Retracing with his weary steps the path up to the light, he found relief from toil in converse with the sage Cumaean guide. While in thick dusk he trod the frightful way, ?Whether you are a deity,? he said, ?Or human and most favored by the gods, to me you always will appear divine.?
(Ovid, Metamorphoses 14)

The Lady Tristero was not at all what I expected. Her entire exquisite diminutiveness appeared in the entry barefoot, half-clothed, hair undone.

I would have thought her a grotesquely ill-mannered servant or whore sneaking from some mischievous son?s quarters if not for her immaculate, youthful beauty, the pristine qualities of which were only magnified by their indifferent and unadorned arrangement.

I don?t know how well I disguised my initial shock, but any transgression betrayed by my expression received no outward censure from my potential employer. I felt I fumbled, knowing not where to fix my eyes as she approached; in truth, I was intimidated by her cultivated composure, by the mystery of a gaze I could decipher as only consummate darkness: utter black. I certainly couldn?t allow my eyes to drop, though, for the simple chemise she wore, despite the loose drape of its magnificent raw silk, offered tantalizing but forbidden hints of a sinful figure. I was almost sure she wore nothing underneath, and her legs were completely bare.

I was bewildered. The ornate entry of the Tristero Estate seemed fuzzy in comparison to the sharp presence of its mistress.

She extended her hand, a placid pleasure tilting her lips gently as she spoke: ?Thomas, I?m so glad that you?ve arrived.? The words had an ethereal, wind-through-leaves quality, and vaguely impressed upon me that the airy feminine tones curled curiously through the ether like an embrace.

?Pleased to meet you, Lady Tristero,? I returned as I clasped her hand, cool and fragile. The touch calmed me, and my easy confidence returned. ?I have come to inquire about the estate?s Steward position.?

?There is much to be done.? A perfunctory nod dipped her chin. ?Come, let me show you.?

______

From Rhy?Din City, the Tristero Estate was half a day?s travel on horseback. A series of unavoidable complications had delayed my departure from the city, so by the time I arrived at the sprawling manor, it was late in the afternoon. The vibrant golds of the springtime sun swept the blooming fields and filtered in motley patterns through new leaves, painting the landscape in the idyllic hues of wild countryside.

The impression I received from the correspondence was that I would be one of many qualified gentlemen vying for this lucrative and well-compensated position. Indeed, as I arrived, several professional men conversed in a small group on the drive before the entrance, their faces dark with defeat. I surrendered my horse to the waiting footman and studied the competition.

They, too, noticed me.

As I passed their commiserating cluster and approached the massive entrance, one of them tossed out an acerbic taunt: ?Here?s another! Good luck getting through the front door!?

I ignore them.

The thud of the heavy knocker resounded with my arrival, and before its echo had fully died away, the excessive span of the door drew within, revealing a primly-attired maid. In the way of greeting, I received but a critical and quick study.

?Good afternoon,? I began, before the woman?s thin lips, set with resigned efficiency, cut me off.

?Come in, sir,? she stepped aside so that I could pass into the crumbling magnificence of the formal entry, ?the Lady is expecting you.?

The Tristero house?saw more activity than it had in years.? Dozens of people crawled amid the rooms, cleaning and categorizing and engaging in a thousand different essential tasks, their minds buzzing with the tension of an absurd deadline,?the stale air broken?by boisterous conversations and scurried comings and goings.? Certain things would be moving - a painting or two, crates of books,?chests of?strange artifacts,?some personal belongings of the Lady, but much more would be staying.? Everything had to be organized.
?
The Sibyl observed, drifting from room to room with unhurried serenity.? Upon her entrance, the workers each time assumed a respectful hush, and none dared to address her directly.? All questions were to be put to Thomas, for he handled the details - and this was much preferable to those that labored.? They feared her, without logic or merit, more than they should; youth, small stature, loveliness: these things didn't lend themselves to be frightening.? But there were those eyes, cold and far-seeing, beyond their meager lives and shallow hopes.

They were mortal in her eyes: fathomless dark.

A blink in the universe.

They preferred to hush and look away.

______

But the Sibyl was pleased. Ease infiltrated simple movements, turning them sultry, her body rolling with joyous liberation from the tyrant of time. Lethargy and sleep were virtually unknown, thus, she was much-separated from the dreamscape.

