MELITA
She hadn’t been able to defend or save Clementine from the Rift’s claws, precision, and cruelty; a part of her didn’t think she’d be able to even honor her correctly. A shuddering sigh quaked through her as she thought, hands scratching the top of Fangorn’s head, pondering and listening, head raising only at the insinuation of artistic volleys. She wasn’t skilled in any of the aesthetic qualities either; her only oeuvres were staples of assault or tempestuous, mercurial, impulsive endeavors, and even then, sometimes they were faulty or flawed. The cogs continued to move and maneuver, imagining a distinction of petals and blossoms, of worlds laden with ripened fields, clover, thistle, and yew, laughing beneath the shadow of apple trees, dancing beneath fronds of groves and copses, wild but not yet wicked, innocent, not yet tainted by the whims of the earth. “That might be nice.” The curl of her smile returned, a rapture, a reverie, at the thought of something better, something grander, siblings somehow left beyond traces and figments of memories. She didn’t know anything about his sibling either, other than the botched engagement with her father; perhaps the woman had lucked out in some regard. She hummed a little in thought. “Clementine should have flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.” A pause in the minuet, eyes flickering back to him; makeshift family ties from things that should’ve been torn asunder. “What would she have?”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
