MELITA
Eternally impulsive, mercurial, and whimsical, the girl’s frenetic apprehension quickly dissipated, replaced with a sensation of utter joy. She couldn’t fathom it, couldn’t understand it, but with her toes in the water and the rest of her above the surface, she was overcome with radiant, untamed enthusiasm. Her laughter rang across the depths, the fathoms, with incredulous ease, fire and brimstone, embers and restless fervencies amidst the cool balm beneath her feet, and she ran across the reflecting pool, listening to the splashes, to the droplets cascading, and never sinking into its sanction. It was a haven, a sanctuary, like no other – at one point she dropped to the brim just so she could press her face into the oasis and stare down into its hold as if it were glass, giggling at the passing fish, at the slight look of bewilderment on their faces. She even thought to lay down across its expanse and ponder if it was all a dream, beatific and wonderful, and she was doomed to awaken with such precious, amazing ideals and fabrications, never again able to duplicate the amazing, unique intrigue buzzing around her mind. She rose from her watery world though, forsaken and abandoned to its hospitable, tranquil, obliging nature, lost in its refined wake, it the master, she the sprite – A voice called over the majesty, and the serenity was broken.
Her entire form went rigid, unaware she’d been watched. Her eyes went immediately to the woman her glowing stone, a stranger, no one she recognized: but she could catch the snap and crawl of a predatory stance, and changed hers to accommodate the shift in tension. A reel of apprehension curled its way into her ribs, but she couldn’t fathom why, unless this individual was a threat – Fangorn must have sensed it too, on a hiss, on a growl, feral and bestial, a flickering memory of what he once was, what he used to be. It only took one moment of their bond before he slipped further into the grass, understanding, a survivor amidst his bludgeoned, massacred species, finding a hole and nestling himself within its contents. Presuming he was on the threshold of safety, Melita’s gilded gaze settled back upon the older lady, listening to her words, striving to understand any connotations layered, lacquered within. “I suppose not,” she proffered in return, not much else to say, having naught by way of explanation. The voice echoing from her throat was not quiet, was not hushed; for the honeybee girl could never be – bold and strong, enduring and courageous, chin raised, eager, ready. Her eyes never left the other; carnivore to carnivore, savage to savage.
And all the while, she had no idea there was another watching, waiting, lurking.
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
