MELITA
Long Night had been another one of those crushing notions, like the Rift, capable of melding and molding nightmares into reality. She hadn’t forgotten the outcries and screams beyond doors, the levels and lacquer of should we open, should we leave it closed, or the wild, bursting fire of the Spark Bird set forth from its repaired perch. She just didn’t know what to do for any of it – other than to stay inside, to linger back in their thresholds, in their safeguards, striving to survive the midst of all this agony and anarchy.
Her mind seethed but her body caved; stumbling her way to the Temple to support Remi, to listen to other ideas and suggestions, huddled in furs draped over her shoulders. She lingered in the back, not even bothering to snarl at Kiada’s existence, too tired, too muddled, too forlorn. Her gaze did drift over to Wessex (the Queen, and she was so perplexed as to how they hadn’t discussed it since her new title), and then down to the floor. Listening, listening, listening, about Luxere, about light and dark magic and how she possessed none of them, how the enlightened deer had come to them on songs and laurels, on apples and amiability. “I can help try to lure more Luxere into town,” she offered, quiet, demure, struggling not to curl in on herself.
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
