[seasonal event] it's an old scar

MELITA

Melita picked the rushing water, the strong, enduring tides to lay out her tribute, her stories, her myths, her songs to Safrin; pondering how to occupy and entertain a deity she’d never seen. In the past, she’d revered the sun and its holy, somewhat embittered fixtures, raptured by the traces of glory, might, triumph, and fire, but she’d never thought to kneel and pray towards the moon. In Helovia, she’d been an enigmatic, eerie figure; the world had hosted hundreds of tales corresponding and intricately carving her exploits into the foundation of their stars and pathways – she’d been murder and corruption, hostility and animosity, a slinking snake, an asp, but also kind and benevolent to those that served her. Should the honeybee girl be wary of this version too? Or did they not blend and align together? Were they alternate fixtures, not quite corresponding, bending away, parallel, never touching, never segmenting?

She and Fangorn found their way to some ample shade, a mesh of darkness beneath the outstretched canopies bordering the Stonesong, sitting amidst the moss and pebbles. The youth knew better than to sing; that had been Clementine’s gift, and never her own – tone deaf, incapable of carrying much of a melody. Perhaps that was why her voice ricocheted in loud decibels and raucous intervals, embodying warnings, howls, or roars; either in play or danger, rarely gentle or pious, honeyed or soft. Even so; maybe Safrin would still listen to her, and maybe it would be worth it, and maybe not everything was lost.

A story it was then, conducting and orchestrated in her mind straight from her memories, gilded eyes lilted and tilted to the heavens, where celestial bodies rested, posed to stare down on mortal bodies and wonder how they ever survived. “Can I tell you a tale, Safrin?” She waited, a series of seconds and cycles, and Fangorn’s stare widened, imploring her to continue even though nothing else in the great beyond did; she listened to the echo of the current, wondered how many had survived its hold, before continuing (I’m a survivor too). “Once, there was a world called Helovia: bright, beautiful, but not without its faults or flaws. It had gods too, with broken shrines and emboldened devotees. Many grew beneath their powers; little girls in fields, gentle mothers with their dulcet lullabies, strong warriors promising strength and dominion.” Her gaze drifted then, away from the clouds and vacant stars, there but not, hidden by the sun. “One day, there was a new face; a trickster, a deviant, and he wielded his subterfuge and deception as a soldier swings their blade. He had the realm duped, offered rewards, cherished followers. Even the gods fell into his fold. Mortals raised the dead for him. They dragged the chains of his sepulcher from the decrepit marsh. They allowed bedlam to thrive.”

She paused here, scratched the top of Fangorn’s head as she thought, as she wondered if the story should end there, or extend into the reaches of the Rift, where the real torture began. “Then Kaos destroyed the world – took it apart piece by piece, body by body, god by god, until naught was safe, and darkness descended. Some escaped. Most did not.” Would that be enough? Or would she want more?

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