MELITA
Melita had yet to truly encounter the Wildwood, skirmishing and skipping along its outer columns for a few days, itching to embark, but only reliant on the rumors of captures from floating parchments on the notice boards. Though she was typically daring and audacious, curiosity bending her into a formidable, potent little sprite, she was also hesitant to march straight into the lion’s den when the ominous reaches were there, right in front of her, not just ghosts, mirages, or delusions.But eventually, inquiry won over (a buzz, a symphony, a glow of desires and questions in her head, willing, begging, pleading with her to simply go and see what the rest of the world had already discovered) and she and Fangorn leapt their way through the brush, canopies, and undergrowth. Wiser individuals had always scolded and lectured the youth for her boldness, but also openly encouraged it, and she was not about to be caught in the crosshairs of those fixations, pressing her feet lightly into the ground, before nimbly launching away, like a deer, floating effortlessly beneath boughs.
Fangorn often stopped, sniffing the air, sliding his enigmatic, eerie gaze to the forest floor, and the girl would cease too, grabbing hold of a few broken branches, sticks, and twigs that looked like potential, that bit into the words Roana had mentioned, about baskets, about capturing the sun. They certainly weren’t dried reeds, but given enough pressure, they might yield and conform to something similar; and it would be just like her character, to embark on a harder task for the thrill of it. “Will these do?” She inquired and hummed to the gourd, and he seemed to shrug, as one without shoulders best mustered, and she piled them into her arms, meandering further and further still until they came to a giant tree.
“Wow,” was all she could express, mouth agape at its magnificence, at its monumental size, at the roots coming straight from the ground, like miniature towers and monoliths. Her eyes widened, displaying all the youthful exuberance suddenly clustered along her fingers, her movements, her motions. She itched to stand below its threshold and simply stare for the longest of times, revel in its presence, beatific and grand; reminding her of those summits, those cliffs, along the Dragon’s Throat. Fangorn growled, inclining towards another nestled amidst the branches and roots, and the girl almost dropped her wares. “Sorry! I didn’t know anyone was here.” But she recognized the baker, considered her a friendly face, and a grin spread along her lips, instead of a regretful tide, instead of a reluctant measure – all the more beckoning and incandescent when she caught sight of the starwhale. “Oh my goodness! You’re amazing!” Melita positively squealed, and finally did lose all composure, inching closer, but not reaching, not without permission, towards the little companion ignited and implored by stars, still carrying the bundle in her arms.
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