Regardless, she knew that the influence of Aolani?s hand weighed heavily in her future.

On the horizon, past the vineyard and pastures, tucked somewhere behind dense forests, ominously dark clouds elaborated on their fantastic height. Thunder echoed across the rolling hills and rumbled against the glass windows of the manor. Storms approached.

As did many others.

The era of transformation would soon surrender to that of brutal trials.

It was already written, and thus, would come to pass.

She would be ready.

For thousands of years, the Sibyl found herself?captive to?base existential?conflict.
?
Immortality and Aging.
?
Body and Dust.
?
After her mortal form finally succumbed to its millennium, lonesome centuries elapsed in the endless lengths of a flash, comprising her of both something and nothing:?a song?of silent antiquity, a void of infinite malevolence.? Tracing and retracing the path backwards to the future, the ethereal being awaited the preceding in a web-like line of logic, so twisted with bitterness that the sweet spots rotted, leaving only a honed avarice for breath and flesh, for her precious, endless youth and her yet-unconceived corporeal.? It lingered there, close in the distance, awaiting the moment that the sage sorcerer would stumble blindly upon the rightly mad woman, and the Sibyl would reprise anew.

Όλα και τίποτα. ?

Paradox was the basis of her talent: the ability to exist bodily in the present while extending consciousness into the future, for vision and time were not inextricably synced - instead, the fabric of reality was subject to unwinding and interpretation. A spark of curiosity or an honest question - these were enough to train the Sibyl?s attention and reveal supernatural avenue for her scribed translation.

In her new dwelling amid the city crowds, the fates of masses - whole tribes - were traced in the various texts that lay open, waiting, upon the countless surfaces in her magnificent library. Promises and predictions played ceaselessly upon her silent lips, relayed by ink-stained fingers upon the waiting, taunting pages. A normally neat script was jumbled with the mania of many voices, massive ideas, petty fates, and fantastic futures.

Since her return, the Sibyl hadn?t rested - instead, lines of prophecy were interpreted into artful language upon the page, constant in both day and night. Her sight was wide, lengthy, overwhelming. After a week, soiled fingers trembled with the quill - fatigue overwhelming her immortal form, adding the additional sway of dizziness to her toil. The practice of her attention perfected her craft, lengthening her vision and polishing the detail.

Occasionally, Thomas interrupted to extend a simple comfort such as water or food, but the prophetess refused to acknowledge his banal offerings, for her inspiration was tinged with the madness of many chaotic paths, her devotion to transcribing these various calamities a delicious and furious iniquity. And still, futures too plentiful for numeration unfurled before her black eyes, crowding out sensible thoughts, driving her to delicious exhaustion.

In the blossoming of her magnificent power, the Sibyl was becoming very weak.

(Cross-posted with A New Covenant Pledge)

"But, though I change till eye would never know me, my voice shall live, the fates will leave my voice.? - The Sibyl to Aeneas, Ovid's Metamorphoses

"To dream of a sybil, foretells that you will enjoy assignations and other demoralizing pleasures." - Ten Thousand Dreams Interpreted, or "What's in a dream": a scientific and practical exposition by Gustavus Hindman, 1910


The Sibyl awoke to her own voice, tempered in a wanton moan.

Shadows, dwelling possessively in their eternal corners, ate the cry far too slowly, the endless mewl echoing vicious vestiges of pleasure, the dual sensations deriving from her lips and mind and yet not entirely of her volition. The prophetess?s lithe limbs tensed and stretched along the luxury of her linens, her hands meekly tearing across the brief chemise that costumed her small, tempting figure.

Aolani, Thomas: those faces loomed in her imagination, beguilingly entranced in their prurient endeavors - the magnificent Sierene, orchestrating and indulging, her unequaled body held at tantalizing, tormenting length, then offered in rapturous graciousness, pressing - breasts to breasts, lips to lips - against her own as the Sibyl was so kindly violated by pen and ****. Thomas?s ****. The ever-polite steward had a rough heat that, when danced upon her memory, made her shiver with urgency, the very memory of his unmitigated masculinity inspiring her lonely body to the postures of lust: her spine assumed an elegant arc, thighs parting to the cooled and empty air of the night.

