MELITA
In a cruel twist of irony, it turned out that there was no escape at all.She could hear the giggles trailing along the waves, and a singular look over her shoulder told her all the other details she needed to know. The little girl, just one of many she’d been avoiding, toddled and teetered after Fangorn (who didn’t know quite how to behave, and that made two of them). Melita had half an inclination to become completely feral and wild, to snarl and unhinge, to be a ferocious thing simply because she could. A few years before, she probably would have – with teeth that gnashed and bit, with manifested claws of sedition.
But it wasn’t this child’s fault that her father was a moron.
Her eyes flickered from her gourd (who had ambled quickly over to her side and tucked himself near her ribs), to Kamaria, softening the fringes of a sigh into some manner of scolding. “You shouldn’t have come out here by yourself.” And Melita didn’t want to babysit. She didn’t want to do anything but be left to her own wiles, her own devastations, without some other form to look after. Half the time she was enough. Her hands continued to sculpt and whittle from the damp pathways, shaping a line of sandy stones. “Do you know how to make a sand castle?” The tones were light, airy, ethereal, managing to billow away from the molten mess inside her bones, eventually lifting her chin to stare in some reign of open defiance.
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
