The Empty Mirror
Chapter 63: Cape and sword
From an almost deep coma, I emerged, barely aware of my existence, incredulous at the scene unfolding before my eyes. I approached with fear, observing how the gesture of the monkey's paw faded into a grave grimace. The panorama that stretched around me was overwhelming: the sky, once a perpetual twilight, now transformed into an eternal dawn, an aurora persisting amidst the mist that still enveloped the gardens. Those same gardens resembled hourglasses, with earthy hair falling like dust into a bottomless abyss, shrouded by a spectral mist.
As I rose, an indescribable fear seized me, and I grasped the "Two of Wands" staff, but its vitality had vanished, appearing as a mere empty shell, immune to any stimulus. As I wiped the blood from my nose with the sleeve of my dress, I knew that the poison was awakening within me, and that the corruption of the Hanging Gardens was consuming my being. I could no longer rely on the staff for healing; it had fallen into a state of lethargy, while I helplessly watched gangrene ascend my limbs, creeping beneath my nails. I feared, but I also gathered courage and advanced cautiously, navigating past the monsters lurking in the shadows. I knew I was beyond the halfway point of the journey, and so, with a gangrenous body, I continued towards the new Hanging Gardens, shrouded in overwhelming illusion.
I advanced once more, my back bowed by the venom snaking through "Agonal Breathing", while savouring the corpses of insects, not those disfigured by the choker's incisors, but those that perished in the fray. Afterward, I sated myself with the plants' saliva, for the monstrosities of the Hanging Gardens still lingered, albeit now transfigured, adopting a new appearance, a reinvented concept. Amongst the undergrowth and leafy trees, I found myself before one of the stalks connecting to another garden. This stalk, bulbous and colossal, allowed for more than two people to walk together, side by side. It was enveloped by vines of a darker green, slightly inclining upwards to reach the terrace.
The vines hung under the weight of gravity, and with vertigo pulsing in my knees, I traversed this extension, akin to the "Creeper," but devoid of full life, only the passive existence of a plant without will. My feet splashed upon the mass as I battled the vertigo, until finally reaching the edge of the terrace. I had ascended and continued my journey, with the buzz of corpulent insects swirling in the skies of the Hanging Gardens. Fearful and cautious of the atrocities of this place, tormented by the fear that some abomination might emerge, like that born from the egg. My mind, reeling, pondered over all that had occurred: the metamorphosis of the Hanging Gardens and how, amidst the stormy mist, the staff had acquired a new significance, marking a fresh beginning for these gardens and dispelling the curse that afflicted them, so that their own essence could reign.
At the threshold of my suffering, I conjured the image of that creature writhing in agony, and also the figure of the Marquess, but above all, reverberating in my mind was the pomp of the bullfight, a memory that the weight of the spectacle also dissolved. It happened at the heart of the bullfighting circus, and so it was that the horse made its entrance into the arena, in the dimness of the plaza. The noble steed emerged from the rider, a majestic silhouette marked by the traces of time. Where once his coat gleamed, now lay a mantle of dark brown, speckled with patches of sweat and dust. Scars from past battles adorned his body, silent witnesses to his bravery in the arena. A black veil covered his eyes, concealing the gaze of the illustrious horse from the tumult of the ring and the ferocity of the bull. Through the shadow of the veil, his eyes still shone with determination and courage, ready to face the looming challenge. Within his ears, scraps of cotton offered modest protection against the roar of the illusory crowd and the bellowing of the bull, an essential precaution to maintain serenity and focus amidst the chaos of the bullfight. Upon his back rested a worn leather breastplate, an improvised armour shielding his chest from the bull's onslaught.
Crafted by the passage of years, the leather exhibited cracks and tears, yet its solidity still promised to defy the onslaught of the adversary. Ornaments of rusted metal and worn-out straps completed the ensemble, adding an air of roughness and authenticity, like a shield that protects. The saddle, a structure of tanned leather and scraps of fabric, clung tenaciously to its back, offering an improvised seat for the rider who guided it into the fray. Stains, silent witnesses to the hours of effort and shared sacrifice between horse and rider. Its horseshoes, worn-down iron, worn by countless steps in the sand, emitted a dull and steady sound with each stride, marking the rhythm of its advance towards the encounter with the bull. With each step, the horse exuded an air of dignity and determination, its eyes reflecting the wisdom accumulated over the years. Despite its age and the traces of time, its presence in the arena still impressed, a living testimony to the indelible bond between man and the noble steed that carries him into battle. The old horse, like its rider, had years behind it, but together they were a force to be reckoned with in the bullring.
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Across the vast expanse of the arena, rode an elder, a figure carved by the harshness of time and life's onslaughts. His countenance, lined with deep furrows and tinted by the relentless sun, told tales of battles fought on the battlefield and beyond, mapping out his struggles and victories. Silver hair, like strands of silver woven by the hands of fate, clung tenaciously to his skull, like the last grass on barren ground, silent witnesses to the relentless march of time. His once robust and upright body now bore the indelible marks of ageing and fatigue. A prominent belly protruded beneath his tattered jacket, a vestige of feasts and past glories, now relegated to oblivion. His hands, once skilled and steady, trembled slightly under the weight of the lance, tangible testimony of decades of effort and sacrifice. Despite his withered appearance, he radiated undeniable dignity, a strength glimpsed in his weary gaze. Each step resonated with the echo of a life marked by courage and determination, an existence devoted to the noble task of facing the bull in the arena. And though time had stolen some of his vigour and vitality, it had not managed to extinguish the indomitable flame that burned deep within his being, emerging like a shadow amidst the dust and sweat, defying oblivion with every gesture and every sigh.
