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| Deluded Eyes; Open! | |
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| Topic Started: Jun 21 2017, 03:06 PM (107 Views) | |
| Kist | Jun 21 2017, 03:06 PM Post #1 |
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Gaudeamus igitur, luvenes dum sumus!
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A new business had recently popped up in Madrid’s marketplace. It had the sumptuous appearance of an Ashokan tent, dyed red with colourful trim, and was thus in stark contrast to the sorry state of the marketplace these days, which was otherwise festooned with old weeds, pimpled with stumps and only half-full with sellers who desperately tried to make money off their meager wares. Hanging from the front of the tent was a carefully hand-painted banner, which proclaimed, “MISS POLLAIA’S WONDROUS CURE BAD MEMORIES REMOVED - PERMANENTLY.” Then, hung beside the tent flap, was a wooden sign, proclaiming the absurdly low price for this service: two coppers. Sometimes, when she was waiting for customers, one could see Miss Pollaia herself lounging about the front of the tent. She was a pale thing, and younger-looking than one would have expected. Her smooth face was often unsmiling, her dark eyes sitting under a brooding brow, and her pink lip chewed with thought. Her hair was dark and almost to her shoulders and her style of dress was black and indeterminately continental. Today she stared across the marketplace with far off eyes, sometimes breathing in deep and tilting her sullen gaze up towards the sky, where a few wispy clouds made their pilgrimage. It was a pleasant day, not too hot, not too cold, but she didn’t seem to take any particular relish in it. She had been seen standing there in the rain at times, always on the watch for the next customer, apparently thinking of something deep and distracting. Now a woman approached, anxious, with her head bent under its scarf, but never turning aside to look at any of the other stalls. Miss Pollaia had her eyes locked on her soon after she entered the marketplace; she knew well the look of the ones seeking her help. Miss Pollaia uncrossed her arms and, once the woman came close, she greeted her with a gesture of openness and smile. “Come in,” she said, “Come in!” The woman stopped her with a hand on her wrist, saying, “I haven’t the money to pay you. We lost everything, everything–“ Miss Pollaia now got a glimpse of her face. She was younger than her hunched posture had suggested. No doubt the woman had adopted it out of shame, in an attempt to hide her face. She was squat, with a slack face, a protruding lower lip and dark eyes. “Don’t worry about the money,” said Miss Pollaia kindly, ushering the woman in, “I’d rather help than not, truly.” The inside of the tent was decked out with some threadbare Ashokan rugs. The only light was that which came in through the slits in the tent and that which filtered through the tent’s fabric, casting a red glow on Miss Pollaia’s pallid face. The room within the tent was smaller than expected – in fact, a curtain separated a back space from this antechamber. The only furniture here was a sort of cot, which was close to the left wall of the tent. “Sit here, please,” said Miss Pollaia politely. The woman did so, and when she did not let her veil fall, Miss Pollaia added, “You can be at ease here.” So the woman let it down to her shoulders, showing pale-brownish hair. “What’s your name?” asked Miss Pollaia, “No need to be afraid. I am here to keep secrets, if they must be kept.” Hesitantly, the woman said, “Charis Ligeia.” “Tell me – why have you come to me?” Charis’ face wavered. Then, as if that single question had burst a dam, she hid her face in her hands and began to cry. “The centaurs, they came to my village. I was sleeping beside my husband, then there were cries in the night. We went outside and the buildings were on fire. We ran but they were too fast and they took him away from me, and I had to hide and watch him be carried away. I came to Madrid but there were bandits on the road and – and –“ Pollaia put a hand on Charis’ shoulder to comfort her, though the hand was cold. “When we got to Madrid the city was taken, and–“ “Hush,” said Miss Pollaia gently. “There is no need to ruminate on it any longer. I will make it all better.” Charis looked up at her with wide eyes. “Are you sure?” “Yes,” said Pollaia, a thin smile appearing on her pale lips. She applied a gentle pressure to Charis’ shoulder. “Now, lie down.” Hesitantly, Charis did as she was asked. “What will you do?” she asked. “A simple procedure; it won’t hurt you. Close your eyes and breathe slowly and deeply, like this.” Miss Pollaia showed her how, breathing with great deliberation. Charis began to imitate her, though she still trembled slightly on the cot. Miss Pollaia waited a moment, her dark eyes running up and down the prostrate form of the woman. Then, when she judged the time was right, she raised her hands and began to make gestures over Charis’ body, all the while breathing slowly and not making a sound. There was no visible effect of these movements, though a trained individual would have been able to sense a flow of magic through the air. Then, all at once, Miss Pollaia’s right hand drew back like a cobra and then struck, plunging straight into Charis’ chest. The woman gasped and bucked on the cot. Her eyes opened and she saw the hand sinking bloodlessly into her body, the pale face hanging above her like the moon. Miss Pollaia was transformed, with no veneer of compassion to cover her. Her dark brow was twisted with effort, her lips open in a grimace and there was a terrible glint in those eyes. The muscles of her arm rippled as her fingers clenched and found a grip on something. Behind her, the tent flickered between illusion and reality: one moment it was red as rubies, the next it was dingy, stained and riddled with holes. Everything around her, her entire perception of reality, reared up like a looming wave, threatening to crash down upon her. Charis tried to cry out but her voice had been taken from her. It was not Miss Pollaia but Skith who said, “Stop complaining, you won’t remember this in a moment either.” Her fingers reached in a little further to wrap around an extra bit of mass and then, like a sacrificial master of Ashoka, she wrenched out her arm and lifted a squirming mass to the heavens– When Charis came to, Miss Pollaia had just turned away from her. She seemed to be holding something in her arms, like a child cradling a rabbit. “I will return in just a moment,” said Pollaia before disappearing behind the curtain to the back of the tent. Charis, feeling strangely dizzy but not all too bad, waited patiently. There was the creaking of hinges, and a moment later, a soft clunk – the sound of a chest opening and closing. Then Miss Pollaia returned, carrying water in a cup of wrought silver. “Sit up carefully, if you can. Here is some water. Dizziness is normal after the procedure.” Carefully, Charis sat and accepted the cup with a shaking hand. She drank the water and looked curiously around the tent. “Now, can you tell me why you came here today?” “To have something done…I was unhappy but now…I’m not.” A weak smile came across her face. “Do you remember the centaurs?” “Centaurs? I’ve never seen one in my life.” “What about your husband?” This one took a moment. Charis’ eyes searched Miss Pollaia’s face and then, finally, she said, “He passed away. Peacefully, in his sleep. It saddens me – that’s why I came to Madrid. But I can find a new life here.” “Do you remember anything of the war?” This question elicited no response whatsoever. It was as if it had passed through Charis’ ears like a fine thread, unnoticed by her. So it would be whenever anyone mentioned the war to her again – which, if Skith’s plans went well, would be less and less likely every day. “I’m glad you are well again,” said Skith, touching Charis’ shoulder. “Can you stand?” Charis took one last gulp of water and popped up to her feet. “I can! Thank you so much, darling.” “It’s not a problem.” Skith ushered her out the door and watched her go, a smile on her face. Then she glanced up at the sky and resumed her normal task: standing by the tent, thinking on her plans and waiting for her next customer. |
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