inside a dream

MELITA

There was something to be said for a soul who pushed, for a being who persevered, for an individual who stood their ground, fortified and endured, despite the world telling them no. Perhaps it was to look and glance upon them with shaking heads and wondrous eyes, wondering when they’d even understand that they weren’t worthy, or deserving of anything. Perhaps it was to gaze on their potency and ponder over where the prowess emerged from, why it still coasted and ghosted around them, pinnacles and flames, mighty and stalwart.

No answer was still an answer; and she’d kneeled at shrines before with her hands plied with goods, granted and proffered, with naught to show.

But how many times had that happened in her life? How many errors had she committed? How many ghosts clung to her mind? How many moments had she let her light go out, flicker in place, not enough oxygen, not enough energy, not enough willpower? Because the realms, the kingdoms, the sovereignties weren’t going to do it all for her: it was Melita and only Melita, onward and upward, forward, striding through woods and eaves and boughs for just one damned chance, one opportunity, for something, someone, celestial to tell her all was well, she was on the right path. She was courage and dedication, she was bravery and audacity, and she was boldness, tucked in a little shell of infernos and credence, a belief in herself.

There’d been a song once, in her heart, in her bones, but it had no titles, no stanzas, no lyrics. It might’ve been her mother, it might’ve been her sister, it might’ve been a sign. It might’ve been nothing at all.

But she won’t be nothing. Not her, not the impudent girl with her chin raised to the skies, peeking through the underbrush, wandering, wandering, wandering, singular gift in hand, vampire gourd at her side. When they reach the shrine, she kneeled once more, hands lightly dusting over the statues of gods and their brethren, another gentle hum billowing past her mouth. Fangorn stared, but wisely said and contributed nothing but an aura of protection, of sanctity, a safeguard of foreboding disappointment. Her fingers cast her gift along the rest of the wares, brilliant, beautiful shells she’d found along shorelines of the wildwoods’ enchanting allure, settling it amongst relics and ash, then bowed her head, not quite entirely sure what to say, how to ask, wishing the world would regard her as more than a defect, a flaw, a petal, a speck. What would it be like: to see a god?


{For levelling! No pressure! <3}

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

"Pretty." There, all at once, Melita would be nose to nose with a delicate porcelain mask, surrounded by a floating halo of rags. The mask tilted down to admire the shells she had scattered along the shrine, a whisper of fabric reaching out to nudge one over and make it sparkle. The mask would appear to smile then, serene and patient. So unlike Ludo, really. Or perhaps more like Ludo than it had ever been in its time within the barrier. "For me?" LUDO Braved the forests, braved the stone Braved the icy winds and fire Braved and beat them on my own

MELITA

When her head finally rose, on the intonation of a voice, of a ghostly reverberation, her eyes glimmered on porcelain, on rags, on everything in between, nestled there before her, as if summoned and beckoned. A gasp loosened itself from her threshold, billowed along the air, intertwining with a thousand myriad things pulsing in her frame – that she was wicked, that she was unworthy, that she was undeserving, but that one was here in front of her – not bright and glowering like her precious Sun God (buried and gone; sacrificed into oblivion and dust). Instead, it was enigmatic and unknown, staring into either the void, the abyss, or Stygian pursuits; like ghosts and wraiths, like phantoms and follies, mercurial, tempestuous, the one Jigano had warned her about. But she watched, silent, awaiting what she should do – because this had never happened before, never never never, and her hands shook with the vibrancy, with the intensity, of those layered, lacquered moments, wanting to move, wanting to implore, wanting to revere.

The mask looked down, perhaps the gaze from behind lingering, weaving, on the shells she’d proffered, and Melita suddenly wished she’d found something better – something stronger, something mightier, something that conveyed so much more, but for once she was patient, considering, as fabric intertwined and nudged, scintillating and sparkling, swallowing down apprehension and trepidation. Maybe determination had won out in the end again; old-times clamoring to the mettle, to the spirit, of her resolute, bestial heart.

Then the garb smiled, tranquil, forbearing, composed, and she didn’t know what it meant – didn’t understand any of it. Her hands gathered the shells, implored them in front of her, beneath the mask’s nose, thought about whispering, about shaking, about shuddering – Fangorn pressed against her knees, protective and guarding. Then, instead, she alternated into something proud and beatific, exultant and ebullient, bright and lustrous, a gleaming little speck of sun and fire, not falling apart in the wake, in the presence, of a deity. “Yes!”

