[Seasonal Event] won't stay quiet

 

M E L I T A

---

Rejuvenation was in the air, and Melita breathed it in, bloomed and blossomed with the sensation of the sun, no matter how pale, wan, and ashen. Everything was glorious before her eyes: fresh promises, pending convictions, and simply rich, intoxicating potential.

But her eyes settled on the line of houses, the shambles, the ruins, the rubble, and devastation left behind by the LongNight. It didn’t let anyone forget its power and condemnation; because even as they all appeared from the Rathskeller or other sanctuaries, opening their eyes to the beatific, warming rays, the sumptuous layers of tranquility, there were still layers of impact scattered around them. Shattered glass might force someone to recall the death of another. Broken walkways could allow another to remember an individual disappeared, lost amongst the Stygian ether, never to be found. It was something to tackle, perhaps in order for them to move on.

How did they do this year after year?

Then she realized she’d done the same, season after season, day after day, hour after hour, living in a realm, in a mode, of survival, endurance, and persistence, with nothing else on one’s mind. It was kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, driving fists and rocks into gaping, all-consuming mouths; swallowing down the lacquer of defeat and abyss down into one’s throat, to scream later, when nightmares haunted, when the world drifted further and further apart. Dreams had become distant memories; aspirations and ambitions changed, altered, to making it to the next week, and hoping those alongside did the same.

She inhaled again, and focused her gilded gaze on the entrance, then on the larger, more-opening square, where merchants gathered, where peddlers hawked their wares, where everyone came together, more or less, swiftly maneuvering around, gathering requirements and necessities. Should something be there, beckoning, and welcoming? Her head tilted, locks flying in the wind until they covered her face again, eyeing a few plant containers that had long since lost their flowers. Perhaps she and Fangorn could fix them up, make a more inviting square again? “What do you think?” Her inquiry floated to the gourd nestled at her feet; she could see the scowl forming across his makeshift mouth and brow, but Melita was barely bothered by his discomfort, shrugging her shoulders, bending down, and digging her fingers into the closest one, feeling the dirt, the soil, left within, trying to decipher and distinguish what she’d have to do next.

Kiada

KIADA you kneel and say your prayers with shaking hands and a mouth full of metal but the blood in your mouth tastes nothing She feels better than she has in the days following the events of Longnight. It’s enough that she feels the ability to leave the comfort of her home, from her place lying by the fireplace with Auni beside her. Enough that she actually feels like she should go outside. And while it might not be much of an accomplishment for anyone else, she finds strength in the ability to do it anyway. So she gathers her things, much like before, wrapped in leather and furs and steps outside into the bright light. The streets are bustling with people, and she can’t help but notice all the Naturals that have come out to clean the mess that Longnight had brought. She hadn’t even thought about cleaning her own home yet. But she makes a mental note, adding to the list of things she needs to do. Something to keep her mind off it. She leaves her house and Auni trots along beside her, his hooves clipping against the ground as they moved deeper into the Settlement. And she nonchalantly glances to everyone while she walks. It isn’t until a flash of red against the gold of the sun that she takes a moment to actually look. She remembers the girl she sees, though the memory is a bit hazy. It’s an image of concern, blurred by tears that had not fallen yet. And she realizes that she owes this girl an apology too. And she searches the far reaches of her mind for the girls name as she and Auni approach. The deer gets there beforehand. Tail wagging at the memory of Melita and how she helped his bonded. Kiada, however, approaches a bit later – uncertain how to begin the conversation. But she knows that Melita appears to be planting something, and Kiada at least knows how to do that. “Hi… Melita, right?” She begins, but her voice is a little flat. Her eyes aren’t as bright as they’d once been. But she’s out of the house and needs something to distract her. nothing, like holy wine as it drips from your tongue during confession and your hail mary feels h o l l o w in the face of all that r e d

 

M E L I T A

---

The youth didn’t expect anyone to approach. The rest of the world maneuvered around her, typical nuances, while she became immersed in her work, hands sifting through the soil. They were all trying to move on, finding rituals and routines in common factions again, returning back to errand running and hunting, wandering and gathering, cleaning out the rust, the dust, the ashes, and the soot. She wondered if with each passing LongNight, they mourned those who didn’t make it out, who meandered into clearings, into forests, into streets and never returned, lost amongst the brambles, thorns, fiends, and demons. She wondered if they ever went and searched for them, and found something or nothing at all; if the stories and myths surrounding the ominous evenings simply grew and grew, or if the reality was brutal enough. She wondered why everywhere seemed to hold some threshold of despair; if there was ever a world that didn’t feel crushing blows, if repose was a feasible enterprise, or an intangible fragment.

