the woman is a beacon: a statue shrouded in white fabric and light. she’s a stark contrast to gloria, in all her fallen grace. trembling and bruised — her curls lost to tangles and twigs, and her clothing in tatters. the wilds had not been kind to gloria thorne, that much was evident at first glance. she wishes she were steelier. wishes she could muzzle her fear, or at the very least, her sobs. but when she - at last - is greeted so directly by the woman’s gaze, gloria can’t help but whimper. terrified but transfixed, she remains there — unable to look away. as if staring at the sun during an eclipse: mesmerised, burning.
she can only be one. the one. the one gloria had only ever heard spoken of in hushed tones and bitter whispers. the mad woman, the zealot! the island. gloria’s fear flares anew: a doused flame, upon the realisation. nobody comes back from the island. the woman’s voice rings like a bell — clear and perfectly tuned. her words send a shiver down gloria’s spine, for their accuracy. oh, she is hurting. she cannot remember a time when she was not. but the shiver doesn’t stop at her spine, no: gloria’s entire body rattles. a mingling of fear, and adrenaline, and the biting cold. but the trembling relents the moment the woman raises her hand to gloria’s cheek. she thaws under the heat of her touch: her pained expression retreating to awe, then confusion, then returning to fear as the woman turns her back on her. gloria feels like she’s spinning.
wordless, she goes: through the gate and on and on. there’s no opportunity for disobedience, nor would gloria have taken it — if there were. she was no heroine, not in this lifetime. instead, her poor wet feet carried her forward: directly to her demise — that she knew for certain. her vision (newly returned to her) blurs, still adjusting to the evening dim, but the torchlight does grant gloria one blessing: the silhouette, drenched in white, is made visible through the darkness.
eden has been put to bed once again. curtains drawn, babies in cribs; these last few tread through a quiet dark together as one. only in unity do they possess power. she sees it now, a woman clumsy with her pride. but it is true that combined effort birthed this: a soft glow touches cobble so they may not twist ankles, rows of cottage homes with their brown white brick, never succumbing to the same decay of their sister beyond the gates named Sin.
the silent tour party approach the closest ( and tallest ) building in range. it stands a hearty three levels high, each with its own purpose. like its an entire island either choreographed or constructed around pressure mats, the door pulls open as she nears. madre spares a smile toward the man, nodding her warm appreciation, before finishing up beside metal door that groans when opened.
the cells are hardly the place of bloom eden so promises she is. it’s their dim in a world of light. their joseph. who is black sheep in eden’s holy white, but one to always deliver its goods when the deed is done. how many souls would be lost without these cells, madre dare not say. what she does say is that in the end, means are little when it’s His road they path.
the reputation is worn on their faces. twisted, like in grief, and the men who weren’t crying before are bursting out now. she takes it in, their “ please, no, “ their, “ don’t do this, “ and swallows it down. a hum of, “ i know, i know, darling, “ stroking blackened shirts, and allowing them to be taken through the halls all the same.
each person delivered receives the same caress, the same shallow understanding that ultimately amounts to nothing. madre remains at the door until the very last in line. they’ve met eyes before, but it’s the first words meant for the woman and she alone.
“ may the lord be with you. “ as though she cannot stop it, as though it is out of her control, as though it’s not madre’s own hand-crafted instruction, the girl is whisked away with gruff hands. she holds her eyes ‘til the nameless is sightless, too.
