MELITA
Names. Names held meaning, significance, symbolism, promises for greater, grander things. Clementine’s had signified her sweetness, engrained in her entity. Melita had been the little bee, some dutiful, wandering, protective child, but fully capable of leaving a sting. She wondered over everyone else’s callings, the way they’d been woven since birth, or if their parents let it settle over their souls for a while, pondered over what they could become – if weights were too heavy, if burdens too great. The girl hummed again, plucking at some strings on her dress, then lifting her fingers to lightly skim and dance over Fangorn’s head, the resounding decibels like hollowed enamel – the beast growled in rhythm. The Festival of Lights seemed perfect: not a celebration, but a way to honor and dignify those lost again and again, hoping, praying, the souls would rise before one’s eyes so you could bear witness one last time. “What about something with tribute? Does it have a Korofian meaning?” Her gaze ghosted back to his, a shrug, striving to proffer something other than another tribulation. Perhaps it could come to them as time went on, as it was created and cultivated by them and others’ fastidious memories; phantoms and specters, wraiths and catacombs. His following antics, however, were so ridiculous that she could only tilt her head back and laugh. It was a sweeter sound than the ones she’d concocted in seasons past – no less feral, but melodic, whimsical, capricious, what could’ve been soft instead of steel. “What a lie! Gaan weg!" Then she laughed so hard her eyes started to water, and she had to wipe and dab away at her cheek for the salt would run right down.
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
