Ilaria Obsidian moved through a row of shops, trailed by a handful of attendants. Her favorite was not among them today – and she was of a mind to find something special for Caesennia. A surprise. This bookseller had something promising, held up over the counter between his wrinkled hands. He turned the pages slowly, each a delicate work of art featuring one large gilded letter and a profusion of objects that began with it.
It was the finest children’s primer that Ilaria had ever had cause to admire. It was also, perhaps, the first time she’d ever had cause. Children had never featured much in her life and generally she found adults with handicaps like not knowing how to read or being barely able to cast a spell more annoying than anything else. Certainly not worth showering gifts upon. Even so.
She left the shop with the precious book clutched to her chest, inordinately pleased. Even the cover felt nice – Ilaria ran her fingers back and forth over it as she walked, like petting an unusually hard and rectangular cat. As her attendants loaded other purchases into the Obsidian carriage, Ilaria paused to consider the rest of her day.
And nearly jumped out of her skin as her gaze slid over another dark haired woman in the market, further down the street. Her pulse raced and she was uncomfortably aware of it pulsing there in her chest. Her mouth filled with saliva, as though she was about to be sick. Pupils blown wide, the mid morning sun far too intense. For a moment, Ilaria had no idea what was happening.
Andoral, though, had no such hesitation. It set her running after the other woman, never mind anything else, still holding that stupid/splendid book in her arms.
How was this happening? Ilaria had worked so hard, sacrificed so much – just to steal away a small sliver of Andoral’s being hundreds of years ago. How could it be possible that her god lived in someone else?
“Who are— No, how? How can you be here?”
It was the finest children’s primer that Ilaria had ever had cause to admire. It was also, perhaps, the first time she’d ever had cause. Children had never featured much in her life and generally she found adults with handicaps like not knowing how to read or being barely able to cast a spell more annoying than anything else. Certainly not worth showering gifts upon. Even so.
She left the shop with the precious book clutched to her chest, inordinately pleased. Even the cover felt nice – Ilaria ran her fingers back and forth over it as she walked, like petting an unusually hard and rectangular cat. As her attendants loaded other purchases into the Obsidian carriage, Ilaria paused to consider the rest of her day.
And nearly jumped out of her skin as her gaze slid over another dark haired woman in the market, further down the street. Her pulse raced and she was uncomfortably aware of it pulsing there in her chest. Her mouth filled with saliva, as though she was about to be sick. Pupils blown wide, the mid morning sun far too intense. For a moment, Ilaria had no idea what was happening.
Andoral, though, had no such hesitation. It set her running after the other woman, never mind anything else, still holding that stupid/splendid book in her arms.
How was this happening? Ilaria had worked so hard, sacrificed so much – just to steal away a small sliver of Andoral’s being hundreds of years ago. How could it be possible that her god lived in someone else?
“Who are— No, how? How can you be here?”
06-03-2024, 04:24 PM
