MELITA
The youth was an avid listener when she wanted to be, taking the intervals and intricacies of the Fae and molding them to the forest being alive; elemental, ethereal things, in the boughs, in the trees, in the leaves, in the roots, in the feral outlines she would gladly fall into. The notions of a war-chief already irritated by their presence, a goddess who taught things by barters and trades, a turtle who contained the globe on his spine…ordinarily they’d be fanciful stories, like words granted by her mother, eager to tell and every tale to her grasping daughters. Here though, she can believe these things are true to form and life: imagined them in the back of her mind, coaxed to fruition on beautiful, outstretched limbs, dancing on the breeze, never taken apart by the wind, by the rain, or by the storms; tempests in their own right. “That sounds amazing,” she proffered instead, not waylaid or haunted by the warnings layered within, still brazen, still tempted, still mired and marred by her inability to wander into anything but impulse and impetuousness. Jyoti and Fangorn are joined on the ground, while the baker and the honeybee girl flittered about the trees – Melita watched for a few seconds as the gourd bounded along the leaf litter and moss, enticing Jyoti’s stardust and songs to follow (all the more intrigued; better than the ghostly, haunting, eerie shades he often displayed). Then her eyes meandered back to Amalia’s basket and the beginnings of its woven pattern; a brindle of impatience settling along her brow and mind, because this was something her sister would have loved to do, and something Melita could barely tolerate. Sitting still, concocting, and struggling to assemble an artifact were not actions she often possessed; she shifted a little, scooting closer to the gilded woman, to spy upon the tresses, plaits, and sticks, pondering if there was a certain way, a certain angle, in which to better align. In the end though, Amalia admitted she was simply making it up – and Melita laughed. “Good enough for me!” She took her more flexible sticks as recommended, leaving the rougher, stronger ones for future developments, then grabbed her reeds, intending to weave them back and forth, starting with a base and going from there. When it didn’t look like a dilapidated mess, she was more than satisfied. Perhaps she could do this! All the whle, she hummed under her breath, tongue stuck out as she concentrated, pulsing out words here and there. “I tried some of your bread with Rexanna at the festival. It was delicious.” Her gilded eyes and beatific grin sparked to the lady, then slid back to her basket, starting to take form.
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