The girl swallowed down the enigmas, the twist and turns, and dug a hole with nails and fingers, humming under her breath while Fangorn hovered nearby. The gourd shot off a series of alarming hisses though, rough sibilations rumbling through her soul, and the youth followed his gaze as a familiar, young Luxere came charging towards them. “You remember, don’t you?” She arched her brow at the foolish, but clearly protective gourd, and he responded with a grunt and a narrowing of his eerie stare, otherworldly and implemented by eldritch incantations. The honeybee child maneuvered back towards the impending fawn, made to extend her hand to the approaching creature, but her eyes noted the owner coming near too, and thought better of it.

She didn’t know where they stood, after all.

LongNight had been rough, but Melita’s experiences had been naught in comparison to the woman before her. Death had been hanging around the doors, the thresholds, the awnings, collected and segmented, sending inhabitants scurrying into the infirmary, or bowing their heads over the decrepit, decayed forms. She’d offered her assistance, but it hadn’t mattered – nothing could be done for those who’d already perished, and the other woman had been far gone in her grief.

Melita had been like that once too, but flanked in fury and ferocity, bursting at the seams, eager to destroy, to devastate, to ruin anything and everything in her path. Had she been capable of breathing fire, it would’ve sprung past her lips in vitriol and acrimony, tarnishing everything that had ever touched one little hair on her beloveds’ heads.

The sadness, the sorrow, and the anguish came later, when they didn’t come back.

She stood up, brushing soil off her palms, onto her long, already blemished skirt, and some managed to crawl and insert itself along her nose and forehead as she brushed aside a few stray locks. It didn’t matter; appearances had never been her strong suit. Besides, she was busy alternating how to respond, because there were hundreds of things and subjects blazing through her mind, a blistering faction striving to come up with something reasonable and not impetuous, not impulsive. “Yes. Kiada?” She smiled then, friendly and amiable, not a bright, winsome grin, for those were reserved for pinnacles of joy and ebullience – she doubted Kiada considered those appropriate after all the turmoil and trauma. “How are you feeling?” Her voice was gentle, embodying Clementine again, like the coming of a spring shower, airy and ethereal, meant to be soothing instead of her usual loud, raucous mannerisms.

Kiada

KIADA you kneel and say your prayers with shaking hands and a mouth full of metal but the blood in your mouth tastes nothing Auni has no qualms about what happened over Longnight. He’s moved on, and he imagines that Kiada will too, one day. As he nears Melita, he notices the pumpkin and promptly ignores it, instead choosing to near the girl and sniff with the nub of his tail wagging excitedly. In the meantime, Kiada makes her way closer, watching Auni and almost feeling a pang of regret where the Luxere’s happiness clashes with her own inner turmoil. But there’s nothing she can do, and she realizes it. So she tries to push Auni’s thoughts back on his side of the bond, trying to not let them interfere with her own numbness. She isn’t successful. She nods to Melita when she speaks her name, and feels a slight need to shy away from the bright smile that the girl gives her. But she’s trying to be better, and she offers a small one of her own in response, even if it doesn’t reach her eyes. When she asks how she’s feeling, Kiada rolls her shoulders in a quiet shrug before running a hand through her hair. She feels awkward, like a stranger in her own body. “Better I think.” She says quietly, but her icy eyes aim to meet Melita’s own gold eyes. The warmth to her cold. “I’m sorry for how I acted on Longnight.” She begins, shifting on her feet. “Thank you… For helping me, that is.” Her hand lowers from her head to her side again, and her eyes drop from the girl to the work she’s been doing. Is she planting something? Perhaps she can help pay her back somehow, help her plant whatever it was she was planting and hoping to grow. “Do you want any help?” She asks, looking back to Melita with an almost avian-like tilt of her head. nothing, like holy wine as it drips from your tongue during confession and your hail mary feels h o l l o w in the face of all that r e d

