MELITA
Melita shrugged; not particularly caring if the other didn’t share her opinion. Maybe because she didn’t contain any, the youth always found any artistic credence of incantations or enchantments fascinating, completely out of her realm, out of her reach. So she often bound herself to becoming enthralled, luminescent, when others deigned to use them in her sight – only the mildest of envy surging in her veins. But the woman’s eyes had gone back to Fangorn, and though he didn’t squirm under her gaze, there was an essence of calm spread over him. “Every Leafchange they come out, and most of the time they’re not much of a bother. But people use and destroy them.” She shrugged again, as guilty in the first cycle of autumn, where they’d kicked the tidal waves of ankle-biters into makeshift goalposts or roasted them on spits, the intoxicating aroma of pumpkin sinking into pastries and delicious dishes. Melita hadn’t done any of those things since acquiring Fangorn – save for the incident with the bloat-filled pumpkin king, but he’d been destined to destroy the Greatwood, to spread his might and malice into its threshold, and the consternation had given way there to other searing, seething emotions.
The gourd nodded in return. The girl’s gaze went back to the stranger. “Do you have a companion?”
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