And yet, more significant than the exquisite lust was the lustful and corrupt message: the words inscribed upon Aolani?s flesh, the detail to which she could recall each letter serving as a testament to the dream?s supernatural quality.

Oedipa drew herself from the infrequent comfort of her bed, the exhaustion which beckoned the dream satisfied by her terribly brief slumber. And as she tread the path to her library, the extravagantly appointed rooms of her city house were generally ignored by a mind otherwise focused.

The Shaitan, Shaitan, Shaitan. The word pulsed in her mind to the rhythm of her silent steps, arousing the maliciousness of her long memory - of the golden god who granted immortality but withheld youth, forcing her to suffer an endless physical frailty, even as the world trembled upon her words, in the last of her first years.

Of the centuries in abyss: a being without form or shape; of the horrifically compounding rage that bloomed like a dark flower in the very core of her incorporeal existence.

And of weak and mortal years, few in number but fresh in mind, as the dutiful daughter to a craven patriarch, always awaiting the call of the Outsider God. And though these years introduced the form she would eternally inhabit, their significance was largely concluded when her last brother finally accepted his grave.

The Sibyl?s fourth chapter would be paramount, for now her vain and long-sought desires were realized, and she possessed the essential trinity of immortality, powerful prophecy, and youth. With the near-completion of the her Libri Sibyllini, a poetic prophecy of worldly catastrophes, and the support of the Shaitan, she could far eclipse the might of all other Sibyls, all prophets, all seers of the ages.

The diminutive seer stepped into her library, where upon her great table the nine volumes rested, and where, upon an elegant couch, the devoted love of her first life squirmed, naked and moaning, in response to her Steward?s smooth thrusts.

The Shaitan?s demands were costly.

Pythia saw her, but Thomas did not. The golden vampire, the once-gifted, smiled gently, secretively, before ecstatic cries again consumed her lips.

And, consumed with the prick of knowledge and the pull of prophecy, the Sibyl watched.

Lips and tongue: they were as potent and strong as well-aged wine, impelling her amenable mouth in a thirsty kiss.? The Sibyl drank him in, lips of flower-petal softness yielding to his amorous exploration, her intoxicating mouth inviting and teasing with a tug of teeth against his bottom lip and a grazing, beseeching trifle of her tongue.? His strong fingers curled in the hedonistic tumble of her ebony mane, tugging the prophetess?s head back with tender ease, disturbing the lustful desperation of the kiss.

She moaned gently, sweetly, the fervor of arousal trembling in the sound. ?

Beneath the passion-lowered line of inky lashes, the Sibyl?s dark eyes - ashes ever-smoldering with latent flame - burned across the divine countenance of the Outsider God.? All once he sighed, thin, perfectly-formed lips parting, his unoccupied hand laying a clenching claim to the delicious curve of her backside, urging her hips to a degenerate grind.? She accommodated the suggestion eagerly, her depraved motion tempting the stiff length that was already nestled provocatively against the open, drippingly-warm flesh of her *** as she straddled his hips, prolonging the exquisite torture, hovering upon commencement of another frenzied f**k.?

The masculine line of jaw clenched, and he inhaled sharply, nearly choking on his desire as he managed a growling whisper: ?Someone approaches.?

?I don?t care,? she whimpered, straining against the hand entangled in her hair, seeking to silence him with another kiss, but he was steadfast.? Wickedly so.? ?I forgot that the prophetess likes an audience.? he rumbled with sensual mirth, his hand shifting to the narrowness of her waist.? ?Maybe I?ll turn you over to him and be your audience.?

The petite seer said nothing, but the manner in which her tongue slyly moistened her flushed set of lips, the luminous dark of her eyes, relayed volumes of desire and acceptance.?

She wouldn?t protest.

And yet, after a momentary, haughty lull, she retreated to his side, propping herself up on the elegant line of her right arm and making no immediate move to shield her provocative frame.? The Outsider God?s muscular torso collapsed and curled upright as footsteps emerged on the stone in the main chamber of his cavernous temple. ?

The disciple entered, allowing the creek of the ancient door to announce his presence.?

?A pilgrim to see you,? the young man called to the lovers.? ?She awaits an audience.?