 

M E L I T A

---

Despite Fangorn’s muffled protests, Melita’s hand reached for Auni’s gentle, endearing face, stroking the soft fur along the bridge of his nose. She nearly asked how Kiada had received such a wonderful companion, for she remembered them in the midst of the wild, glowing and vibrant, a rush of light in the approaching darkness, but thought better of it. If she craved to tell the story, then it would come with time, as so many things often did on the march of minutes, hours, days, and seasons spent recovering from anguish.

But it always stayed somewhere in one’s soul, nestled and wrapped tight, either thorned or angelic. The barbs still stung, and the warmth still glowed, and everything else curled and coiled around it was how they tried to move on.

Her eyes flicked away from Auni and back to his bonded, but her fingers continue traipsing along his nose, above his eyes, the tiny nubs where future antlers will grow. Kiada’s face was an avid reflection of the Long Night’s hold on all of them, and Melita understood, far too well, the wall the other girl had yet to face, yet to climb. Emotions became better with time, or they simply didn’t; everyone and everything was different, situations and scenarios altered, sliding into places unseen, unheard. Hearts broke and minds splintered. Anger spiked and vengeance was vowed, assured, pressed along lips and spewed out with such vivid venom that the whole world would know, would comprehend, the lengths young, vicious, little girls would go. “You have nothing to apologize for,” she proffered, the smile dimming because maybe now wasn’t the time for grins and delight. “But you’re welcome. I know how it feels to lose someone.”

Almost everyone her skull inclined, words almost resounding past her teeth and over her tongue. They stayed behind her lips through the tenacity of their beholder, but the burn was already there again, steady, a fuming, curling flame. Her mother was first, always first, beautiful and incandescent, a healer, a mender, ready to sacrifice herself for her children without a moment’s hesitation. The rest unfolded in the murk and mire of the Rift’s calculations, of a false god’s promises, of the way the earth swayed and sent them all straight into hell.

Thereafter, at Kiada’s offering of assistance, the honeybee girl gave one last pat to Auni’s cheek, and finally returned back to her task, grabbing hold of the next pot and digging into that soil too. “If you’d like.” She paused, brow furrowing, nose curling in thought, the mercurial, tempestuous emotions gathering alongside her, bending, brewing, pondering. “I thought we could put some flowers in? Give this place a little more cheer?” Her main goal had been to reflect upon spring and sweet fronds, basking blossoms and blooms, maneuvering away from the eternal abyss of Long Night’s devastating reach. She didn’t say it was to honor Clementine either; the girl would’ve loved the sweet wind, the warm breeze, the promise of rebirth and renewal, the delicate songs uttered by chirping, swooping birds. That was kept in the back of her mind, amidst the moments of bliss and joy, flower crowns and buzzing bees, before demise descended.

Kiada

KIADA you kneel and say your prayers with shaking hands and a mouth full of metal but the blood in your mouth tastes nothing She offers Melita a small smile in response to her reply of what happened over Longnight. She nods her head lightly, her dark hair dancing across her shoulders with the movement. “I lost many, too, when I left my first world. But this time it’s harder. I’m not sure why.” She offers quietly, kneeling down into the dirt beside the fire haired girl. As Melita responds to her help, she nods again as if to say “yes, give me something to do.” And she rolls her sleeves up, discarding the gloves she had worn while Auni becomes distracted by the pumpkin. His nub of a tail wiggles a bit and his ears flutter up and down in anticipation of play should the gourd want to. Kiada turns her attention to the tilled earth and the deft hands of Melita with a curious eye as she tries to mimic what she’s doing – having never really planted before with hands of all things. But she finds it’s much easier to do so when one has thumbs. She nods in response to Melita with another quiet smile, stuffing some of the sorrow away to try and enjoy this place and her company. “That sounds nice actually.” She says quietly, nodding to Melita briefly as she begins to dig a hole. When she thinks she has managed the depth, she looks to Melita to see how she’s done it. “Did they plant things where you came from?” She questions softly, uncertain if Melita is in the same boat as she. The strangeness of planting and how to actually accomplish it successfully. nothing, like holy wine as it drips from your tongue during confession and your hail mary feels h o l l o w in the face of all that r e d

