MELITA
Ordinarily, the youth would’ve been a spiraling cavalcade of movement, motion, and wild, untamed demeanors; this version of Melita was a bizarre, strange thing, irregular, and she had no explanation for it. Head hanging low, for she lacked the energy to even raise it upwards, she followed Phoebe’s directions and dragged herself over to one of the beds, clinging to the spread and lifting her frame on its sanction. Fangorn dutifully followed, his enigmatic gaze shifting along the young healer’s movements. A soft sigh, a crackling breath, ghosted from Melita’s mouth, and her gilded eyes, lacking any sense of determination, kindling, or provocation, were sad, less demonstrative pinnacles, watching Phoebe for a few moments before shifting along her hanging feet. “You can,” she obliged a blood sample, raising her arm to slide her sleeve up, giving Phoebe access. The youth likely had far more damaging wounds, and those had been granted without permission. At the other woman’s inquiry though, her head raised up a fraction, tilting, as if pondering how or why she’d known of such symptoms – proffering her hands, watching them shake, tremble, and undulate before her, as they’d done so many times over the past couple of weeks. “Yes. It started in the Cloisters,” a mumble, confusion, distracted in the ignorance of her follies.
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
