M E L I T A
She would’ve helped. The honeybee girl would’ve done anything they’d asked her to do – bright smile on before the battle began, roughened swords or shields displayed – eternally ready to jump into danger, to save the day without the thought of consequences. She’d lived long enough for it to be somewhat successful – but now, now it wouldn’t have mattered.
Melita wasn’t strong enough. She wasn’t trained enough. She wasn’t enough.
But what hurt even more than the deep cuts of proving herself time and time again, but not to the right people, was the roaring faction bleeding into the spectating. What should’ve been a time of anxiety, apprehension, and foretold intervention (because how many of them would rush on the battlefield to grab ahold of one of their own?), had only spilled over in blighted, tangible belligerence. Naturals and Outlanders spouted their reasons, their motives, all these starry ambitions from meetings, words orchestrated in halls and temples, going out there and committing to the actions – and it simmered down to hatred and vehemence.
She cringed, stood on the outskirts, eyes on the battle below, ears listening to the battle within. It was an echo of her childhood, when false gods lured and tempted, beguiled and allured, and those who’d disagreed, who warned were ignored, and only shown their just desserts when the world fell apart around their heads. Blames were exchanged, feelings were being pummeled; somewhere she could hear Rory exploding, fuming, Phoebe crying, Wessex condemning, and her heart sunk. How was this making anything better? What were they supposed to do now? Was that how they always thought of us?
The fight raged on in both expanses, and Melita had nothing to contribute to either of them. For the first time in a long while, she stared out across the fields, and shivered; suddenly frightened by the reaches of the inevitable.
