MELITA
She beamed and blossomed beneath the regard of the gold leaf and its lacquered gild – pleased and satisfied when she leaned back to view it in all its splendor. Was it an accurate reflection of the Dragon’s Throat, the sun’s haze, their primordial beacons and deity stretching out his power, his dominion? Or was it too amateur, too much semblance and weight behind nothing, no substance, no presence? While she studied and agonized over the notions, her eyes lingered back on Bastien, on gods, on his chosen siren.Unreasonable and petty seemed accurate – Melita’s experiences had warranted much the same before she traversed here (though she’d never had a desire to become one). She’d had her favored ones within Helovia, but she’d also been young, naïve, and ignorant; somehow still drifting there, but amidst a harsher glamour. It was intriguing though, to hear a different aspect of the Voice – other than the one who prospered an opening of portals, of murder, of mayhem, of spread blights and diseases. Calm? Kind? Perhaps just to her followers – and everyone else left in the dust? Was it the same for the other heralds and celestial bodies? The complexities drove along her mind, but she didn’t give voice to them. Instead, her gaze swindled back to her canvas, a tilt to her head in thought. “I had my favorite in Helovia – the Sun God. He was powerful and wonderful, but only to those he favored. Then with Kisamoa…I’d had enough of deities and their powers for a while.” And then she’d drifted, wandered, strived to pursue angles and intrigues. “The only one who ever answered me here was Ludo – and all I’ve received is kindness and opportunities too.” Maybe it depended on the creatures, on the cretins lurking within their bones.
She listened to his experiences in other realms too, Venice, which sounded beautiful, just by the string of sounds and syllables in its name, and the way he honored Rexanna. Her smile was ebullient again thereafter, for living in the moment, for cherishing what he had. “I think that’s perfect.” The Penumbra probably felt the same; but Melita couldn’t speak for her, couldn’t acknowledge that. It was a glimmer between the pair anyway. And even if the topic was heavy, she’d had her fair share of loved ones ripped away from her, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how determined and melded and molded she’d been – just as ferocious, just as tempestuous, just as driven by conviction – in the end, it hadn’t mattered.
But she didn’t give him that piece of information either.
As for the painting – she thought how it would best be suited. “Could I take it home?” Because it was another venue of refuge, of sanctities, of sanctuaries she’d no longer have – a memory, a light, a benediction. Would anyone understand it, if it was left here? Would anyone even know what it was, or care?
You're all gonna watch me
Disappear into the sun
Disappear into the sun