 

M E L I T A

---

Melita nodded in response, but didn’t quite agree – it always hurt, and the pain never seemed to go away. Sometimes it was a throbbing anguish, other moments a dull ache, but still present, still alive, still hard, difficult, and excruciating. One simply learned to survive with the constant sensation of something, someone, missing – grief a wicked flame, insurgent or quiet, flickering deep in a soul. They were a part of the body, a limb, a rib, a lung, a heart, and when they were gone, removed, the echo, the phantoms, the catacombs and sepulchers remained in their place. It was never the same.

She wanted her sister. She wanted her mother. She wanted her friends, bright, indulgent faces that had dreamed of better worlds and kingdoms, that had pretended to be monsters with her well before they knew what fiends and shadows looked like. The girl unfailingly yearned for things she couldn’t have.

Perhaps it was the same for Kiada, and they were forced to drift in and out of horrors, treacheries, and terrors. Put on happy, content countenances. Pretend naught was amiss. Drown in the quiet of their own sorrow later, in the abyss, in the void.

Her gaze drifted to the tilled soil, repeating the same patterns as before; incandescent grins and careful inhales, exhales.

But Fangorn had never lost anyone, that she’s aware of (could all those gourds they slaughtered once been his family?), and didn’t dwell on those haunting, beckoning things (the claws that bite, the memories that catch and snatch). Instead, the notion of play seemed to curl and coil its way into his vicious little membrane, and he hissed at the luxere, a mocking, toying aspiration, pretending as if he was going to bite at the fawn’s legs across the cobblestones.

Kiada accepted her offer though, and they weren’t alone again; applying themselves, keeping busy with plants and notions of cheery, ebullient bulbs, instead of the brushes of darkness clustered, coiled, behind their eyes. The honeybee girl realized she’d been mute all this time, quiet and hushed, sinking too far down into doldrums, a place she tried desperately not to tred, and lifted her gaze to stare into the other girl’s for a moment. “Yes,” and the smile was wholesome again, not so mercurial, not so abandoned and lifeless. “My mother was a healer. She had a beautiful garden full of herbs and flowers.” Every day she’d pick some, cultivate and utilize them for their sacred desert dwellers, curing and soothing; while Melita and Clementine ran around her skirts, breathing in the sweet perfumes, losing petals from their floret crowns. “I was never quite helpful though,” and here she laughed, because she remembered her ridiculous inability to do anything but grind plants down in Phoebe’s domicile; she thought her mother would’ve been ashamed or embarrassed, but remembered, recalled, the sunny sonnets and stanzas resting on the top of her head, billowing and circling around her ears, peaceful, wondrous hums meant for the twins’ ears. “What about you?” Her stare was already back on the dirt covering her hands, before she grabbed hold of some seeds in her pockets, extending her palm full of their earth, their goodness, their light, out to Kiada. Perhaps they could both snatch some heavenly bounty, be declared liberated and free of the terrors, for a day, for an hour, for a moment.

Kiada

KIADA you kneel and say your prayers with shaking hands and a mouth full of metal but the blood in your mouth tastes nothing There’s something about the way Melita reminisces of her mother that pangs something within her. The fondness, the beauty of it. She shrugs her shoulders as she works to Melita’s question, a smile breaking across her face and it surprises her in its genuineness. She wasn’t very good at planting either, but oh how she’d tried. Suddenly, a small laugh escapes Kiadas lips and it surprises even Auni with its sound. The deer’s tail wags excitedly and Kiada continues to work while she figures out how to word what she wants to say. “I tried to be a healer in my first couple of worlds. I wasn’t very good at it either.” She said after a moment, putting a few seeds into a hole she had made and covering them before she sits back to glance at Melita. “My father was a warrior King of a place called the World’s Edge, and my mother was a Thief for another place called the Aurora Basin. I wanted to be something different. So I chose healing, but after I left that world for another I had found it was easier to continue to fight. I got the wit of my mother and the brawn of my father.” She says, finding comfort in telling someone her story even if she has kept it wrapped up. Melita seems kind and fiery, exactly what Kiada needs to try and pull her out of her dark tunnel of anger and despair. Things were different now, and they would be for the rest of her life. And she has begun to slowly come to terms with it. nothing, like holy wine as it drips from your tongue during confession and your hail mary feels h o l l o w in the face of all that r e d

