MELITA
Melita didn’t expect anything other than some ridiculous sickness, one of those that lingered and lingered, incapable of being combatted until she received the right medicine. Ordinarily she wasn’t even bothered, but this one remained, chiseled its way into her chest and her lungs, her head and her flesh, noting she’d ever had before. Her eyes lifted to watch Phoebe and the vial, tilting her cranium, waiting for some reaction, some modicum of reassurance that everything would be fine, and she’d just need to take some herbs for a couple days – This is the blight reamed against her mind and she blinked, stupefied, bewildered. There was a reeling notion that somehow this was a mistake, but Phoebe knew because she had it too, and it was the illness striking, slaying upon Ronin, and this couldn’t be real, she hadn’t done anything to catch it –
Except beat up a vampire gourd infected with the pestilence.
Maybe it’d somehow tainted her when she was hit by vines, when she was grabbed, before Ludo could free her from its coating.
“Am I going to die too?” She whispered; knowing full well one day it would happen, but she expected it to be in the midst of battle, standing in front of a friend, an ally, ensuring they made it to safety when she was plunged headlong into her own grave; a warrior’s way. Not like this. Not like this.
The youth could barely hear the rest of the symptoms and warning signs, except for the aggressive mood swings….which would explain a lot of about her venture into the Cloister Trials. She could feel Fangorn imploring her, begging her for some absolution, but she had naught to give, naught to grant.
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
