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༒ Astrid Saddler and Miguel :sheep:
A dim, candle-lit room where shadows dance over the walls. A tray of food is brought in by a low-ranking cultist, who sets it gently on the table before leaving. Astrid sits down with her meal, casting a look toward Miguel, who remains seated nearby, his gaze lowered, shoulders slouched, and face blank.
Astrid: (kindly but firm) “Miguel, you’ll be eating tonight.”
Miguel glances at the tray, his expression faintly tense, as if unsure how to respond. His hands remain still at his sides, not moving toward the food.
Astrid: (pausing, watching him) “Go on.”
Miguel’s gaze shifts downward, his fingers twitching slightly, but he remains motionless, his eyes distant as though he’s struggling to process her words. Astrid waits a moment, then sighs and sets down her own spoon. She rises from her chair and approaches him.
Astrid: (gently, coaxing) “You need to eat, Miguel. For your own sake.”
Miguel looks up at her, his eyes blank and distant, still not moving. It’s as if he’s caught between her request and an unseen force that holds him still, his mind clouded and uncomprehending.
Astrid: (softly, more patient) “Here.”
Astrid takes his spoon, scooping a small portion of the soup. She lifts it to his lips, her hand steady, her eyes watching him intently.
Astrid: (whispering) “Open.”
Almost instinctively, Miguel’s mouth opens slightly, and she slips the spoon in, letting him taste the warm broth. She watches as he swallows, his gaze flickering with faint surprise.
She withdraws the spoon, but he doesn’t move to take it from her. Instead, she scoops another spoonful, feeding him again. When a few drops trail down from the corner of his lips, she reaches out, gently wiping them away with her thumb.
Astrid: (smiling faintly) “Good… There’s no need to be afraid.”
Miguel’s gaze softens slightly, and for the first time, there’s a faint hint of warmth in his eyes, a flicker of recognition. Astrid continues feeding him slowly, patiently, until the bowl is empty.
Astrid: (sighing with quiet satisfaction) “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Miguel remains silent, but his posture relaxes, a quiet acceptance settling over him as he meets her gaze. Astrid gives a slight, approving nod before returning to her seat, watching him thoughtfully.
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(A few months later, after Miguel's autonomy has recovered after the plaga's hold on him, he regains his sense of control and presence.)
As the stillness of the night settled around them, Miguel lay beside Astrid, feeling the steady warmth of her presence. He’d begun to regain himself, each thought and feeling returning with a sharpness that was almost overwhelming. And now, in this quiet, he could sense her gaze lingering on him, heavy with a silent intensity he couldn’t ignore.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, as if she feared breaking the silence too harshly.
Astrid: “I’m sorry…”
Her words were unexpected, but the way she spoke them—soft, remorseful, almost vulnerable—drew him in, each word resonating deeper than he expected.
Astrid: “I’m sorry for the things I did… for what I became under my father’s commands. I’ve taken so much from so many—people like you. I’ve bound so many to his will, forsaken so much autonomy…”
She paused, as if struggling with the weight of her own guilt, then finally turned to him fully, her gaze steady and intent.
Astrid: “Do you think you could ever forgive me?”
Miguel’s mind was clear, his thoughts his own, and he let her words settle, processing their meaning. Here was the high priestess, the one who had wielded her father’s influence and the Plaga’s control, now laying bare her regrets to him—a lowly cultist. He didn’t answer right away; instead, he studied her face, looking past the strength she tried to carry, and saw the depths of her own remorse.
Finally, he reached out, a hand trembling slightly as he placed it over hers.
Miguel: “I don’t know if I understand all the reasons… or all the weight you carry.” He looked down, voice barely above a whisper. “But I think I know now… that you didn’t want this—not all of it.”
He paused, his fingers curling around hers. “Maybe it’s not forgiveness yet… but I don’t hate you, Astrid. I don’t know if I ever did.” He glanced at her, a flicker of gentleness in his eyes.
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Relevant links:
- previous part of the story: Part2, a moment of recollection
- references, how do they look like?
The high priestess and the low ranked cultist
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
𝑀𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝒷𝓎 𝒞𝑜_𝒟𝒽𝑒𝑒𝒶
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