An update! What joy. Sound the trumpets, I have returned. And I might intedn to finish this. I have high hopes and desires for this story, but I might have them a little misplaced. I am checking it out and seeing overlooking my framing of this story. Bear with me and love me. Send me reviews so I know my devoted followers are out there. With love
Gigi (ps. I am now a beta...If you care to test my skillz...)
She had told her story to Lady Azalea, hping it would help cleanse her stained and careworn soul. It did not help only dragging her further along a winding path back again to her past, to her destined path of precise steps and willowy arms. Here the object of her affections and love, the man whom she loved and the woman who was her enemy had come back to her out of her not so far away past. The Gods indeed did toy with her.
She had tried to make a new life here and yet she seemed to have failed. Despair seemed to seep into her soul. The shades would dance to her to death, she thought as she gazed unblinking at the wooden ceiling beams. Lady Azalea did indeed enjoy her company and all of the court liked her, yet she knew that soon she would trip right off of the delicately strained wire. She would dance completely off of it, into the great unknown, into the thin air that surrounds nothingness. She was fading and yet...
Why, she wondered did her heart beat so fast? Why did Heliodoro love her still? Should he not, as he was supposed to, have transferred his affections to the beautiful and vindictive incarnation that was the Princess. And should she as a fearful worshipper of the Gods, slip into the shadows for the moment, so that they might not cross paths?
She sighed and allowed her shoulders to relax, feeling them laying even and flat against her hard mattress. Everything seemed to be flat and hard here, she reflected as she closed her eyes. The gowns were silk but yet grew stiff with the soaps they washed it in. The corsets and the hard boning in them, the hard roads cut deeply by the ruts of wagons and carts. The people's faces, their love for dancing and twirling, color and light bleached out by the sublime beauty of song. They did not love the mystery and swirl of dancing in the moonlight in the heavy air perfumed with incense, but were more loving of the clean smell of rain drops and stillness. The notes of a beautiful pitch soaring out of the nothingness.
And so it was. Giselle pulled up her blanket and slept, dreams of horrifyingly beautiful ghosts chasing her, set to the wailing of mourners.