Gaia was an artisan, a collector and connoisseur of exquisite things. Living or dead, before that moment it had never mattered. The latest collectible lay frigid in the dawn air, beautiful despite its imperfections. Gaia had surpassed herself on this occasion, fascinated by the beauty before her. So much so that it consumed every waking moment. Intoxicated, she longed to explore every inch of translucent skin, clutch each strand of hair and smooth out the plain brown tunic pressed against those faint soft curves. The artiste surrendered, caressing silky bare soles, her breathless body craving the rising heat. Perfecting the technique had been far too challenging. But, at long last, they found the exact formula. It was a pity that the personal cost to produce the chemical was so high. Never mind, it was worth it.
It was all but impossible to tear herself away from those almond-shaped eyes, cut-glass-blue interspersed with minute flecks of jet black, catching a glint of her own reflection. Not a single crease or sign of age was visible, and an upturned look of transcendent joy proved beyond doubt that the serum worked. At the last second of living, the soul glimpsed its innate creative skill, and the perfect face gleamed with that epiphany.
For centuries the City of Scolaris worshipped the pursuit of knowledge, at the expense of everything else. That needed to change. They would see the reality of what was missing from their miserable existence. Her lip curled, mind recoiling, remembering the loose ends still to be tied. Gaia battled the anger and frustration, cutting them down, whimpering into submission. The plan’s success demanded, more than ever, a focus on the end goal. Emotions only hindered progress, and that was unthinkable. Feeling the shape of her mouth, she stretched her ruby lips upward, forcing a smile. There was still time. It could wait a few moments more.
Like a scavenger, Gaia returned to the object at her disposal, sighing and slipping its feet inside the crimson slippers. As she caressed its auburn tresses with great care, she plaited them between nimble fingers and sang. The brooding tone echoed around the abandoned building as the universe paused and listened to the melancholy refrain. A song lost for generations.
Pleased with the work, she finished weaving the lengthy strands. And, taking a ribbon from her own neck, secured the tips of the braid and laid it flat against the creature’s collar bone. Gaia lit up, stooping little by little to kiss the raised edges of the teardrop scar at the base of the décolletage. She inhaled hard, greedy to enjoy the plain soap fragrance of it, though it was becoming more difficult to ignore the hint of something rotten. Ironic how such an enchantress presented itself from such a low source. She glanced at the others; they were more typical of their class, but they had played their part.
As sunlight broke through the cracked windowpane illuminating Gaia’s water-colour grey eyes, time ran out. She vowed never to return to this place unless granted an opportunity to restore it to its former glory. It would only be a matter of days or weeks before it revealed its secrets. She had required many deaths in her lifetime, but none wounded the psyche in so cruel a fashion. This first paper-cut of grief festered and might never heal.
The girl in the blood-red shoes, hair fixed in a plait, adorned with a matching ribbon, lay dead. A servant in life. Now she served Gaia, a new mistress in death.
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