M E L I T A
How had she come to be so blessed in this foreign world? Had she simply spent enough days suffering, striving, and craving, and the Gods sent them all her way, eager and fervent, ready for her to embrace and learn precision instead of pure, wild abandon? Her heart lurched and soared, her grin was a luminescent arch streaked with veracity and ferocity, untamed locks bounding past her shoulders in a rivulet of scorching fire, a promise, a benediction. “Yes!” She beamed along the logs, the leaves, the fallen soil, no longer so barbed and thorned, but a demanding, incredulous force, capable of soaking in each and every lesson the realms had to offer (and she’d seen the cruelty, the barbarity, yearned for the better annals, tomes, and rituals). And while patience was not one of her virtues, eternally fervent, ardent, capable of stoking flames for the sole purpose of her aspirations, her glorious ambitions (body pulsing, an ebullient hum in the shake of her shoulders, in the savage motion of her waltz), she could at least wait and embrace for this. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there.” The vow pervaded into the loam, an oath and assurance she was entirely capable of keeping; hands itching for the wood and strings of a bow, for the strength and durability of power, of knowledge, of all the things she’d ever craved.
