The General's Bride by M F Sullivan

Author:M F Sullivan [Sullivan, M F]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781732669116
Publisher: Painted Blind Publishing
Published: 2019-08-13T23:00:00+00:00

XI

Gratia Plena

As the daughter of the Hierophant, and an (arguable) only child throughout most of her life, Dominia had been exposed to much grandeur. Yet, as those towering doors yawned apart to reveal the Lady’s throne room, she felt her Father, never shy in demonstrations of wealth, would blush to see such ostentatious architecture. Almost. In fact, its gilded glory deliberately recalled that of the hotel lobby, which had been a garish masterpiece of marble and gold. This, somehow, was far more marvelous, and farther stretching, the path of crimson carpet that unfurled its length marking, after the halfway point, the width of a bridge crossing the low pool inset before the throne. The throne itself sat atop a platform, which, accessible only from the flight of stairs marked by the carpet and the theatrical curtain behind the massive seat, had the effect of stranding its sovereign on a beautiful island. Upon this glamorous throne sat a woman. Though shriveled by the profundity of her age and struggling to breathe, let alone sit up, she was nonetheless as bejeweled as her temple and richly dressed in fine, thin linens that clutched the wheezing bones of her ribs.

This, after all, was Trisha: the body of Trisha. Like trying to connect Valentinian to Basil (who sat, tail wagging, at the Lady’s shriveled side) or the nymph to earthly Gethsemane, the buxom redhead’s appearance refused to conform to that of the dying avatar. Indeed, to avoid looking too closely and having her visit with the porter ruined by images of cobwebs upon a patchy scalp, Dominia bowed as soon as she and Lazarus stopped at the foot of the stairs.

The Lady’s voice was a choir of voices that contained most prominently that of Trisha, vibrant despite her body’s age, and crisp despite its immobile lips. Our prodigal daughter returns home.

Trying to discern the source of the voice only derived the strange notion it emerged from her own central nervous system; she tried not to question it too deeply after that. “I wasn’t aware I had been Your daughter before,” she said, trying to be polite, then relenting in a wan smile at the Lady’s laughter.

All children stolen by your Father were Our children, first.

As the General lifted her gaze to better admire her surroundings, she instead found her eye drawn irrevocably toward the Lady. It seemed some black hole vibrated in that seat, stealing all light, absorbing all information. In reality, this was a tiny woman. How could such a body contain so much power? How could this body, upon which Dominia could hardly bear to look, be in any way linked to the creation or destruction of reality?

You cannot stand to look upon Us because this body is old and wretched: and you, like all mortals, fear death. Perhaps more than most.

Embarrassed to have her mind read in front of the room (as she glanced away, she noticed Gethsemane standing stock straight before the nearest pillar, and found that each pillar now had a Bearer stationed before it), the martyr began to apologize, but the Lady’s voices rose.

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