M E L I T A
Her boldness was a lifeline, tethered straight into her raw, untamed ichor, claiming substance and sinew in breaths, in cycles, in minuets poised, prosed, by her reckless ambitions. Underneath all her aspirations, the girl felt justified in her impetuous endeavors, finding a specific branch, sharpening it with a tiny knife, whittling at its edges until it presented a rough-hewn spear. The makeshift weapon would be suitable for light hunting, hopefully, with a dabble into some staff machinations – maybe she could practice along the outskirts, or near the eerie bridge. Fangorn had all but grimaced and hissed at it, but he was partial to staying well out of danger (it was what caused him to survive after all; he hadn’t been amongst the vicious gourds attacking inhabitants, he’d stuck to the plains of brush and thorns). While she worked, a hum on her lips, the sun clinging to her crimson, tangled tresses, the world her battlefield, her making, her choosing, she could hear another’s trill; softer, like the breeze, like the embodiment of the wind, of the rain, and she stopped what she was doing. Melita had only ceased for a second or two; she was an exercise in constancy, in motion, in how many forces she could crush, in how many blades she could thrust. Then she followed, much like a predator, a curious, inquisitive animal, too foolish, too intrigued, for its own good; sliding behind rocks and crags, managing to manifest interest with audacious splendor, noting the overpass’s porcelain edges gleaming (and the usual questions circled her mind: how had they managed to be there? What monsters had been slain? Why?), and the outline of a familiar figure, daring and auspicious.
Wessex: the reincarnated blade. Melita had been amongst the counsel, the strange gathering where those of worth had informed anyone and everyone of what had occurred, the spire monster lurking, treacherous and deadly, and Wessex’s ultimate demise. The honeybee girl had been shocked at first – then eager, fervent, to take up arms, to avenge a known, fallen inhabitant, because that was how she was, how she existed, between vengeance and upheaval, ardent in her part against the wars, the cruelty, the vehemence lurking amidst enigmas and warrens. She’d been disheartened too, for the warrioress had proffered an opportunity to learn - and to have it spurned, taken away from her before she’d even had a chance to collect on the lessons, had been brutal and scalding. The youth would’ve been lying if some rapacious, covetous, greedy little mercenary bit of her hadn’t frowned at the notion; but it’d been split hairs moments later, when the shield maiden walked into the threshold as if nothing was the matter.
It’d been utterly baffling; but a demonstration of her power, of her tenacity, of her abilities. Melita saw it as a reflection of persistence and brawn – wanted to become just as potent, just as deadly, just as sure.
She grabbed her makeshift spear and followed. Fangorn bounded behind her, and with a mighty bellow, the youth announced her presence well before they arrived, meters away: “Wessex! I’ve come to learn!” She held her spear aloft, as if it were something grand and lethal, instead of marred by knots and worn fibers, jubilant and exultant, one of those imps no one could ever truly be rid of. As the pair maneuvered their way across, another wandered into the clearing, recognizable but without a name etched in Melita’s psyche; but she didn’t waste the chance for further introductions (and on a closer look, she noticed that he was one of those who’d presented the noteworthy information). The girl rested her spear against her shoulder, and extended the hand not occupied by weaponry towards the man. “Hello! I’m Melita!”
