>>6073560The blurry scene slowly gets more and more defined. You watch, amazed, as a couple of figures slowly stand out, as if coming straight from the land of dreams.
But perhaps this is neither a dream, nor a vision.
“I hope I can do a good job,” says a young woman’s voice — and you heart skips a beat. It cannot be, but — but — it is. You have seen that face too many times not to recognise her at once.
You have seen her in paintings and sculptures, you have seen her in statues and covered in crowns of flowers, you have seen her holding candles and standing proud with her weapon raised high, you have—
You have held her against your chest for years.
Saint Bragia Lacresta faces a brick wall just as the last rays of the sun go to slumber, standing almost naked, with her robe wrapped around her hips, showing her thin waist and trained back. It’s striking how slender she is, even if her arms and legs show the effects of her training. She’s a bit shorter than you are, her head of black hair cut short, her olive-green eyes glancing at the tall man besides her. A dash of freckles covers her face.
Your heart seizes at the fact you are standing just a few steps away from her — you could reach out and — but you don’t of course. It would be most disrespectful. So you steel yourself and let the scene play out. Maybe you will understand what is going, on — why — this scene is playing out for you.
The tall blonde man next to her reaches out to ruffle her hair. He holds a book in his other hand and wears the grey robes of the sun chasers — there are far less statues and depictions of him than the Saint, of course, but he’s one of her companions. Candeloro speaks in a confident, boyish tone that reminds you of some of the young men in your homeland when they courted their future wives.
“You will do the best job, runt,” he scoffs.
[cont.]
