[seasonal event] the chorus will come in

MELITA

LongHeat pressed its wares against her crown and she dazzled in the light, in the warmth, in the eternal embrace of summer. It was in the rocks, in the stones, in the trees, in the earth, singing its sublime tendencies into her ears. They were crescendos and warbles of birds, memories of draconic sand tickling her feet, a clashing of oasis spray echoing and emboldened from her fingertips, the illustrious, bountiful whims of fire, of passion, restlessly intertwining in her bones. She’d never forgotten it – not in the falling of the Dragon’s Throat, not in the ashen, wake of the Rift, not in the passing of seasons here in Caido.

But there had to be more; stories, tales, and legends, sprung from the lips of inhabitants, those who reigned here long before portals sent the rest of their masses down. Perhaps the Naturals knew. Maybe the Fae stoked their beliefs.

It was a pattern, cyclical, perennial, and she craved the last of the last; when autumn approached, she would’ve been here for an entire year, grown and prospered beneath the heavens and skies, shifted, changed, and altered, but still strong, still determined.

Her feet were light, her strides buoyant, as she crossed form lane to lane, path to path. Fangorn trailed behind, consistently distracted by insects, attempting to snatch them into his great, gaping, fanged mouth, then ambling a few more strides before starting the process all over again. She waited, laughed, and searched, scanning the world (the rubble, the dirt, the debris; a home away from home, like desecrated remains of kingdoms and sovereignties left behind) for something, for someone, to show her the way.

She thought she saw a familiar form amidst the columns and skeletal buildings, taking shape as she grew closer and closer. The youth waved and hollered, eager and fervent all over again, scooping up Fangorn, ensuring he wasn’t left behind (as he grumbled about missed opportunities and snacks), as she approached. “Roana!” Her call was a vibrant, outspoken decibel, forever seen and heard, racing up to the older woman’s side until she was breathless. “Have you heard the capture the sun story? I seemed to have missed it!”

And she wanted to know everything.

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