ELITA: metamorphosis

1.

CAMP NEW MOON, MORTALLANDS.

        Elita giggled hysterically at the tall shadow figure. It was pretending to slip on a rotted apple at the base of the fruit tree she sat under. Encouraged by her laughter, it did it again, and again.

        "What are you laughing at?" a voice sounded curiously from behind her. "I see you sitting here all day, laughing. But there's nothing there?"

        Elita still had a bad case of giggles when she turned to the newcomer. It was a boy dressed in a sand-coloured tunic, a mop of Ash-blonde curls upon his head.

        "You can't see him. Only I can. He's my friend," she informed him.

        "So, imaginary, then."

        She shrugged, having argued the existence of her friend many times. By now she'd learned it was best to let people believe what they want. "If you like."

        Elita returned her gaze to the shadow man, the ponytail securing her mousey-brown hair to the bottom of her head tumbling down her back.

        "You're strange," he mused. "Want to be friends?"

        She frowned and glanced back at the boy. Her eyes roamed over him, analysing him, deciding whether he was worth the trouble.

        "You're a boy," she said, crinkling her nose. "But I like your hair, so I guess it's okay." She stood, wiping her hands onto the skirt of her worn, filthy dress. She approached him and held out her palm in offering. "My name is Elita, but you can call me El. I'm five sun cycles old and I don't like insects, green food, or bedtimes. Now tell me your name and something about you."

        His lips twitched in amusement as he took her small hand in his own. "I'm Atticus. I love bugs, I also hate vegetables, and I don't have a bedtime."

        Elita gasped. "You don't have a bedtime?!" she exclaimed as if it was the best thing ever.

        "No, I'm eight. So I'm too old for that now." Losing his parents two sun cycles ago also played a part in it, but he didn't mention that.

        "Wow, that's so cool." She looked at him in awe, her blue eyes twinkling. "Do you want to come play at my cabin? My mum is sick, but she won't mind if we're quiet."

        "Sure."

        "Yes! Come on!"

       El's little legs worked as fast they could go as she charged in the direction of her home, zigzagging between the log cabins littered throughout their camp. They rushed past the community cooking pot before zooming by the blacksmith's hut, where the blacksmith himself was leant over an anvil, hammer in hand. His bald head snapped up as the youngsters flew past.

        "Watch where you're going there, El!" he scolded, seeing them run too close to the stone pit where his hot coals roasted.

        "Sorry, Edrin!" It was Atticus who responded. He raced to catch up to El, who was surprisingly fast for someone so small.

        El stopped at the edge of camp, the border marked with a three-foot fence made with sharpened sticks tied together. It was flimsy, but with their camp almost in the middle of the Mortallands, they didn't have much trouble. The only place safer was Royal Hill, smack dab in the centre of their faction, where their leaders reside.

        It was the outskirts which had the real problems, close to No Mans's Land; they were the first targets in the event of an attack.

        "We're here!" she stopped to catch her breath.