 

M E L I T A

---

They slid into easygoing boundaries, and her heart is lighter, fuller, for the benefit of it. The strains were not so terrible, the memories not so rough, when shared without the blunt exposure, without the harsh nuances, without the keen ax grinding down across her shoulders. She laughed at the enigmatic twist of multiple words, because Melita had lived the same, three sanctions, the first one blessed, the second one tyrannical and treacherous, and the third a mix – she wasn’t sure where Caido would reign in her soul when all was said and done. “Maybe we just weren’t meant to soothe others,” and she giggled again; knowing full well she committed damage and terror when necessary, that her words and actions could only assuage so much, that no matter how hard she tried, the end result was always crushing blows and revolutionary ramparts.

But she was an avid listener; she’d sat at her mother’s skirts while the woman told wondrous, beatific tales of beasts and gods, fingers twirling loose strands and her sister calmly sitting beside her. It’d been perfection – and she was grateful for Kiada’s intonations, a release of the past, tilting her head and ensuring she was catching every word she said as she grabbed another vacant pot and filled it with soil. While her hands worked through the soil, swept it back and forth, loosening it up, she imagined kings and queens again; except…the kingdoms sounded so familiar that she ceased all movement, froze. Aurora Basin and The World’s Edge had made their way into her mothers’ myths, but Melita had never been able to venture into those pockets and corners of the bright, beautiful sovereignty; everything collapsed and fell apart well before her curiosity and limbs could have taken her there. “I’ve heard of those places,” of warrior monarchs and thieves in the night, and she wondered just how similar they were – if those lives had intersected again, and suddenly she was confessing a multitude of things too, because she wanted them to be real once more, before her, stretched out and beckoning. “I was born in the Dragon’s Throat, with my twin Clementine.” Her gaze shifted to Kiada’s, brows lifted, the pondering, the whirring, circling her mind. “I didn’t know my father. Mother never spoke of him.” But she’d thought, once, twice, that she might’ve met him, that he’d meandered around their home because of his interest, his intrigue, in the babes he’d shared with a woman he’d barely known. Despite the suspicions, it’d never been confirmed, and she’d always been forced to wonder why he didn’t appear before them. She hadn’t let it hurt her though, in the quiet cosmos and the dreary nights, where she stayed awake beside Clementine and stared at the stars, when she dared to dream.

Did she acquire anything from that man? Or had everything been of her own making?

“I’m nothing like my mother or sister,” and she laughed again, gentler still, cheeks dimpling before her eyes flickered back to her pot of soil, absent of seeds. Once she started talking though, it was as if she couldn’t stop, a tidal wave of memories catching her, a catalyst to all those lost particles and pieces she so desperately craved, wishing for things she could never have again. “They were gentle, sweet, and nurturing. I’m sure I scared mother more times than I could count, but I strived for adventure. She never faulted me for it though. I’m sure she realized I’d never be a healer, and that was okay. She wouldn’t have forced me.” Here her brows furrowed again, fingers plucking at more seeds, sending them into a tiny hole she’d made. “Clem and I lost her when Helovia collapsed. She saved us, pushed us into a portal.”