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

Melita's exuberance rubbed off on the deity before her, and the shells would all but erupt out of her hands to play through the air in energetic patterns about Ludo. It rose with them, rags all a-flutter, to watch them as they danced and turned. "Thank you, sweetling," it said. "A fine offering, indeed. Now what can I do for you? Not many from within the barrier have come so far into the woods to pray." LUDO Braved the forests, braved the stone Braved the icy winds and fire Braved and beat them on my own

MELITA

Her awed countenance didn’t lose a touch, a glimmer, of the beatific remnants, mouth agape, then flourishing with a grand smile, a touch of the sun, of the glory, of the triumph her worlds had held once. The shells sizzled from her outstretched palms, into the ether, rippling and inclining, never falling, as Ludo followed suit, everything risen and ascended, straight into the mouth of the sky, the heart of the earth.

“You’re welcome,” she proclaimed, an earnest rhapsody as her frame braved and restored its might; bowing her head, then thrusting it back upwards, a glow, a firelight, dazzled in her gilded gaze. She pulsed in admiration, in esteem, in bewitching, beholden flickers; uncertain of what to do or where to go or if someone wiser, stronger, better would be able to lead her down a firmer road (tell them this and that). But it was just her and Fangorn, nestled in the brush, moss, and darkness, come to see what they could see – impulsive and impetuous, shards of the forgotten dust and edges. She knew she was ash. She knew she was nothing. But they still arrived – so what did that mean, in the end?

Her eyes settled haphazardly on her staff, resting nearby, in arm’s reach, hand-crafted from sticks and boughs she’d found fallen in the woods so many seasons ago. She’d restored it, worked and worked and worked so she could battle monsters, so she could practice, so she could become something more; and in the end, it had served her well, protecting Phoebe, brandishing wolves with dented skulls and broken jaws. Now a requiem and dirge approached, thin cracks she’d scarcely noticed or noted erupting into warped panels, dear, sweet, beloved timber threatening to snap into pieces. Her fingers grabbed ahold, and then bestowed it in front of the god; as if it were her pride and joy, her love, her affection, a weapon of her own making. Her fingers shook across the surface, but her voice blossomed, brewed, struggling not to portray her apprehension, her uncertainty, her ignorance. “My staff has served me well. Can it be mended?” The last breath was on a head tilt, her stare daring to glance at rags and riches again. Then – on impulse, on smiles, on ruffian, rogue tendencies, a wild child, a feral being, a savage beckoning, her grin returned – embellished and reverent all the more. “What can I do for you?”

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

Ludo drifted over to the staff as she mentioned it, porcelain mask tilting here and there as if to examine the cracks and yet more beneath it. "A stick," it observed, nudging it gently with a slip of cloth. At that point, of course, Melita grabbed hold of it and presented it to the deity, and Ludo hummed to itself. "Yes, I can fix your stick. But you must bring me the sap from a Wicker Woman. That is what I need, yes." Mask bobbing as if to nod, it pressed two slips of fabric together. "Nothing for me - you have brought me shells. I like them very much." LUDO Braved the forests, braved the stone Braved the icy winds and fire Braved and beat them on my own

MELITA

She wasn’t offended by her beloved staff being heralded as a stick; perhaps to deities and celestial beings, they were nothing and heralded little in comparison to their great, grand powers. But to the girl, who’d carved and whittled it herself, who had nothing else to her name but a pumpkin gourd and simmering, scalding determination, it was a piece of her, a weapon, a means to an end. She nodded all the same, listened, tilting her head like a bird, like a predator, listening to her unfolding task: sap from a Wicker Woman. Melita was woefully ignorant again, presuming it was a tree, but little else – but there was a healthy dose of admiration, courage, and resolution tightly wound in her sanction, now building, now blistering, now accompanying everything else flanked and driven in her core. “I will!” She promised, bright and willing, an ebullient, silly little fool with the world at her back. “If you’re sure…” Because she would have offered or found more, much more, for a god who granted her wish, who listened, who saw her. “Then I’ll return soon!”

She rose, then thought better of it in her energy, in her excitement, bowing so her hair brushed her knees, so the  air rushed out of her lungs, so the canopies turned upside down in her sights. When she resurfaced, her smile was still grand, still large, still magnificent, a wild, wicked thing. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

She turned and twisted to go, on a wave, her staff in her hand, cracked and chiseled but not forgotten; down into the ramparts to find what Ludo required.

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