M E L I T A
Another approached, and instantly Melita was silent. She was capable of hushed tones when the situation called for it, when demons flooded the avenues, when ghosts and wraiths came with their chains to strangle her whole. Her tree perch had made an excellent hiding sanction, and she could watch the form meander through; but before long she quickly realized it was no monster at all, but Phoebe, the girl with the teas and tonics. The danger and treachery subsided well before it had even begun, and she merely witnessed as Phoebe’s voice summoned the glowing creatures she’d been so intrigued to find.
They were beguiling; beautiful and serene. They could’ve been the type of animals born from blessings and benedictions, where grace wound, coiled, and contorted its way through their movements, their motions (and she wished she could embody the same sensation, but the youth had long since admitted she was more fire and disaster than elegance and invocations). So instead of launching from her chosen bough, Fangorn tugging on a few pine needles behind her, the youth chose to blend her hums and trills with Phoebe’s, like birdsong. The honeybee child didn’t quite have the same beatific quality in her refrains (Clementine had always been the dreamer, the singer, the gentle, soothing, assuaging bliss after every single plunged sword), but she mustered the ability as best she could.
