MELITA
She listened – brightened and emboldened for a length of time, maneuvering into her prior realm of impetuous, insouciant whims, mercurial balms brandished in her gaze. Is the work of the Voice…with the assistance of the Ascended burned against her brain; because Ascendeds meant Wessex, and her mind had been capable of linking the implications from there on. Had Wessex, or Samuel, or any of the others been a source of the blight’s spread, of the pestilence plaguing their streets, their groves? She didn’t say anything on that front. Phoebe would’ve already snagged and seared on those conclusions long before. Melita had bent herself into the dark. She tilted her head a fraction, pondering the midst of those wandering into the basement, likely hoping to devastate the source – except naught had changed. They were still sick. They were still trembling and angry. They were still bound into the roots of some disastrous wake. Melita wasn’t necessarily bothered by the potential for falling rocks, treachery, danger, or anything that a normal person would perceive alarming or detrimental – her growing years had been spent in those very situations, and she’d learned long ago how to channel any apprehension or consternation. “I can go.” The girl nodded, removing herself from the bed, sighing as her palms became their quivering endeavors again. “Thank you Phoebe. I’ll see you soon.” Another promise she could hopefully fulfill. With that, she and Fangorn meandered out the door, hastening towards Spire delusions.
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
