MELITA
One day, temptation, impulsiveness, and far too much curiosity will do her in, condemn her, swallow her, consume her whole – but the way her eyes caught on the throng, on the melee, on the dancing, nimble columns of fey spirits was reverent. Melita admired the way they twisted and glided along the water, wild, untamed, but not entirely savage or sinister; minstrels of magic and song. The cheers and tunes were mesmerizing things, eclipsing over her senses, until she found herself inching closer and closer to the embankment, caught in the siren swell, watching as the Stonesong became one with their halos and motions. Could she ever do the same? Could she ever be so elegant, so strong, so capable? She was a child of angles and edges, of haunting melancholy and dutiful anguish, torn apart by loss and damnation, without anyone to help her sew the pieces back together – on her own, alone and howling. It is doubtful she’d ever encompass the world these people do – but she was willing to try. You are nothing the realms and kingdoms would say, and she’d whisper back but one day I will be something.Her hands skimmed over the top of Fangorn’s head, and he hissed a warning, an obvious don’t grumbling through his growls; but she was tethered to the probabilities and possibilities, to the air and ether, to the glory of harmony and pirouettes. There was no thought to anything else; not the foreboding laced in Fangorn’s sentiments, not the trials and tribulations, not the lesson she’d learned all those years ago. Naught but the water, calling, calling, calling, and within an instant, she’d dove for the river, the chill racing against her skin, the water combing around her fiery hair in waves and curls.
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