His attire, a collection of rags and fabrics worn by the passage of time and the onslaughts of battle, recounts the feats of countless encounters in the bullring. A leather vest, now marked by scars from past clashes, clings to his torso like an improvised shield. The frayed threads of his jacket intertwine with skin toasted by the sun and effort, a testimony to resilience in the face of the bull's fury. The trousers, once shining in whiteness and finery, are now barely the faded echo of their former splendour. Torn and patched, they hang loosely over his legs, revealing the signs of a life devoted to the challenge of the bull. His boots, once shiny and polished, now lie covered in mud and blood, silent judges of the battles fought in the shadow of the sand. Every fold of his clothing tells a story of bravery and sacrifice, an epic of courage in adversity. And as the picador prepares to face the bull, his tattered attire stands as a symbol of rebellion against established conventions, a bold affirmation that true bravery does not reside in the splendour of attire, but in the indomitable heart of one who faces danger without hesitation.
The picador's lance stands erect like a weapon of old, an extension of the rider's spirit and bravery who wields it. Its sharp edge, forged in metal tempered by fire and toil, gleams with a cold and menacing light under the sun that gilds the sand. Every groove and nick, evidence of use and countless skirmishes between man and beast, tells its story carved in battle. The handle, rough to the touch and worn by the sweat that flows from the picador's hands, provides a firm and secure grip to guide the dance of combat. Wrapped in weathered and tanned leather, the handle is a constant reminder of the harshness and brutality of the world in which they fight. With iron armour guarding their lower limbs, only these four wills stood in the arena, alongside their respective counterparts, the matador and the bull, the rider and his steed, ready for the fight.
The rider surged forth, a beaver hat resting gracefully upon his head, a handmade piece that evokes distant times and venerable traditions. Its broad brim, elegantly curved, cast a protective shadow over the weathered face of the elder, shielding his eyes from the ruthless spectral glare that inundates the arena. Crafted from noble beaver felt, the hat exuded a gentle warmth and an aura of distinction. The marks of time's passage, barely perceptible, bestowed upon its surface a patina of nobility and character, akin to the wrinkles left by years on the skin of a fearless elder. A worn leather band encircled the base of the hat, adding a touch of rusticity and authenticity to its appearance. Though the leather bore the signs of use and wear, it still retained a subtle sheen, like a memory of the inherent beauty in well-crafted simplicity.
I, standing tall in the stands alongside Constance and her malice, fervently watched the spectacle of their men, eagerly anticipating the knight's endeavour, as he sought to weaken the bull's strength by inserting the lance into its neck and back, in order to level the playing field and mitigate the risk for the matador, who stood alone, watching over the course and audacity of the bullfight. In this bloody theatre, the picador's choreography began, while the bull, imposing and wild, emerged from the supposed pens, its misty breath mingling with the warm breeze. The rider, atop his old and weary mare, advanced towards the centre of the ring, his hat tilted in a gesture of resolve. The lance in his hand trembled slightly, reflecting the tension saturating the atmosphere. The bull charged with fury, its gleaming horns slicing through the air with a deadly hiss.
The knight's steed, stoic and brave, took a few steps back under the onslaught, but the rider remained unflinching in his saddle, his right hand guiding the lance towards the animal's neck, while the matador, in turn, awaited his moment. A whisper of astonishment crossed my mind as the lance sank into the bull's flesh, eliciting a roar of pain and fury. The picador, with half-closed eyes and tense jaw, withstood the charge, his countenance marked by concentration and effort. The bull, weakened by the blow, momentarily retreated, allowing the picador and his steed to regain their composure. With a gesture of determination, the picador urged his mount to advance again towards the adversary, ready to face any challenge that fate might bestow upon them in the fierce struggle between man and beast. After several onslaughts, the bull lay sufficiently fatigued and wounded for the matador to complete his task.
The matador burst onto the stage with all his magnificence while the gentleman and his horse faded into the twilight, perhaps melded in a grotesque and repugnant clown costume. The bullfighter wore a montera that rose on his back like a reliquary of power and lineage. Forged in sturdy leather and adorned with silver details, it transcended its mere decorative function; it was an emblem of the bravery and skill of the matador in the arena. Its design combined elegance with utility. A row of compartments stretched along its back, each intended to house a banderilla ready to be wielded at the opportune moment. The leather, worn by use and marked by the passage of time, told a story engraved in scars and scratches. The silver reliefs gleamed under the spotlights of the arena, granting a touch of distinction and splendour to the ensemble. Filigree and engravings beautified the edges of the montera, adding a patina of majesty and solemnity to the bullfighter's ornament.