?Tell her to rest and feast,? replied the Adoneus, the Lyaeus, the Pseudanor, ?For I will summon her soon.?

?No, my Lord,? came the quiet contradiction, ?Not you.? She claims to seek the great Sibyl.?

The ancient God turned his amusement upon his companion, colorless eyes absorbing the perfection of her pale countenance, coaxing the emotion from her delicately-stoic features as he leaned toward her.? ?The great Sibyl,? he repeated, allowing his warm breath to reverberate hotly across the edges of her ear.? While one hand curled a stern palm over her shoulder, the other tugged at divine linens, miraculously pulling from their smooth planes a short, diaphanous gown to clothe the prophetess.? With profound sensuality, her arms lifted, welcoming the brief, immodest attire as he easily slipped it over her luscious form, caressing soft curves with his fingertips as the airy fabric fell.? It concealed little; enough only to enflame lecherous curiosity.

?Shall I permit her to enter, prophetess???

?Yes,? she responded, the pilgrim's pretty features already burning in her mind, for as the scene unfolded, she recalled its telling in the scrape of ink upon paper.? With uninhibited grace, she rose from the bed and drifted across the smooth stone floor, stilling herself at the edge of the handful of steps leading down to the entrance of the cavernous temple?s private chambers.

The woman?s sorrow echoed in her movements as she entered: shaky as sobs and slippery as tears.? In a flurry of gold ringlets and youthful voluptuousness, she tossed herself into a kneel at the base of the half-dozen stairs.? Tearful eyes gazed up at the Sibyl and her stillness.

For a moment, there was silence.

The Outsider, boldly neglecting his own attire, moved to the table in the rear of the chambers where lay the nine large volumes of the Sibyl?s prophetic saga. The books themselves were the inspiration for her visit; she was entrusting their safekeeping to the sanctuary of his cliff-carved temple. His fingers ran an assessing caress along several spines, ultimately selecting a small text - thin, perhaps the width of his hand - of far less gravity and ornamentation than the Libri. With little ceremony and no ostensible intent, he opened to a random page.

Written there was the story of the scene now unfolding within his chambers. His statue-perfect countenance lit in lurid appreciation as he scanned the exquisite telling of their affair, though the majority of his amusement derived from deciphering the prophecy as it occurred.

The world seemed to shimmer, intangible air trembling with a curious disruption, and the pilgrim gulped her trembling breaths, amassing the fortitude to present her question.

?Will he ever return?? she finally managed.

The Sibyl inhaled slowly, her ill-concealed breasts rising as infinite and frightful eyes absorbed woman?s deploring expression.

The Outsider God read ahead, circumventing the suspense that permeated the atmosphere of the chamber. The woman?s husband - a soldier - would return from battle as a hero; they would have more children and die after many decades: it was standard mortality.

?He will,? the Sibyl finally responded, her voice a collection of tempestuous winds. ?But not to you.?

The Outsider lifted his head, eyes narrowing inquisitively at the disparity between stories.

?You will be gone, buried, wasted by disease and despair,? the prophetess continued, the tender turn of her airy voice attributing an impressive finality to her words. The woman sobbed once. ?But your untimely death will inspire your husband to greatness. His name will be repeated for generations.?

The God glanced down again, unfathomable eyes following the shuddering twist of letters upon the page as they moved to mirror the new prophecy. He read ahead. The pilgrim?s husband would indeed be prompted to action by his wife?s death, but his ?greatness? would be in the service of the Sibyl herself. Interesting.

?Your children will be leaders.?

The pilgrim collapsed completely upon the stone floor, her hands tearing at her lovely golden curls in despair, her body shaking with near-silent, gasping cries.

?Your family will benefit greatly from your early death.?

The woman wailed, her torment echoing throughout the chambers. As the cry succumbed again to silence, the Sibyl descended the half-dozen stairs, kneeling closely and embracing her in the twisted guise of benevolence. The pilgrim was hot and soft in her arms, clinging madly, choking on her sorrow, and when she glanced up to behold the prophetess's inky gaze, she saw the brief spark of her life snuffed by the darkness of eternity.

The pilgrim fainted, her feminine form suddenly limp in the Sibyl?s embrace.