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Though Melion had traversed the path to the Festival many times before, there remained one indignity he had never learned to stomach, water. For all his associations with bloom and bounty, his dominion ended where the water began. Water was necessary, yes, but not like this. Not endless and heaving. Not the gut-lurching pull of tide beneath a boat’s belly. And so, when his bare feet finally touched the sun-warmed stone of the island’s dock, he stepped down with the reverence of a man kissing holy ground. His usual complexion, radiant and golden as spun honey, had taken on the pallor of crushed sage.

For a while, he disappeared to a quiet plot just beyond the formal gardens. He always did. Over time, the space had grown to suit him, foxglove, milkweed, and clover sprang freely here, forming a microcosm of the wild, an offering to his presence. His bees, soft-bodied and drowsy with pollen, flitted between petals, brushing against the leaves as if in quiet worship. 

Melion knelt, barefoot and bare-chested, letting his fingertips sink into the loam. His breath steadied. The silence here was not empty, it pulsed with memory and rhythm, with the language of green things. Were mortals to find this grove, it would not be long before they built a shrine. But for Melion, it was simply a place to breath and restore. He let the bees rest on him, one on his shoulder, another behind his ear. Then, when he felt the weight of sickness replaced by the steadiness of rooted life, he rose.

The marble steps to the palace felt cool beneath his soles, each step a quiet hymn. His gait was unhurried, fluid as a stalk in the wind. The Feast was still young, and the hushed air of anticipation clung to the halls like perfume but already, Melion could sense the pulse of festivity humming.

At the threshold stood a greeter, a young man with a crown of red hair and a diplomat’s poise. They exchanged nods, words were sparse but cordial. Melion neither delayed nor dwelled; the routine was familiar now, though never stale. He allowed himself to be guided through winding halls toward the dressing suites. Each step he took left a faint, momentary shimmer on the floor, as if pollen had graced the marble and vanished.

The chamber that awaited him was opulent, strung with dresses and robes in a rainbow of silks and sheer gauze. For most, this might be a moment of grand selection, but Melion had always struggled with the attire offered in years past. Too tight. Too sculpted. Too unnatural. He preferred garments that breathed like living things, those that fluttered, that spilled, that refused to cling. This year, however, was different.

He wandered through the fabric displays in silence, trailing his fingers along sleeves and hems. The air carried the scent of pressed lavender and ink. A few bees hovered at the ceiling. The selection was finer, more thoughtful. But still, he waited. Then, a whisper of wings. A single blue morpho butterfly descended from the rafters and landed lightly on the edge of a hanging gown. It fanned its wings once. Melion smiled, a slow understanding.

The gown it had chosen was exquisite. It began in a deep, near-black midnight blue at the single-shouldered strap, where fabric clung loosely across his collarbone like dusk embracing twilight. As it descended, the color lightened, cool peacock blue over the chest and waist, then fading to a smoky teal as it flowed down to his ankles. Sheer panels revealed glimpses of golden skin beneath, layered with graceful asymmetry that mimicked the fall of petals after rain. The waist was cinched not by corset or stitch, but by a delicate golden chain, loose enough to sway with each step.

His right arm remained bare. Around his bicep he fitted a circlet of beaten gold, unadorned, but perfect. It shimmered like a sunbeam through treetops. The mask, of course, completed him. Smooth, sculpted, and elegant, the same midnight hue as the dress’s shoulder. It curved up at the temples into flared arcs, suggestive of divinity without ostentation. It covered his eyes and the bridge of his nose, matte in finish but dusted with a spectral shimmer. Subtle etchings curled along its edges like vines or the veins of leaves. Through the twin eyeholes, his golden irises shone like twin lanterns, luminous and unreadable.

Satisfied, he allowed the mirror a final glance, then turned toward the double doors. They parted before him with a slow, silken groan, revealing a ballroom already steeped in scent and splendour. Light spilled through stained glass, fractured into ribbons across the floor. Music curled faintly in the air, not yet jubilant, still laced with restraint. Servants flitted between tables, and here and there, gods mingled beneath banners and chandeliers, effortlessly divine, each a beacon of domain and design.

Melion’s arrival did not turn heads so much as still them. His presence was not thunderous, but quiet, rooted. A bloom among fire, frost, and storm. Some stared, curious or intrigued, while others, gods less swayed by novelty, offered polite nods or brief appraisals before returning to their conversations.

Among those gathered, he noted two presences familiar to him, though distant in nature. Gutsey, seldom seen in conversation and yet somehow now engaged, stood now in curious contrast to his usual solitude. Morrígan lingered too, a figure carved in shadow and grace. Though their domains were separate, mortals often wove tales pairing them as a natural duality, decay and renewal, ending and beginning. Melion had always found the assumption quaint. Useful for ballads, perhaps, but misleading. She was not a gardener of endings, and he not a ward against them. He did not disturb either.

Instead, he drifted past silver platters and velvet curtains, toward the gardens beyond, where the air grew looser around the lungs. Out here, the scent of flora overpowered perfume. The hush of water, whether from the island’s encirclement or the careful work of mortal hands, played against his skin like a blessing. The sky above was soft with dying light.

He settled onto a stone bench with one leg draped loosely over the other, hands resting atop his knee. From here, he could watch as his bees meandered freely, weaving between blooms with lazy delight. A jade-winged butterfly nestled into his hair, unnoticed. His expression softened. Let the Feast bloom on inside. He would join in time, as was proper, but now savoured the company of simpler things.