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Once applauded as a musical prodigy, a lone 13 year old roamed the streets, busking for what spare change she could with nothing but a flute and the clothes on her back. As dirty and worn as they may have been, they were hers. In the kingdom’s state food was difficult to come by, yet she would sooner starve than turn to the orphanage.
The music never faltered, even when she began to. Nevertheless, she forged on.
On the ground, from a distance, watching in awe the blinding light that reflected off the perfect crystalline walls and sparkled on the surrounding lake, she wondered if the journey had been worth it. She had considered asking for food, at least, but how could a street rat even face up to the muses without being laughed out of the castle? Could she even get that far?
For a moment she was certain she’d died –a prospect she had long since come to terms with--, staring up at the woman in a white gown which pooled on the ground in front of her, who's brown hair glistened in the sunlight and smile radiated warmth and comfort. In Melody's eyes, she looked like an angel, and in a way, for her, she had been.
The same girl, 10 years older, gazed up at the same woman.
Her white silks and brown hair were now solid gray from head-to-toe, and her warm smile was twisted into a cold still-frame of her horror in all its excruciating detail. At a glance, it could’ve been the masterful work of a sculptor, but for her it was all too real.
The woman had scooped her off the streets and helped raise her, she mentored her, and then she had tried to kill her. Melody watched firsthand as who had initially been her guardian angel revealed herself to be warped and cruel, and nowadays, no matter how much she tried to push the thought of Lydia out of her mind, when she was alone, she always found herself back at the statue, satin cover in hand.
This grim reminder of their long-time companion stood in plain view, and Dori and Phaedra threw a sheet over her and went on as if nothing had changed. A wave of guilt rushed over Melody, as it did every time she caught herself side-eyeing her other surrogate aunts after Lydia’s betrayal, and this time, as always, she shook the thought off. After all, they only did it for her; of course they knew how much it bothered her-- and what kind of muse was she? Getting caught up like this only would only hinder one's ability to perform, which would hinder everyone's ability to enjoy it. And music was supposed to be for everyone.
Tossing the sheet back over the statue, she turned and headed for her seat. Then she began to play, because that's what it was about at the end of the day. The music.
Which Lydia couldn’t appreciate.
Which she could.
Melody wore the same colors she had, taken her place with the muses, and even inherited the very flute she once owned. At one time it may have been all she wanted, yet as the notes bounced off those perfect crystalline walls, the same notes she had played, her stomach turned. She dared not look behind her, for under the vague outlines of the satin sheet she thought she'd glimpsed her own terrified expression etched into that stone monument.