M E L I T A
Grief swallowed and consumed – devoured another’s soul in different ways. Reactions differed; she’d openly wept and screamed and howled the moment reality had clambered its way into her membrane, had tried to reopen the portal just to get back to her mother, just to return to shadows, dusk, and death. Clementine had taken hold of her with that soft, gentle disposition and they’d rampaged through the evening, gathered up by those who’d survived the stretch of chaos and bedlam, others who’d been deceived, other’s who’d been wretched and incapable of saving long-lost souls. She clenched her jaw, here and now, caught in those inescapable traces of bleak heartache and torment; the anger and anguish splintered off the Rathskeller in waves, pervading, surrounding, a choking, throttling nuance from a woman she didn’t know. The youth didn’t even have time to react to the child luxere trotting in; everything pressed, a weight bounding across her shoulders. She found it hard to breathe, suffocated in the molten, raw unknown.
Her hands grasp hold of the locks and arrange them back into place, considering all the while about how to react, what to do. They are all strangers, and she’d rushed in because she thought it was the right thing, but now she’s been caught in those lapses of judgment, has to see it through. The gilded set of her eyes flicker once to the woman, to the man, catching the bits and pieces, the he died out there and nobody let him in, expecting some cycle, some spillover of wrath and outrage – Melita would be the same, sparking off in different directions and pledging vengeance. In fact, she’d probably have already marched back out into the decadence, into the ominous, deranged world, spilled whatever blood she could’ve put her hands on, spear into, before becoming another one of the massacred. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this echoed and murmured for a few moments, and Melita had half a notion to say It never does; but that came from a time of bitterness, moments of rancor. There was enough acidity clinging to the rafters, she wasn’t going to escalate it.
So she breathed in, a deep inhale, before proceeding. The honeybee girl embodied her sister, who would’ve flung headfirst into any soothing, assuaging qualities imaginable, gathering a blanket, asking for some warm, calming tea, and advancing when she thought it’d be safe. The man attempted to steady the sobbing one, and Melita nodded, voicing her encouragement with the action, maneuvering to a chair nearby, hoping they could manage to get the woman to sit there. Her eyes spotted the note clutched in her eyes, but said naught otherwise – maybe a precious artifact, the only thing she had left to cling to. Fangorn watched from behind the decided chair, hesitant to come forward when all hell might have broken loose. Melita placed her wares on a table, except for the blanket, which she hastened to drape and encompass the other youth’s shoulders. Afterwards, however, she didn’t know how to proceed. Should they be probing for answers, for names, for occurrences? Or was it all too much, and the more they pressed, the worse it would become?
The confusion was likely displayed on her face, but her gaze wandered around the room too. No one seemed to be claiming the girl, stepping forward, extending their arms and hastening her into tender, tranquil embraces. Her stare fell back to Seiji, quietly confirming they’d have to be the ones providing aid and inquiry. The conviction established, the vow pressed within her soul, the girl settled, affirming the necessities, ready for the few answers they might be granted. “How can we help?”
