M E L I T A
The fire radiated, pulsed, inside her brain, wove its magnificent threads through her mind; she wasn’t satisfied until she’d run outside the Rathskeller and into the columns of brandished light. She chased after remnants of gold and red, filaments of disaster and ruin, intervals of embers and plumes, the brightest, widest smile on her face – for this was it the Spark Bird, stronger, wilder, and more amazing than her imagination could ever conjure. A sense of pride tore through her, for she’d helped, in some way or form, before monsters and machinations, in building the perch, in trying to lure it here, back to them, and it allowed a wild bout of laughter to conjure its way through her throat. There was no point in waving towards it brilliant spectacle, cheering, or pointing, so she simply grabbed hold of Fangorn in her arms and ran into the abyss, weaving her way through forms and bodies, basking in the glow of peace and refuge, in the lack of calamity and disdain. Her heart fluttered, and everything was light, good again. Her head tipped back just to behold every flicker of its wings, every beacon of coals and cinders, every paragon, every virtue, tipped and dipped from its plumage. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered to her gourd, to the wind, to the passing night, realizing her luck at being able to see any of this at all. Perhaps it was a sign of deliverance, a gesture of good things to come, serendipity and kismet, serenity and tranquility, everything pointing to the heavens rather than ruin. She could hope. She could dream. Sometimes it was all she had.
