played it so nonchalant

MELITA

The firebrand had waited for the sickness to go away on its own – as most were want to do – trying to force it out of sight, out of mind, despite trembling hands and clammy skin, a complete, utter loss of appetite that left her dizzy. Her movements were no longer light, but sluggish, barely comprised of any exultation, any joy, the energy and exuberance robbed of her figure, gilded eyes dulled to barely-alive embers. It raked over her lungs from time to time, and the quivering, shaky measures of her limbs had left her without the ability to summon her bow, to straighten out a taut string.

Perhaps now it was wise to go to the Infirmary.

She’d never been before. Melita had somehow managed to avoid particularly jarring wounds, despite constant exploits into treachery, danger, or training; the worst might’ve been a sprained ankle that mended without assistance in due time. The youth hoped, dreamed, that there might’ve been some miracle, medical cure along the mending, assuaging roots, and she’d leave, perfectly fine, ready to conquer the world again.

Slow, lacking her flares and fervency, Fangorn kept pace beside her, eerie stare glancing her over meticulously, as if searching for a root cause for all the peculiarities. The girl was usually a hardy figure, capable of slashes, of lacerations, of swings from her mighty staff, but it looked drained from her soul, from her essence, with every labored step she took towards the ward.

At some point, dragging the furs over her shoulders to keep the chill off her bones, she managed to make it to the back of the temple, twisting the door open with the still, impetuous measures, not bothering to knock. Her gaze, a little wild, a little untamed, a little savage, followed lines and rooms, and raised her voice to shout over the seemingly empty expanse. “Anyone here?”

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