M E L I T A
The honeybee girl had been so diligent and focused on her efforts – a one-track mind, devout to singular things for the span of however long it took her to find something else – that she hadn’t noticed someone nearby. Fangorn’s eerie, enigmatic stare swung towards the other inhabitant as their voice carried through, and Melita followed suit, gilded gaze riveting, centering, on the boy nearby.
“Hello!” Her voice was cheery, and she quickly blew a wild bout of hair out of her face as she stood up from retrieving garbage from under one of the tables. He asked to help, which she’d gladly receive, but the keen set of her gaze caught him wobbling. Was he injured? Had he been one of the many escorted to the infirmary during the Long Night? She had tried to help one of them – but it’d been too late (and Kiada’s tears, her anger, her rage, stayed with the youth for a while; she knew the essence of grief, the pulsing, overwhelming invasion of it around one’s soul). This one had clearly survived.
Or maybe he wasn’t hurt at all, and merely suffered from low-blood sugar, or took a false, specious, deceiving step. It felt wrong to deny him the opportunity to clean if he longed to do it – Melita wasn’t an individual to hold someone back. She didn’t care for the feeling of another tugging at collars and throwing them aside, leaving dreams to die, forcing ambitions elsewhere; she liked to lift them all up, so they centered squarely in the stars, in the heavens, aspirations clear and devout. While cleansing an entire area likely wasn't the epitome of the other youth's wishes and yearnings, it still held the same, corresponding sentiments. “Only if you want to,” she inclined, smiling brightly again, before grasping another glass that had managed to roll underneath a chair.
