MELITA
Her awed countenance didn’t lose a touch, a glimmer, of the beatific remnants, mouth agape, then flourishing with a grand smile, a touch of the sun, of the glory, of the triumph her worlds had held once. The shells sizzled from her outstretched palms, into the ether, rippling and inclining, never falling, as Ludo followed suit, everything risen and ascended, straight into the mouth of the sky, the heart of the earth. “You’re welcome,” she proclaimed, an earnest rhapsody as her frame braved and restored its might; bowing her head, then thrusting it back upwards, a glow, a firelight, dazzled in her gilded gaze. She pulsed in admiration, in esteem, in bewitching, beholden flickers; uncertain of what to do or where to go or if someone wiser, stronger, better would be able to lead her down a firmer road (tell them this and that). But it was just her and Fangorn, nestled in the brush, moss, and darkness, come to see what they could see – impulsive and impetuous, shards of the forgotten dust and edges. She knew she was ash. She knew she was nothing. But they still arrived – so what did that mean, in the end?
Her eyes settled haphazardly on her staff, resting nearby, in arm’s reach, hand-crafted from sticks and boughs she’d found fallen in the woods so many seasons ago. She’d restored it, worked and worked and worked so she could battle monsters, so she could practice, so she could become something more; and in the end, it had served her well, protecting Phoebe, brandishing wolves with dented skulls and broken jaws. Now a requiem and dirge approached, thin cracks she’d scarcely noticed or noted erupting into warped panels, dear, sweet, beloved timber threatening to snap into pieces. Her fingers grabbed ahold, and then bestowed it in front of the god; as if it were her pride and joy, her love, her affection, a weapon of her own making. Her fingers shook across the surface, but her voice blossomed, brewed, struggling not to portray her apprehension, her uncertainty, her ignorance. “My staff has served me well. Can it be mended?” The last breath was on a head tilt, her stare daring to glance at rags and riches again. Then – on impulse, on smiles, on ruffian, rogue tendencies, a wild child, a feral being, a savage beckoning, her grin returned – embellished and reverent all the more. “What can I do for you?”
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
