MELITA
Had Melita ever cared about what people thought of her? In all her boldness, in all her tenacity, in all the bewitching turns of fire and vengeance? No; too framed in the passions of daring, pluck, and nerve, to ever think about how she looked in the eyes of another – and so she let that notion settle. Perhaps it would stay in the dirt, to shimmer on the surface until she pushed it downward. Perhaps it would remain vast and unaware, a sea of ignorance she could ignore. Perhaps it’d be neither.She waited on edges and brims instead, intending to listen to the way Ru had carved her path. In pieces of grey, in slates of Frey, of blood and bone, and then the balance of letting the world survive and thrive. Melita nodded once more, understanding the nuances, the thoughts, the swirl of hues and patterns orchestrating a lifetime of blended intricacies and contradictions. “I don’t hate the Ascended,” she murmured, leaving that to the air and dust. “And I don’t want to see them massacred,” especially those like cherished Nate, or silly Amun, or even, down to days spent whittled and carved into something else, Wessex. It was why she’d offered a piece of herself to Juniper for the Greatwood’s defenses, but implemented a warning within, for it to be extended outward. For someone, something, to have a chance. “They made a choice, just like the rest of us.” To live with their palms outstretched towards favored gods, or not at all.
Her finger traced another vine imprint, remembering hollowed, wicked days, of Kisamoa, of the way her mother sacrificed herself, of how hundreds more had done the same for their children. All because a false god had risen and labored, tricked and deceived; and maybe the Voice held her part in such a way as Kaos. “I don’t trust her either.” Not after LongNights. Not after sicknesses. Not after whispered words and jaded promises. “So what are you going to do?”
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
