Your songs remind me of swimming

MELITA

Fangorn could hear, could feel, the woman advancing towards his selected shelter. A rampant ferocity churned through him, growls and hisses, impending threats with fangs and pain. It was all he had – but Melita inched closer, across the water, barely a ripple, quiet, hushed, undisturbed, as the older female became distracted by the Fae exposing his presence. It was a chance, an opportunity, for her to grab ahold of her friend, not saying anything else, not answering the woman’s query, not proffering anything but silence, catching a sharp inhale of breath or two as danger lurked and sizzled on her senses. The vampire gourd immediately tumbled out of his hole, bounding towards her outstretched arms along the embankment, and by the time the inquiry had been nestled from the male Fae, the youth had scrambled back to her position in the middle of the oasis, companion safe in her hands.

But his question didn’t save her from further speculation, from divesting into the unknowns, into the parameters of the enigmas and quandaries: she had a hunch, a notion, dangling right from her ankle, shells and Naiad emblems and will-o-wisps gifting, granting, her passage along the surface of the pool, so that she might’ve danced like them, so that she might’ve dreamed like them, riveted and raptured and waltzed. She didn’t now – too wary, too close to treachery, too apprehensive, feeling claws and talons racing down her back, along her spine, intertwining with all the ominous contortions the Rift had ever taught her. “I don’t know,” she called back – not without theory or premonition, but not a lie either. Her features had lost their grin along the way, bare feet slowly shifting closer to the opposite bank, imploring for safety, for the darker shrouds of shadows, for memorized paths back to domiciles and settlements.

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