[SWE] Capturing the Sun

MELITA

They spiraled back on her flames and his careful, quiet guidance, a stalwart foundation and anchor where she itched to clamber back into embers and infernos. But even Jigano didn’t know about Remi’s case, which meant she’d have to ask at a later time, or merely ponder and never quite comprehend it, out of her prying, grasping hands and talons. “He always seems hurt,” she mentioned off-handedly, as if bad luck moored him down, down, down, when it the world should’ve been twisted and beckoned by his light and graces.

But then there was an alteration, gifts extended and exchanged, the bard leaning down and then offering her something beautiful and wonderful: a lantern, a guide in the darkness, where she ventured, where she roamed, copper, a burning sienna, promising light when she traversed into the deep, vacant unknown, when she regarded monsters, when she tampered with ghosts. The etching and detail of the suns were something all the more special and highly regarded, her heart swelling, tears striving to escape from the back of her eyes – like little wraiths of the past, the beatific glory of her Sun God, of the Dragon’s Throat, of the humid, sultry haze, of the oasis beneath her feet, along her fingers. She noted the blooming flowers too, like her sister, like her mother, and she pushed a heart-wrenching sob down the back of her throat, glanced at the ground to regain her composure. “It’s amazing. There’s no way I’m worthy of such a gift.” But her hands went to clasp it anyway, digits gliding along the smooth, polished panels, Fangorn hissing in delight while her soul intertwined back on everything she’d once had. Her family, her friends, her old home and kingdom, shepherding her through shadows; the way it’d always been, and could never be again. “It’s perfect,” she whispered, in awe, in reverie, and everything else she couldn’t possibly convey.

Then she thought of her own gifts, laden above the flinthopper carcasses, and she ducked down, lantern in one hand, too precious, too sacred, to loosen from her grip, brushing aside some tears that escaped from her eyes and ran down her cheeks, composing herself as she grabbed her own basket. The offerings inside weren’t nearly anything in comparison, but she thought them beatific, grand, and opulent in their own way. She adjusted the basket to linger on her hip, while her fingers grabbed hold of a few precious stones and shells, some red lichen off to the side, holding them aloft for Jigano to view. “You may have these, if you wish. They’re nothing in comparison to yours…” She trailed off, but then kept going, bravery and valor. “I dove down for them in the Crimson Cataract. Perhaps you could find a better use for them than I.” They were in every size and shape, all with a crimson, rosy tinge; like a blush, like blood, like ichor and lifeforces, polished and smooth by the force of the waterfall.

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