MELITA
She wasn’t offended by her beloved staff being heralded as a stick; perhaps to deities and celestial beings, they were nothing and heralded little in comparison to their great, grand powers. But to the girl, who’d carved and whittled it herself, who had nothing else to her name but a pumpkin gourd and simmering, scalding determination, it was a piece of her, a weapon, a means to an end. She nodded all the same, listened, tilting her head like a bird, like a predator, listening to her unfolding task: sap from a Wicker Woman. Melita was woefully ignorant again, presuming it was a tree, but little else – but there was a healthy dose of admiration, courage, and resolution tightly wound in her sanction, now building, now blistering, now accompanying everything else flanked and driven in her core. “I will!” She promised, bright and willing, an ebullient, silly little fool with the world at her back. “If you’re sure…” Because she would have offered or found more, much more, for a god who granted her wish, who listened, who saw her. “Then I’ll return soon!”She rose, then thought better of it in her energy, in her excitement, bowing so her hair brushed her knees, so the air rushed out of her lungs, so the canopies turned upside down in her sights. When she resurfaced, her smile was still grand, still large, still magnificent, a wild, wicked thing. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”
She turned and twisted to go, on a wave, her staff in her hand, cracked and chiseled but not forgotten; down into the ramparts to find what Ludo required.
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
