MELITA
Fangorn’s warning went ignored, and the gourd snarled, mildly taken aback. So he snarled, opting to lunge forward, a pretense, but also a precedence that he wasn’t going to let the youth, the fledgling, rule the roost for the moment – Melita patted him in a placating manner, but otherwise watched in the vivid quiet, listening.“It was awful.” The blight had been a surmise of all her wicked, seditious inhibitions, and nothing left to stop them, no barriers, no guards, no benevolence wrapped around tethers and wires. She’d been permitted to go out into the world and do her worst, escorted by nothing but her raw anger, wrath, and contempt, all the nefarious properties stored within her soul unleashed, unfettered, unraveled, danger and treachery replacing any other beneficent sentiments.
At his smile though, she frowned slightly. Was that what she wanted to do? It had been built out of habit and routine, the stretch of her youth and experience across Helovia and the Rift – enamored and enameled out of necessity, out of strife, out of grief, out of yearning, trying, striving to keep them all safe.
It hadn’t worked.
The insinuation of her father’s blood within her ichor though stirred, her frown rooted itself deeper, a furrowing of her brows, staring out across the grounds, along the mud puddles and the sun, pondering, wondering, just how alike or different they were. Given the opportunity, the reasons, the measures, and the notions, she might have raised hell too, spiraled and beckoned infernos to rise at her summons, at her provocations. But she cared too much for consequences, even if everything was inspired by impulse – still cowering from the effects of pestilence, from the way the earth shifted its weight across land after land.
The good part of her proffered the tiniest smile. “Clementine was the best one.” Her grin deepened at the memory of her sister, bright and beautiful, an incandescent, whimsical vestige of laughter and curiosity, eternally kind. “She would have never succumbed to the blight.”
This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight
