MELITA
Melita had never been known for any artistic skill. Bastien had tried once, while she depicted her birthplace, in streaks of gold, crimson, and sienna, with leather wings scorching over the horizon. But she wondered if she should be applying the same wake now, and so she sent Fangorn off in search of more sea glass, competitive to a fault, in leagues and contests with a five year old. Which individual was more juvenile had yet to be determined.Concentrating on her efforts, and not bothered in the least by her emboldened tone, the youth missed the way Kamaria wilted and pouted. Perhaps it was easier to ignore anyway, since the alterations were there in rapid formation, and Melita was forced to glance back at her as she made her first proclamation. Nothing she didn’t already know – but the last line irked, irritated, and pressed downward on her heart. Not something she particularly cared for. Mutinous as ever, her chin took on another defiant edge, lifting slightly, imperial and bratty. “She doesn’t come to see you?” Was that something goddesses did? Bestowed their children upon mortals they could manipulate, and then disappear back into the ethers?
She wouldn’t know anyway. Only one of her parents had ever wanted her.
Then there was an array of wild exposition, and the girl’s eyes widened simply to absorb and take it all in. Hues and colors, whirls of fabrication; portions of shells and the sea, fruit, some bizarre etching of tattoos prompted by Father Flood, and then butterflies.
And still Melita didn’t expect the question to be rounded back upon her once the herald’s daughter took a breath. But the answer was simple and ready, something she’d always known. “A bee.”
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
