Beauty, power, grace

“Come,” the old woman said. “I’m going to show you something. Show you someone.”

I was not afraid. Not even when the colours of the world faded and everything seemed to shrink. No, I realized. It wasn’t the world shrinking, it was me. Slowly falling back, collapsing with my back against the wall and my hands still firmly clasped by the old woman.

We were dead.

“Now we can go and see her.”

Her. I never was told her name. The priestess of Death. Priestess? No, when I laid eyes on her I knew she was more than that. She was the Goddess herself. Hair as black as charcoal reached just below her shoulders. Sunkissed skin was soft and healthy. The grace and seduction of a dancer oozed from her every motion. The authority of a Queen shone from her eyes. Clad in gold and clad in blue, the most royal of colours.

She was beautiful. Painfully beautiful. 

Our spirits like forgettable mice scuttled around the corners of the building. Not to be noticed, not to be seen, just to witness. It was a dangerous game, getting this close. But I was not afraid, only fascinated by the beauty, power, and grace which was hers.

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