MELITA
How many times had Melita faced doom and lived to tell the tale? There was a certain perseverance settled into her soul, even when the outcomes looked far less than favorable, because of all the eldritch, demonic incantations she’d stared down before. Her jaw clenched, and she straightened out her back until it was rigid, taut, a firm, stubborn little nuance prickling on the edges of fire. What was she expected to do – whine, cry, fall to pieces, pledge her last days to something other than fire and vitriol? Not this girl, not this ember, not this flare; her eyes took on a harder set, narrowing, far more flame than the gilded glare had fostered in many days. Die from a disease, some stupid rampant illness, like a plague victim? Be just a number out amongst the graveyard, tossed amongst catacombs with no name attached? Hardly. She bristled, she instigated, a provocation rippling through her.You won’t have me, she thought into the void, a bitter, knotted, gnarled little thing, not yet ready to meet her maker. Not this time.
Phoebe was soft, likely expecting something to be spiraling away from the honeybee youth. The only thing she dared to fling was acrimony and hostility amidst her trembling limbs, but not for the healer, not for the one who strived to soothe, but for the world, the wretched revolutions that believed it would own her soul. You don’t know me at all she growled into the ether – into the ashes, into the stones, into the abyss.
Her gaze swung to Phoebe, diligent, a kindling spark and sizzling. “Let me know if there’s something you need done, and I’ll do it.” As best she could, as best she was able; she’d drag her own damned carcass down whatever path the doctor required. She set her chin upwards, an ascent into boldness, the audacity spreading far quicker than the blight ever could. “Don’t be sorry. It won’t take me.” It won’t take any of us.
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
