MELITA
There was something to be said for a soul who pushed, for a being who persevered, for an individual who stood their ground, fortified and endured, despite the world telling them no. Perhaps it was to look and glance upon them with shaking heads and wondrous eyes, wondering when they’d even understand that they weren’t worthy, or deserving of anything. Perhaps it was to gaze on their potency and ponder over where the prowess emerged from, why it still coasted and ghosted around them, pinnacles and flames, mighty and stalwart.No answer was still an answer; and she’d kneeled at shrines before with her hands plied with goods, granted and proffered, with naught to show.
But how many times had that happened in her life? How many errors had she committed? How many ghosts clung to her mind? How many moments had she let her light go out, flicker in place, not enough oxygen, not enough energy, not enough willpower? Because the realms, the kingdoms, the sovereignties weren’t going to do it all for her: it was Melita and only Melita, onward and upward, forward, striding through woods and eaves and boughs for just one damned chance, one opportunity, for something, someone, celestial to tell her all was well, she was on the right path. She was courage and dedication, she was bravery and audacity, and she was boldness, tucked in a little shell of infernos and credence, a belief in herself.
There’d been a song once, in her heart, in her bones, but it had no titles, no stanzas, no lyrics. It might’ve been her mother, it might’ve been her sister, it might’ve been a sign. It might’ve been nothing at all.
But she won’t be nothing. Not her, not the impudent girl with her chin raised to the skies, peeking through the underbrush, wandering, wandering, wandering, singular gift in hand, vampire gourd at her side. When they reach the shrine, she kneeled once more, hands lightly dusting over the statues of gods and their brethren, another gentle hum billowing past her mouth. Fangorn stared, but wisely said and contributed nothing but an aura of protection, of sanctity, a safeguard of foreboding disappointment. Her fingers cast her gift along the rest of the wares, brilliant, beautiful shells she’d found along shorelines of the wildwoods’ enchanting allure, settling it amongst relics and ash, then bowed her head, not quite entirely sure what to say, how to ask, wishing the world would regard her as more than a defect, a flaw, a petal, a speck. What would it be like: to see a god?
{For levelling! No pressure! <3}
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
