doesn’t blame her. And when it comes down to it, he chews on the inside of his cheek before he shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter anymore.” And he withdraws further, stopping still while she continues to move on ahead, an internal tug given at Haai that has the griffin returning to his side. “We’ll just.. I’m just going to head home.” He offers her, turning away to prepare to leave, wondering which shift would be easiest to get out of the dense jungles.

sunjata

Coding base by Odd!

Melita

Eating fire is your ambition
to swallow the flame down

She waited for him to make a decision – along with her embers and cinders, her ashes and coals, her brimming vehemence. It pooled over and exuded on her skin, on her features, on her flesh, until she was fire reborn and ambitious, an aspiring multitude of solar flares and dominions. She wouldn’t be swayed. She couldn’t be denied. Her anger was one of her few, wealthy things; ample and certain, teeth bared and ready.

He could spin it. He could try. She didn’t care. What was there to misinterpret or misunderstand? He’d fucked up again and again and again, and nothing ever changed. He didn’t learn anything from it. And she couldn’t get past the multitudes of errors in this go-around, and wouldn’t be the one he’d need to beg forgiveness from.

Go ahead, she wanted to shout as he balled his fists. Be angry. Give her a reason to unfurl her staff or draw her bow once more.

And then he didn’t; a retreat, a withdrawal. Melita shook her head, disappointed in so many things all at once. “That’s probably the best idea you’ve had in a long time.” Go home. Do something less asinine.

So she lifted her chin again, radiant and defiant, the sun and the huntress, the beast and the flames, before turning back the other way, and continuing to explore. Without the nuances of his ineptitude, without the flourishes of his mistakes crowding around her. She’d said her piece. It’d be up to him, in the end.

Somehow it always was.

{FIN}

to be lit up from within, vein by vein
to be the sun