back to basics

MELITA

It was through a series of circumstances and devotion that seemed to have led him back here, plucked from the sky. Her eyes floated to the horizon, incapable of seeing the aforementioned; for now, their hues and formations were gone to her, blending into the enlightened sky. Her mind mulled over immortality – when she’d heard so many deities encompassing the role, then watched them destroyed despite their strength, their capabilities, their endurance – the gift, the curse, the spellbinding contracts fizzling between kindred individuals and spirits. He’d obviously committed courageous acts to inspire such commitment, such adherence, such dedication to other beings. “Oh,” was all she could say for a matter of moments, struggling to decipher the multitude of layers and lacquer attached to everything. There was some expressions digging their way through her throat, how she hoped he’d make the most of the second chance, of the consecrations and anointments, but he likely already understood the overbearing weight. He’d probably adhere to it without any issue. It probably already hovered in his form, ready to embark and be unleashed. So curiosity stoked and fired again, a bit more brazen, a bit more defiant, a bit more provoking, smile tipping on the edge of her lips, on the fringes of her intrigue. “What are you going to do with this life?”

Maybe her mother and sister were stars somewhere up in the heavens too. Perhaps they’d be more like wildflowers, growing from the soil, waving their blooms and blossoms with steadfast courage and beatific courtesies. She’d like to find them, to see them again, to know and understand they were still a part of this world – her heart caught in her chest and stung, and she spirited her gaze away from him.

“Okay,” Melita agreed to his request, looking over the borders lacking their paint and finery, chipped off, fallen in pride and radiance over time and elements. She could do that at the very least, inching toward the pots, hands grabbing a brush. Fangorn thought he’d be helpful too, bored otherwise, snagging another, whipping it around with his fangs and sending drips of paint everywhere. She stifled a laugh, glancing at Ronin and his sign, before grasping the tool away from the gourd. Her fingers glided over his head, gave him a little scratch, a sign of affection, appreciation, and thankfulness, and then maneuvered back to the borders, stroking over the wood, watching the hues and colors come back to life – a cycle, a pattern, in these parts.

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