M E L I T A
The possibility of finding the queen, of her song being different from the rest, was so vastly appealing that the girl actually fell into silence, desperate to hear, clinging to the possibility. She did, however, nod enthusiastically to Vai at the mere prospect, and slid a little closer, feet light and ethereal, airy and composed, not orchestrated in her usual raucous and fervent ebullience. Even Fangorn nestled into the realms of hushed platitudes, though it’d been in his habit to commit to these notions before Melita came into his life; it was how he’d survived.
Melita had persevered and existed on guts, determination, and pretending to be the biggest monster in the dark.
In between the tunes and harmonies, the dulcet whims and the pretty, serene sonnets, the honeybee girl thought she heard an altering note. It wasn’t jarring, but beautiful, tranquil, as if all the other bees orchestrated within its beatific core – the composer, the majesty, the grand opus serenading with the choir. She crept closer again, careful not to disturb, not to press, not to overwhelm or shadow; tilting her head so she could catch and snag the queen’s hums, only twisting back to Vai quickly and pointing where she believed the regal monarch was resting. Were they there to stay then, fixated on gathering amidst the wood, the bark, the boughs? Was this where she’d hold her court, dictate, and ensure the colonies, the hives, grew stronger?