Kiada

KIADA you kneel and say your prayers with shaking hands and a mouth full of metal but the blood in your mouth tastes nothing At Melita’s initial declaration, Kiada smiles slightly and nods. Perhaps they weren’t. Perhaps they were meant to be the ones that barged into the fight, to be the front lines and the defenders rather than those that stayed behind to help and calm those that had been hurt. Even if she tried her hardest time after time to be different. It was hard to learn anything else when you continued to cave to the darkness within, the same that called for blood the same way the wolf howls at the moon. It isn’t until Melita mentions that she’s heard of those places that Kiada’s head snaps to her, momentarily forgetting the plants they’re planting. And when she looks to Melita, there’s a look of nostalgia brimming beneath the surface of the red head. “I was born in the Dragon’s Throat, with my twin Clementine.” She hears, and she feels a pang of loss for the girl at her side. Because they both were twins, born of different worlds. Now the only ones left. And far more connected than they initially thought. “I had a twin too, named Kianzo. I never went to Dragon’s Throat, but I did meet someone named Zero when my twin went missing and I searched for him.” She says quietly, and for a moment feels compelled to console her friend. But she’s speaking again, of never knowing her father. And if given the choice, Kiada wonders if she had the choice to meet her father, if she wanted to. If she wanted to know where the darkness sat within her and if she got it from her father. Kiada nods, however, and says nothing. Instead she waits as Melita continues, speaking of being nothing like her sister or mother. And there’s no shame in it. She’s too much like her brother, but held the poise and grace of a killer where her brother held it in brute strength and viciousness. She speaks of her mother and sister being gentle souls, and she smiles to her friend as she mentions frightening her mother many times. And as she continues, she watches Melita put the seeds into a tiny hole she had made as she mentions losing her mother when Helovia collapsed and Kiada nods slowly – understandingly. Because she, too, had lost many that day. And for a moment she regrets what she’s about to say. “I… lost many too. But I had supported Kisamoa, and he had given me an amulet. And upon entering the portal to the Rift, it exploded.” She says slowly, calculating as she moves her dark hair to the side to reveal the nasty “X” marking in her neck. “It’s how I got this.” She says. “But somehow, I still supported Kisamoa. I understood him, I think. I tried to save his life there… I had lost everyone and he was the only constant. My mother, too, I suppose. Though she wasn’t around much.” She says with regret pooling into her stomach. “I was born with my father’s demons, I think, and I made very poor choices as a child. I still do.” She turns back to her attempt at planting, following Melita’s lead by making small holes and putting seeds in them. “Kisamoa killed Ru’in the first time.” She says quietly, and yet how she supported him still baffled her. But there was a part of her that still craved the darkness so much that it still loved the mismatched god in some strange way. Or perhaps she had a deep set love for all things that didn’t belong. That weren’t normal. nothing, like holy wine as it drips from your tongue during confession and your hail mary feels h o l l o w in the face of all that r e d

 

M E L I T A

---

The planting became an abstract thing, out of sight, out of mind, a series of routine efforts while her mind raced and plunged with all of the strangest occurrences building and brewing through her head. They’d lived such parallel lives; yet never met in the confines of either Helovia or the Rift. The worlds had been massive and ever-expanding, and they’d survived, and somehow, this was right, this was just…

Somewhere in the light, she wanted to cry, she wanted to laugh, she wanted to break and fall apart at the edges, but her strength and might held her fast. She smiled instead for things that could never be again, things that had been beacons of hope and reigning particles of power for those dire moments, for those unrelenting foes, for the shades and shadows, for the Stygian warfare, for the trickery and deceit of enmity. “Zero!” The youth proclaimed, her eyes threatening to water at the sound of the man’s name. “He took us all in.” Her grin wouldn’t fade though, not for the kind, caring, compassionate beast, barely an adult himself, who’d tucked them into his arms and didn’t let go, didn’t let them see the pain and anguish in the collapse, upon the threshold, of his own losses and devastation.

Then, there was a turn – because Kiada had supported the false god, the cause, the creator, of the entire realm of chaos. For a moment or two, Melita settled along the confines of disbelief; she must’ve heard wrong, or misunderstood. But the more the other girl explained, the more a sudden rage, a blistering, simmering sensation emerged through her limbs, staring at her fingers, curling through her veins. “What was there to understand?” Her ferocity slipped into her words, into her tone, across her features in a furrowed brow, in a vanished smile, and she stared down at the pot of soil, hands ready to smash it to a million pieces. He’d been Kaos, orchestrator, manipulator, of so much mayhem, disaster, death, and terror, that she couldn’t believe or fathom why anyone would want to support such a damned, demonic, evil creature. “You lost everyone because of him.” Couldn’t she see that? Couldn’t she understand it? Hadn’t she seen them all tricked and deceived, rising atop all of his lies, all of his torments, eager to grab and hold rewards – Melita had been so young, so stupid, so ignorant – had done nothing in the time he’d breathed terror and upheaval into their lives, until he’d destroyed everything they’d ever cherished.

