Dear Lavinia,
I hope all is well and you have settled well into our beautiful Odellia. As I have previously reported, my caravan and I have made it through the desert and discovered the beautiful city you spoke of. 'Tis truly unlike anything I have ever seen… such perfection…
Yet I have also seen what is hidden at the heart of this ethereal beauty. Pardon me for the dramatics, but I am still shaken from my earlier experience. Two months after meeting with various officials of the city and establishing trade deals, I was invited to formally hold a position in the city, to be in charge of matters of importation and exportation. There are apparently complications to do with the city's locations that they would not divulge to an outsider. I eagerly agreed and was invited to a meeting.
The meeting was set at dusk, at a mansion situated near the edge of the city. And what sight it was… The walls were cracked and crooked, stained sickly green with mold and limp ivy vines, which contrasted horribly with the original cream yellow of the outer walls. The door, too, was stained, the doorknob so rusted it actually made a cut on my hand. If not for the fact that my Hunter friend who led me there assured me thricefold that this was the right place and we must go in, I would have turned back right away. The air, inside, too, was stagnant and putrid, like the smell of cut flower that has died in a vase and left to rot for months. My friend led the way through dusty corridoors and dim, empty halls and finally we came to the sanctum sanctorum. There, in the dirty twilight, a strange collection of people had gathered. The General was sinking in a sofa that might have once been velvet, a young man who I assumed was his lieutenant stands stiffly by his side (there have been rumours of the General's intention for retirement). A figure seemingly carved out of marble and decked in white and gold loomed ominously by the window. One of the most prominent merchants in the city paced the room with a nervous smile, holding a chipped glass in which some dark liquid swirled too slowly. My friends went over and took a seat, and I followed suit.
The silence was broken when a hoarse voice tore through the stale air and that was when I saw our host. She was hidden behind layers of half-transparent dark fabrics - fraying at the edges, moth-eaten, dreary like everything else in this place. She wore a faded dress and covered her face with a thick black veil, underneath which she seemed blindfolded.
I will not detail the meeting that followed. It was terse, sensible, if unnerving and rather threatening. Our host's point was that none shall endanger her “home” and that while trade is welcomed any potential threat, political, military, or economic, would not be tolerated.
On our way back through the city - which was like emerging into the land of the living after having treaded the horrors of death - my friend told me that the woman we met was Opularia. The once-aesthete whom the wonderful Florianus has dedicated so much of his art to. The beautiful woman with raven hair and bright, adamant eyes, whose portrait still adorn the galleries of this city…
- An extract from a letter
When you feel the phantom wind of the ashen fabrics brush against your skin once more, you let out a sigh.
Relief, or merely the last breath.
All around you is the ashen emptiness that you have not seen in decades, yet it is familiar. A great, empty hall, where fraying curtains billow against nothing. How familiar.
You sense a presence.
But you are also greeted by another familiar face - this one less familiar, this one truly from decades ago.
“A coffee before you go?”
You avert your gaze instinctively, realising you no longer have your blindfold. You hear a good-natured chuckle and the sound of liquid being poured.
You sense a light sorrow and a gentle welcome, the sigh of autumn's wind.
“There's no need to worry that you may break something here. Your stay won't be long enough for any effect to be permanent. And the memories… well, nothing can be forgotten, that was a previous Wish, so you don't need to worry about breaking them either.” The Barista smiles as he hands you the cup.
So you take the time to admire the scenery, which is devoid of everything, neither beautiful nor ugly. So you take the time to say goodbye, to the presence and to yourself, who you were and who you became.
You take a sip of the coffee before passing through the veils one last time, knowing it will taste like ash.
It has been almost a century since the founding of the New Sanctuary. (Some call the city by other names, “city”, “home”, “Reme”, whatever.)
Everyone knows there is a stain to the impeccable beauty of this city. People avoid it. People do not talk about it.
But that's the kind of thing children love.
Secrets, hints of dark horrors, haunted houses and empty places where adults shun - that's the exact kind of place to go for a dare.
Betony is the bravest of the group and she has ventured the furthest. She is determined to find a secret that will shock all of her friends. She hears the whine of Bobby coming from across the hall. She decides not to turn back and instead quietly sneaks deeper. He'll get over it. Rolo is always fast though. Can't let him be the only one that comes out with a tale.
She goes up the creaky stairs through spider webs and leaves her small footprints in decade old dust, until she comes upon a large hall. Strange objects loom in the deep, stuffy silence, covered by fabrics that were once white. It takes her a moment to realise those were probably sculptures and paintings. She reaches towards a piece of fabric covering an easel, her hand trembling, her heart racing.
And she lifts it.