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6/28/2025, 7:59:34 PM
“Tell me something,” you say slowly, forcing yourself to stare into the black eyes opposite you, “With this power that you speak of, could I not just save the world, but the one whose face you now wear? Could I save my sister too?”
“Do you really believe that she needs saving?” the Gratia-thing replies, not with the coy mockery that her words suggest but with what seems like genuine curiosity in her voice. “Men have always been haunted by questions of sin and salvation, good and evil. Your sister has been granted great power but, deeming that power to be “unclean”, you seek to strip it from her. Would she thank you, if you did?”
“You won’t answer my question,” you breath, turning your gaze away from the apparition. All of a sudden, gazing into that familiar face seemed far too painful.
“Then I will answer a different question. Could this power separate your sister from the Stryx that now shares her mind? The answer is no,” the apparition whispers, her voice suddenly coming from close beside you, “There is no separation, no “her” and “it”. They are one.”
You’re not sure how you’re supposed to feel about that. You just feel numb, hollow. But not surprised.
“And who are you?” you ask quietly, shuddering as you feel the gentle weight of the creature resting her head on your shoulder. Gratia would do that too, back in another lifetime. “You wear a familiar face and whisper sweet promises, but what do you hide behind that mask?” you continue, “Will you answer THAT question? Can you?”
“I am…” the spirit pauses, and not just for dramatic effect. You feel a genuine hesitation, uncertainty stilling her tongue. “I’m the other half of her,” she whispers at last, “She has become a part of the Stryx, but that river flows in both directions. A single drop of blood may fall into an ocean of ink and become invisible, but it will always remains there. Some stains-”
“They linger.”
“They linger,” she murmurs in agreement.
“And this stain would…” you pause, recalling her words, “Embolden my sickly spirit?”
“Just as your forefathers wove threads of gold into their souls, seeking to mend whatever deficiencies they had. They sought to become something greater than what they were, though they were foolishly branded heretics for their actions,” the Gratia-thing continues, “So fell the House of Megistus. But the House of Pale need not fall.”
Cold fingers brush against your cheek as the apparition gently turns your face towards hers. With the inky black fluid slowly dripping down her fingers, she offers her hand out to you as Gratia once did.
“I don’t want it to fall,” she whispers.
[1]
“Do you really believe that she needs saving?” the Gratia-thing replies, not with the coy mockery that her words suggest but with what seems like genuine curiosity in her voice. “Men have always been haunted by questions of sin and salvation, good and evil. Your sister has been granted great power but, deeming that power to be “unclean”, you seek to strip it from her. Would she thank you, if you did?”
“You won’t answer my question,” you breath, turning your gaze away from the apparition. All of a sudden, gazing into that familiar face seemed far too painful.
“Then I will answer a different question. Could this power separate your sister from the Stryx that now shares her mind? The answer is no,” the apparition whispers, her voice suddenly coming from close beside you, “There is no separation, no “her” and “it”. They are one.”
You’re not sure how you’re supposed to feel about that. You just feel numb, hollow. But not surprised.
“And who are you?” you ask quietly, shuddering as you feel the gentle weight of the creature resting her head on your shoulder. Gratia would do that too, back in another lifetime. “You wear a familiar face and whisper sweet promises, but what do you hide behind that mask?” you continue, “Will you answer THAT question? Can you?”
“I am…” the spirit pauses, and not just for dramatic effect. You feel a genuine hesitation, uncertainty stilling her tongue. “I’m the other half of her,” she whispers at last, “She has become a part of the Stryx, but that river flows in both directions. A single drop of blood may fall into an ocean of ink and become invisible, but it will always remains there. Some stains-”
“They linger.”
“They linger,” she murmurs in agreement.
“And this stain would…” you pause, recalling her words, “Embolden my sickly spirit?”
“Just as your forefathers wove threads of gold into their souls, seeking to mend whatever deficiencies they had. They sought to become something greater than what they were, though they were foolishly branded heretics for their actions,” the Gratia-thing continues, “So fell the House of Megistus. But the House of Pale need not fall.”
Cold fingers brush against your cheek as the apparition gently turns your face towards hers. With the inky black fluid slowly dripping down her fingers, she offers her hand out to you as Gratia once did.
“I don’t want it to fall,” she whispers.
[1]
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