The wrath, the contempt, didn’t stop. She wanted it to go, to flee, but it was still bubbling, still brewing, in the lengths of her heart; because she’d always had someone to blame – Kisamoa, impetus of destruction – but never once believed there’d be a creature who upheld his beliefs. Impulse and wrath fueled her, incited her, until she reclined from her kneeling position, stood straight and tall - seethed.

Kiada

KIADA you kneel and say your prayers with shaking hands and a mouth full of metal but the blood in your mouth tastes nothing She nods as Melita reminisces of Zero. A kind man, one that Kiada was happy to have met once upon a time. But the conversation shifts, as she mentions that she understood Kaos. And how her companion grows angry by it. And she understands that too, the anger for someone so powerful to destroy everything you’ve ever loved. Perhaps it was Kiadas loneliness that kept her coming back for more, kept her creeping on the edge of light and dark along the fine line she could tumble across. And she has tumbled from it, multiple times in her life. In the dark when she saved Kisamoa’s life as he attempted resurrection. But light in the fact of spreading hope and being a decent person. But she still harbored that darkness within, something she knows will never leave. It bothered her before, but she’s come to accept it. She plants the seeds in silence as Melita rants, and when Kiada finishes she sits back on her legs and looks up to Melita with a sorrowful gleam in her iceberg eyes. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was a child thrust into war with things I didn’t understand. I thought it was the way. And then he destroyed Helovia and opened the portal.” Her voice is softer than the woman at her side. “I didn’t understand what he would do. I wanted my brother back, I wanted to be a part of something. And in the Rift, I saved his life because I thought if he died we all would too” She says. But her eyes grow slightly more narrow as she stares toward the fiery woman at her side. “I have made many mistakes, and I have paid for them. And I’m so, so sorry Melita.” She apologizes because she doesn’t know what else she can say. She can’t bring them back. She has hoped time and time again that something would bring them all back. But the pain of losing them over and over was unbearable. It was better to leave the dead where they lay. She stands then, looking back to Melita. “I hoped he could bring them back. But when he did they came back wrong. All I could do was try to make the Rift a bearable place, a place that didn’t try to kill us every time we stepped outside.” She says after a moment, looking away and contemplating. “Do not think I don’t regret what I’ve done.” She says finally, all the anger and resentment brimming to the surface. nothing, like holy wine as it drips from your tongue during confession and your hail mary feels h o l l o w in the face of all that r e d

 

M E L I T A

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The ferocity, the contempt, the fury, pulsed, collected, and stung her lungs – and oh, it was delicious. She’d forgotten the relish of wrath, the contortion of despair and indignation, the scorching of her soul, the fire in her veins, the crush of opponents, the incensed escapes and consignments to oblivion. The girl had marked down injustices and sent vengeance in return, solidified the sedition in her bones with a glorious inhale, with a vehement ease; belligerence and acrimony unleashed from a tiny frame, a figure depleted of her sweetness. She thought about doing the same here – about releasing every amount of sorrow, anguish, and ire upon Kiada, about revisiting those stark, desolate moments where everything, everyone, she loved disappeared, died, met their demise in sacrifices and upheavals. Her fists clenched together, and her stare was marked in boldness, in impudence, in those audacious sparks of decadence and irreverence. Ignorance wasn’t an excuse in her eyes – because even those young, stupid, and inept at the time (much like herself), hadn’t begged or pleaded their way into Kaos’ heart, striving for tainted gains, blood of their friends, their families, their brethren, soaked and embedded in their hands. That had been Kiada’s beliefs, her system, her creed, likely catching onto the first siren song she’d heard and enticed, allured, beguiled by the bewitching quandaries and enigmas – Melita ground her teeth in exasperation as she listened to the pile of excuses, as she struggled, strived, to comprehend the layers of animosity and stupidity fanning the flames.

