[seasonal event] it's an old scar

MELITA

Her story continued, eyes lit upon the sky, poignant but unseeing, her memories scattered amidst those weary, broken things, moments snatched and whittled into treachery and deceit. Those events had made her, shaped her, into more than just the emboldened little girl running through thistle meadows and labyrinths; born into warmth, baptized and thrust into danger and might. “Their escape was hastened by a portal – and down, down, down they went, into glens of darkness and the unknown. It was cold, and most of them were tossed in different directions, struggling to find the remains of their families.” Should she mention the ghosts, the mysteries, the dynamics of splintered gods and their unholy vows, assurances? Should she snag the sepulchers, how the dead rose from their watery graves and spilled blood upon the masses – their loved ones, their beatific creatures with the same lifelines, the same ichor, the same passion, destroyed again before their eyes? It bottled and waned, it pressed against her mouth and screamed, but for some reason she couldn’t find the tangled notes, the right intonations – flat lined on her lips. Fangorn nuzzled at her ankles, and she scratched the top of his head, manifesting a sigh.

The sounds of another were suddenly there, too quiet, enough so that her gourd companion hadn’t even sensed them, though he gave up a sudden alarm, a quick hiss and growl, until Wessex came into view, and her heartbeat managed to retain its normal rhythm. The voice simmered over the rush of the river, stung more than Melita would care to admit. She shook her head, loosening the taper of fiery locks from her shoulders, gaze not swinging to Wessex, lifting back up to the celestial clouds. “No.” None of them really ever had, and she just surmised it was something lacking in her: abilities, strength, conviction, and no matter how much she’d manifested into the surroundings, no matter which world she persisted within, they didn’t glance her way. Not enough was a constant echo in the back of her mind, carving and clawing its way through her spine, her skull, ricocheting in pulses and waves. But eventually she’d make them see, make them notice, make them stop and stare. So she shrugged. “But I’ll still try.”

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