The darkness had crept in, bit by bit, until it had surrounded them whole. And it felt, to Elizabeth Íkrat, that she had begun the war she was fighting against it - against reaction, against misery, against death - too late, that it had already, long ago, won and conquered all, that all her struggle had been and would be for nothing, that she would soon have to kneel before the shadows, as she had before Liiv, as she had before Loime, renounce what remained of her goodness and life, and fall into Hell.
She shifted in her seat, sighing, looking out of the car window at the Málaga streets rushing past. Spain, she thought, was such a bright country, When she had first gotten off her plane, she had been stunned by the heat and the light, the sheer intensity of the sun, how it had seared and burned at her flesh. She had known what the weather was going to be like, had known that it was going to be hot and sunny - far, far more than either Kirelesile or Líresile, both almost perpetually rainy, windy, cold, could ever get - and yet, still, it came to her as a surprise.
"A divine surprise," she muttered, and though the words were sarcastic, she felt as though there was an odd truth to them. Light and warmth were good, were divine, and darkness and cold, their absences, were not, were their opposite, were what ought to be seen as the hellish. And wasn't it the doctrine, in any case, of some church - she couldn't remember which - that it was divine light that burned the sinners? The doctrine of her own country's courts, too, told her that flesh, everything material, was inherently of evil, and therefore necessarily was destroyed when brought near real goodness.
She was flesh - she had burned - she would therefore fall. Yes, it was too late; perhaps it had always been too late. Perhaps her project would have been doomed no matter when she had begun it; perhaps even it, too, had sprouted from the same seeds of evil as the rest of the darkness had. After all, wasn't it, too, made of flesh, like the world, like the courts, like Liiv, like Loime, like - her?
She pressed her hand to the window, feeling the heat, the slight pain, and leaned back, closing her eyes, letting go.
Time. She felt the car rocketing to a stop, and knew she had to rouse herself. She groaned, slightly, rubbing at her face, running her hands down her clothes, half to straighten them, half just as familiar motion to relax herself.
And from the cool darkness of the car she climbed into the Spanish light, blinking as her eyes adjusted, looking up to the sky, at the buildings all around.
Now it was for reality - to make all the compromises (as she had) that paved the road to personal hell, to die by a thousand cuts. Necessary evils, unfortunate sacrifices - pretty words all the way down to the lake of fire and sulfur.
Sun, sting her, heat, burn her; fitting, she thought, necessary, that such a day be so hot.
But no point, now, in moralizing. Morals were for those who could believe in a world of Forms, of some pure goodness existing outside of this plane of reality - and she was not one of them. She had dipped her hands, as all flesh is wont to do, in darkness, and it would never come off; it was inescapable, in and necessary for everything, and it could only ever be for her to try and hope to be and do otherwise, in futile but virtuous struggle.
That was it, she supposed, that was her war and its why (but would it never be something more?).
She walked into the cooler Museum, marveling at the collection, before greeting the President of Spain.
"It's an honor," she said, smiling, "to be able to meet you. Now - an odd thing to start off on, but I feel it's important, I'd have to sit through this summit feeling vaguely ashamed otherwise - I hope you don't have the wrong idea of who I am, given what I've said about one of your country's past, less competent, more...authoritarian leaders. Please understand that I am holding together a coalition at home from far-left to far-right, that that requires saying, on occasion...strange things....but my apologies. I am talking a bit too much, I think, too, but I'm told that's my way, please excuse me for it."
She dug through her purse for a box, managing to get ahold of it before opening - revealing a little metal bird - and holding it out to Feijóo. "My government wanted to give this to you, as a little token of our country's ties - it's a mechanical sparrow, our national animal. If you wind it up and let it run" - she began to turn, slowly, a key poking out of its back - "it flutters its wings and chirps a little song, see." Indeed, as soon as she let go of the key, the sparrow's wings began to move up and down, though weakly, a few notes escaping its beak before it wound down. When it had finished, Íkrat closed the box and set it down on the table before them, before sighing.
"Things are quite volatile," she said, with a certain caution, "as you might know, in Eastern Europe. Krexit, the election in the Duchies - we, and I'm sure your government as well, have many concerns. But I'd like to hear yours first, if you may."
