MELITA
Too fast, too unpredictable, she’d bordered on the impulsive and impetuous, and she should’ve known better, heralded from the gaping chasms of malice and menace before. There was an instant, a brief, stark moment, where the monsters had come out to play – her eyes widened, her fingers clenched and balled into fists – and then it was over, like it’d never began, and the warmth glided from the baker again. Melita’s head swam with the possibilities and probabilities of what she’d seen – a tinge of fur, the rounding of ears not quite human, and then released the breath she’d held, tucked inward, sparked along her lungs; wavering away from it and the acrimony she might’ve instigated – unaware, silly, foolish. She would’ve hung her cranium and begged for forgiveness, for intruding and trespassing where she clearly wasn’t wanted, but the cautious smile, the sheepish fringes lingering on Amalia’s features prevailed her to stay; they’d simply stumbled into a yawning cavern of threats and blinding unknown. “Sorry,” she mentioned anyway, believing an apology necessary along the frayed strands and seams, her intentions never overbearing or overwhelming. Her eyes pieced together the starwhale and its antics though – the glowing trails of stars and diamonds nearly herald tears to her gaze, so inspiring, so amazing, so beautiful, so majestic, and her inquiries were barely matched: how had she acquired such a lovely little companion? What was it? Her fingers ached to trace over its skin, over the remnants of celestial beings and wakes, a creature of the heavens, despite her never being capable of finding, procuring, or meeting any of her own. “Curiosity,” she managed at first, still revering the dancing whale as it teased and sang around her; adding her own hum to the mixture and melee, bright, warm, and cheery in the cascading intervals, between the canopies and roots. “I haven’t journeyed this far before,” was a whisper, as if she intended to explore every damned avenue, nook, and cranny she could find; not even remotely bothered by the possibilities, by the threatening glances, by the trials and tribulations that could have easily slid her way. Perhaps it was confidence and arrogance; she’d seen so many things before, or just an asinine, foolish grace, believing herself capable of the demons, monsters, fiends, and fey walled up in the cavernous worlds. Her eyes eventually flickered to Amalia’s basket, and then she recalled the things once laden in her arms, put down when inquiry overrode any other tangible thing. “I was going to make a basket,” and she surveyed the gathered wood, gathering it back up in her arms, another wink extended to the whale.
Then she focused on the baker, on the concern laden in her final question, on the squalls and storms tucked and hidden away in tempestuous glens. “No,” shaking her head, tossing crimson curls and locks. Have you seemed like an innocuous question; because just by the sight of her, Melita could tell something had frayed at the ends, had strained at ribbons, fire, and boughs. Perhaps she’d been too quick. Perhaps she’d been too quiet. Or perhaps they’d left her alone, for she had very little to offer them. "What brings you out here?" rippled along the girl's throat instead, a warm smile residing, protecting the amiable from the memories of misfortune.
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
