M E L I T A
The girl absorbed it all – listening ears and riveted eyes, lifting her chin, her head, to stare back. She lost some of the shame, for it never seemed to stay for long, emboldened by curiosity and the undercurrent, the tones leading somewhere down shared paths. She heard the name (Roana Steadman) and committed it to pieces and pockets of memories, and then the wishes of a gone man (Ronin? the youth almost dared inquire; but a sensation halted her, and she knew), requiring the older woman to forge onward, and the eerie maelstrom of comrades, of a kinship, flickered in her bones. How many times had it occurred in the Rift, everyone holding onto the same wish, the same dreams, the same damned interlude and horrors, longing for a sanctuary, for a refuge, when none could be found? How many times had they banded together to fight a common enemy? The audacity lingered in her heart, in her mind, in her throat, until they couldn’t be held back any longer, and her tongue sparked, sizzled, in its array of questions. One managed to hold its own in the wind, in the morning dew, in the ominous, foretelling spells. “What do you have to do?”
And if this one didn’t think she was good enough – a warrior who’d helped in casting down a monster – what prayer did Melita have?
Except the tenacious, forceful little fiend never gave in. She didn’t crumble. She didn’t quake. She didn’t fall apart, to pieces, to splinters, to embers. Defiance became her blood, her bones, her enamel, her essence; the steadfast confidence in her own abilities. If she wasn’t talented, if she wasn’t grand or great, she could at least keep trying, determination in her grit, in her heart, in every damned, forsaken breath she took.
Then the questions segmented back to her – the wonderings of her travels in the morning. Roana wouldn’t know that the youth roamed and wandered her way through each and every field, copse, or meadow whenever she pleased; day or night, and despite Wessex’s attempts at lecturing her, still committed the actions. It was sedition, tradition, and habitual, a routine set in her lithe legs and her limber movements. However, it was also in pursuit of practice, and she might as well admit the notions before they got too far embedded into lasting wounds and fragments of the days before. “My companion heard you practicing.” She grinned, gesturing to the gourd at her feet, barely restraining an eyeroll when he hissed and growled in response. “So we followed the sounds.” Her eyes went to the destroyed post, then out to the great beyond, ruins and outskirts made before her time by something mysterious and unknown; and she was suddenly a force to be reckoned with it again, the swift maneuvers of a turbulent, capricious storm. “I’d like to become stronger too.”
