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6/16/2025, 9:51:02 PM
>>6259384
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The Stilladìa blinks.
Her pale arms lower.
The orrery of stars turns, of shining and drifting lights as they scour the forever dark space on the dead Haoma, its withered branches extending into the endless void around her. It turns and turns, whispering secrets, muttering of hidden truths, spread through the souls she owns.
“The silver-haired girl is in the Holy Land,” she says, allowing her arms to fall into her lap. One by one, the stars withdraw into the five-petaled flower that dances between her horns, leaving only the top of her head brightened by a faint glow. “As it was to be expected.”
“You should not go now. Rest,” Helias pleads, kneeling before her as he takes his hand in hers.
The Stilladìa grins faintly. Her movements are sluggish, her mouth feels heavy. It is almost like going back to the time she used to have a body of flesh and bone and blood—
How nostalgic.
Ansàrra is trying to strangle her with ropes made of nostalgia.
As it is her style.
She beckons him, and he embraces her. She rests her head against his chest, grasping onto his un-flesh, and he holds her there, in the darkness of their abode, like before, like forever.
“I could not perceive her,” she explains between long breaths. “I could only feel Rosandra.”
Helias jolts at the news.
“She used her presence as a shield.”
“Trying to perceive a candle behind a bonfire. Masks and mirrors and making a fool of me,” the Stilladìa chuckles darkly. “That is Ansàrra’s sport. Once again.”
“Now I understand why you would avoid resting.”
“Resting is for the dead,” she huffs. “And we tried it, anyway.” She sets a faint kiss on his chest. “I would still rather hang from my own entrails than set a foot there.”
“I will hold your hand,” he reminds her, and he kisses her fingers, one by one, each time on their black nails. “On our way in and back.”
“And back,” she repeats. “I think I know what all this means, Helias.”
“Because you found the girl?”
“Because she was hidden from me up until this point,” she adds, standing up. “I think I know the shape of the noose Ansàrra knitted around my neck.” Then she raises her arms again, and from the dark take shape ghostly figures, one by one: tall men and proud, and beautiful maidens who look aghast at their whereabouts. And sorcerers and kings and heroes.
The closes to the Stilladìa, a young woman with flowing golden hair and grey eyes, clad in a ceramic armour, blinks, holding up her hand against her eyes, as if trying to peer through a veil.
Is there light here? Asks the soul of Bradiamante di Chiaramonte da Cantàra.
“There will be,” the Stilladìa replies, her crimson eyes furrowing.
[cont.]
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The Stilladìa blinks.
Her pale arms lower.
The orrery of stars turns, of shining and drifting lights as they scour the forever dark space on the dead Haoma, its withered branches extending into the endless void around her. It turns and turns, whispering secrets, muttering of hidden truths, spread through the souls she owns.
“The silver-haired girl is in the Holy Land,” she says, allowing her arms to fall into her lap. One by one, the stars withdraw into the five-petaled flower that dances between her horns, leaving only the top of her head brightened by a faint glow. “As it was to be expected.”
“You should not go now. Rest,” Helias pleads, kneeling before her as he takes his hand in hers.
The Stilladìa grins faintly. Her movements are sluggish, her mouth feels heavy. It is almost like going back to the time she used to have a body of flesh and bone and blood—
How nostalgic.
Ansàrra is trying to strangle her with ropes made of nostalgia.
As it is her style.
She beckons him, and he embraces her. She rests her head against his chest, grasping onto his un-flesh, and he holds her there, in the darkness of their abode, like before, like forever.
“I could not perceive her,” she explains between long breaths. “I could only feel Rosandra.”
Helias jolts at the news.
“She used her presence as a shield.”
“Trying to perceive a candle behind a bonfire. Masks and mirrors and making a fool of me,” the Stilladìa chuckles darkly. “That is Ansàrra’s sport. Once again.”
“Now I understand why you would avoid resting.”
“Resting is for the dead,” she huffs. “And we tried it, anyway.” She sets a faint kiss on his chest. “I would still rather hang from my own entrails than set a foot there.”
“I will hold your hand,” he reminds her, and he kisses her fingers, one by one, each time on their black nails. “On our way in and back.”
“And back,” she repeats. “I think I know what all this means, Helias.”
“Because you found the girl?”
“Because she was hidden from me up until this point,” she adds, standing up. “I think I know the shape of the noose Ansàrra knitted around my neck.” Then she raises her arms again, and from the dark take shape ghostly figures, one by one: tall men and proud, and beautiful maidens who look aghast at their whereabouts. And sorcerers and kings and heroes.
The closes to the Stilladìa, a young woman with flowing golden hair and grey eyes, clad in a ceramic armour, blinks, holding up her hand against her eyes, as if trying to peer through a veil.
Is there light here? Asks the soul of Bradiamante di Chiaramonte da Cantàra.
“There will be,” the Stilladìa replies, her crimson eyes furrowing.
[cont.]
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