MELITA
“Yes,” might have been a hiss, might have been a growl, were it not coming from a curled, coiled snicker, an impish, irreverent glow and grin. There’d been Kiada (whom she chose not to associate with), Rexanna, some man named Deimos, and a haphazard assemblage and collection of others, somehow lost and found and together all over again. Her eyes were a resplendent, teasing, taunting thing, could’ve been a part of the stars and cosmos if they weren’t so devilishly maligned, raised back to the constellations, listening as Wessex spilled her secrets.It was short, blunt, to the point, everything the Ascended had always been – knives, fighting, anger, tension, an intriguing outcast position well before she took herself into the ramparts of scaling and conquering. Her head tilted, humming under her breath, as a disease swept into the story: I’m not ready to die an anthem, a tattoo, an emblem drawn to almost anyone’s life. She wasn’t surprised that Wessex would fight on and fight another method, another means, another modicum in which to arm and render herself whole. The youth didn’t judge the endeavor, had likely done plenty worse on her journeys and sojourns to ensure those at her side remained there, even if, in the end, it hadn’t truly mattered. She lowered her gaze to the moss at her feet, under her hands, to the weight of the colliding worlds pressing in amongst them, to Fangorn nibbling by her ankles, to the grass swaying, tickling her hands. Then it riveted its way back to her mentor, the inquiries a never-ending exploration. “Which life do you prefer?” The one before, or the one after?
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