She understood the darkened sanctions of one’s heart though, where her greed lay, where her hatred scorned, where all the sugared substance of her livelihood ran empty, and she was just a vengeful sprite aching to repay all of the beings who’d ever wronged her. But, these instances were about choices, about options, about alternatives never taken or utilized, the wayward paths of desecration and ruin. Perhaps Kiada’s avarice and rapacity hadn’t been the only things circling her mind, her kin, her family alike – but at the cost, at the consequence, of so many others’ beloved, cherished things. Melita had always held the desire to protect, to shield, to serve those she loved the most – and not to the detriment of everyone around her. Maybe with time it wouldn’t have mattered, her actions might’ve held the same consequences eventually, her damage extending and rippling in too close quarters. But it did now, when she was full of spite and anger, when she hadn’t been able to liberate her outrage in so long. “The rest of us had to pay for them too.” The tones were fire and vitriol, embers and sparks along the course of Kiada’s softer, obliging vocals; Melita wasn’t done yet, an inferno incapable of being contained, yearning to pierce, to puncture, to rip, tear, and combust.

“How could you not understand? You saw what he did. We all witnessed him destroy our home and families. He killed our Gods.” Her eyes narrowed, vicious and unapologetic. Had Kiada merely sought his power – the way most things breathed in an ounce of potential and potency, and ran towards it, arms outstretched, knees falling to their newfound paragons? “You should’ve let him die.” Even if it had marked their own deaths, it would’ve been better to suddenly be nothing, rather than go on existing in one constant, never-ending nightmare. “A bearable place,” and here she laughed, high and bad-tempered, lacking any joy or exultation, tipped to the ground, to the heavens, with its broken sorrows and melancholies. “I watched Ampere try to attack her own sons. My mother’s ghost attempted to strangle me. Monsters hunted us day and night.” The rest of her tones slid out like a harsh, guttural whisper, not even bothering to hide her resentment and rancor, leaning towards Kiada even as she listed her regrets, her apologies. “It was never going to be tolerable.”

Kiada

KIADA you kneel and say your prayers with shaking hands and a mouth full of metal but the blood in your mouth tastes nothing She stares and she takes the retort from Melita, stone faced as she listens to what Melita experienced, watching the fiery girl express herself and her anger, her frustration at Kiada for saving him. She doesn’t reply at first, instead, letting each word hit her and settle like a rock at the bottom of a pond – biding and waiting her time to speak. And it isn’t until Melita begins to lean toward her after speaking of Ampere revived and attacking her children, of the monsters that hunted them day and night that Kiada knew all too well. For a moment, she remembered the Magnus Metus, it’s clawed fingers and eyeless eyes that sought any who dared to step into it’s grasp. And the land around it that seemed to make it a necessary task to fall into its grasp. She thought of that small child she had protected, the one who had been dared to reach forth and meet the Metus the same day Kiada came prepared with fire and armor and weapons. For a moment, she hoped that child was okay, wherever she was. But they all weren’t okay. So she lets Melita speak her frustrations and anger, and lets her pelt the Harpy with whatever harsh words she chooses. And Kiada doesn’t mind, because it has all happened in what seems like forever ago. There’s no room for change, for returning and changing how things happened. Things simply were. But she nods to the girl, to Melita the daughter of Ampere of lightning and flame. “I’m sorry Melita.” She says, and it’s truthful. She has no need to lie about it, to cover up her transgressions. The Harpy realizes her mistakes yet is unable to fix them. And despite Melita’s harsh words of wishing the world had died with all of them in it, with their gods, does little to hurt the woman. Because even if Melita wished it had happened, Kiada had never wanted to die. She’s proud of the fact she prevented so many from dying, so many that hadn’t even come from the Rift. What was the excuse to have them die too for things that the Helovian’s could prevent in whatever way they could? Standing away from the flowers now that they had been planted, she lowers her head to Melita in a quiet farewell, hoping perhaps one day they could get past the pain of history and the dark smear painted against her person, and perhaps one day they might be friends. "I will leave you." nothing, like holy wine as it drips from your tongue during confession and your hail mary feels h o l l o w in the face of all that r e d