Eliza In The Flesh!: the call of godspawn. VII

So about that discussion… Yes, it’s reopened. The duchess moved towards the house once more and was yet again met at the entrance by the godspawn. So much for the element of surprise. “You don’t have to fear me,” says the godspawn. She tilted her head to the side, stepping down the steps so disturbingly peaceful. “We can remake you so you’ll never be afraid, and you can reject weak, mortal flesh.”

 

Eliza did not like the sound of being remade. It irked her like a bad smell, or being awakened by angry raps at her bedroom door so early in the morning. By the godspawn’s voice had a sympathetic edge to it. She blinked her eyes, and suddenly, she was no longer a ghost, but a regular girl. Her face was tinted with oranges and reds, so much like flesh. Her clothes, though still looked tattered and homesewn, felt more organic if anything. Her eyes beamed at her, and her mouth curled into a loose, warm smile.

 

Then she looked at her own hands. Coarse and battered, and her hair probably looked like a mess as well. The duchess would later blame it on her battle with the godspawn, but at the moment, she knew even if she hadn’t been there at all, this is what she really looked like. She didn’t know if it was shame and rejection, boredom and vanity, or maybe a mix of both, but at some point in her life, Eliza began to shift her form.

 

Eliza felt tired. She supposed that the godspawn was correct about some things. Mortal forms rust quickly, and her magic hoards a great amount of her metabolism. She looked down again at her hands, covered in clay and filled with scraps and bruising.

 

She looked at the godspawn, content, happy, human but better.

 

Then she looked behind her. Beyond her. And she remembered the walls of mirrors, and the faces of many. Then she remembered her own face staring back. Ghostly shimmering under a light on the other side of their glass prison. She wondered if the ghosts in there were truly lonely, or if it was too crowded.

 

She looked down at her hands again. The ones of blood and flesh. She couldn’t tell if Eliza in the mirror was any happier than how she was now. Maybe she was. Maybe she could be. Maybe she will never find out.

 

When Eliza squinted her eyes to look at her, she found her smile to be more infuriating than anything. The girl so callously grinned after everything Eliza went through to get back to this place. That little freak was telling her that everything she went through, every piece of clay, was pointless?! Why would she wait until after she got out of the well? Or what about before?! If there’s anything more tempting than the equivalent to plastic surgery, it was a gratifyingly, savory, flesh-bones-and-all kind of retribution.