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Lucy (6)
Father Elias felt the air fill with a sacred silence.
He understood that the miracle was not the transformation, but what it revealed:
that every soul can rise when it finds its balance between obedience and freedom.
The priest felt something within him still, as if a dormant truth had silently awakened.
He understood that true power lay not in commanding, but in knowing how to lead.
And in Lucy's gaze, luminous and serene, he perceived the reflection of the eternal order that sustains the world.
That revelation transformed Father Elias.
The echo of the hooves faded into time, but within his mind it continued to resonate, marking a new rhythm, a different heartbeat.
Suddenly, reality blurred before his eyes, and a vision enveloped him.
He saw a vast field illuminated by a golden light with no visible source. In the center, a female figure—Lucy, or perhaps Wisdom herself—rode through the rays of dawn.
Where her horse trod, the earth blossomed.
Where her shadow fell, the air became clear.
Then he understood: faith was not a building or a ritual, but a living movement, an energy that must guide without breaking, serve without bending.
The human soul, like that luminous horse, could only advance if it found a conscience capable of leading it with respect and firmness.
The priest felt something in his chest open, a mixture of humility and clarity.
He understood that power lay not in hierarchy, but in communion; that the divine message was not imposed from the pulpit, but shared in gaze, in listening, in presence.
When the woman dissipated, dawn was already bathing the church.
Father Elías breathed deeply and, for the first time in a long time, smiled.
He went out into the atrium and saw his parishioners waiting for him. He walked toward them unhurriedly, his arms open, and spoke in a distinct, warm, close voice.
"Faith isn't preached from above," he said. "It's sown by walking together."
And as he spoke, the dawn wind seemed to repeat, like a soft echo:
Everything is in balance again.
Lucy's melodious voice woke Father Elías.
"Father Elías?" she asked sweetly.
The priest slowly opened his eyes. The light of dawn enveloped him, and for a moment he thought he'd been dreaming. But there was Lucy, riding upright before him, with the glow of the rising day behind her figure.
Her voice, serene and warm, seemed to come from another time.
"Wake up, Father. The miracle isn't over," she said.
Elías sat up with difficulty, still troubled by what he had seen.
"Was it real?" he murmured.
Lucy smiled.
"The real and the divine sometimes touch, when the eyes know how to look."
The wind blew through the trees, and the rustling of the leaves seemed to respond for her.
The priest understood then that dawn had not only reached the sky, but also his soul.
The doctor, silent and serene after his transformation, continued to be ridden by Lucy, who dominated and firmly controlled him. There was no weight between them, but a strange harmony, a dance of wills united by something greater than both.
Lucy turned her face toward Father Elias, her voice soft and clear as dawn:
"We must return to the village, Father. I must prepare you."
Elias looked at her in amazement.
"Prepare myself? For what, my daughter?"
"To be ridden by me and to see," she replied.
"To see without fear what was always before you. To learn to lead without forgetting that one must also serve."
The wind raised a swirl of golden dust, and in its midst, Lucy seemed taller, older, as if speaking with the voice of the earth itself.
"The people await the dawn, but they still sleep," she added. "And you, Father, will be the one to herald the light."
Elias bowed his head, understanding that this return would not only be a journey along the paths of the valley, but along the paths of his own soul.
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Lucy (7)
Lucy prepared for the return to the village.
With ritual calm, she placed the bit in Father Elias's mouth, adjusted the bridle, secured the saddle, and checked each strap, as if with each gesture she renewed an ancient pact between dominance and respect.
Father Elias, Lucy's horse—a living symbol of strength and dedication—breathed steadily, waiting for the command.
Lucy placed a foot in the stirrup and, with a nimble movement, rode. Her shapee stood out against the fiery dawn sky; the air vibrated around her, a mixture of power and purpose.
She held the reins firmly, raised her gaze to the horizon, and, with a touch of her riding crop, began their journey.
Thus, Father Elias was ridden by Lucy toward the village.
The road, still covered in morning mist, seemed to open before them as if recognizing the path of destiny. Each step was slow and solemn, accompanied by the rustling of the trees and the distant birdsong that heralded the dawn.
Lucy, upright and silent, gazed serenely at the horizon. The priest, beneath her, felt he was being ridden not only by a woman, but also by an ancient force, a messenger of the balance that the earth itself had awakened.
As they descended the valley, the light of dawn enveloped them in warm, golden hues, and the sound of life began to fill the air. Elías understood then that they were not simply returning to the village:
they were returning to the point where the divine and the human meet again.
Father Elías advanced along the path, ridden solemnly by Lucy, as if carrying an offering of light.
Their steps were firm, each one echoing in the earth like an echo of devotion. There was no weight in his burden, but rather purpose: he felt he was holding on his shoulders the symbol of a promise that must be fulfilled.
Lucy, silent, gazed at the horizon. Her presence radiated calm, and her countenance was filled with gratitude and superiority.
Dawn enveloped them in a golden glow, and the village, still distant, seemed to await them.
Father Elías was not ridden by a woman, but by a sign.
And in that gesture, he understood that to be ridden by the light is also to allow oneself to be illuminated.
Lucy, riding on Father Elías's shoulders, the wind gently moving her hair.
"Father," she said calmly, "to reach the village, a horse is swifter and arrives faster than a man."
Then Lucy added, with a look full of compassion:
"I want to protect you from the eyes and tongues of those who do not understand the sacred. If they see me leading a steed, they will not think of you, nor will they judge you." I will transform you and keep you under the veil of form, until we arrive safely.
Elias listened to her in silence, understanding that she spoke of flesh and spirit. That transformation would be a sign of humility and faith, as well as submission.
Lucy raised a hand, and the air seemed to turn golden, filled with an ancient glow.
"Nothing is lost in the light," she whispered. "It only changes to be preserved."
And so, the miracle began.
Lucy, riding atop the priest, raised her right hand and raised her gaze toward the horizon. The air grew still.
The rising sun seemed to pause for a moment, and a golden glow enveloped Father Elias.
The priest felt the ground disappear beneath his feet; there was no fear in him, only a profound surrender. Bent under the weight of Lucy and his own past, he felt her voice—serene and firm—envelop him like a river of fire and tenderness.
"Father, do not fear," Lucy said. "This form is not punishment, but shelter. As long as the journey lasts, your spirit and your body will take on the strength of the noble, so that the judgment of men will not touch you. You will be an instrument of good if you leave fear behind. I will guide you to where your spirit can soar."
Then the air ignited, and a gentle breeze began to swirl around him, tracing circles of light and dust. His cassock stirred, his hands opened, and a serene clarity grew in his chest. He did not lose his humanity: he was transfigured into a symbol, into a being that united the earthly and the divine.
Lucy, atop Father Elias's shoulders and then on Father Elias's back, watched the change with a protective gaze.
"You are guide and apprentice," she said. "The form is only a veil. What you are in essence remains."
When the glow faded, Father Elias remained bowed, filled with new energy. The silence that followed had something like prayer. Elias felt Lucy's hold, Lucy's sacred weight, and a current that purified him. His body became lighter, his mind cleared; in his chest, fear turned to faith.
Lucy grasped the reins of Father Elias's body and destiny and placed a gentle hand on the horse's head and neck.
"Now you are ready," she whispered. "Let us advance toward the light of the village."
And dawn continued its rise, witness to a transformation that was both magical and deeply spiritual. So, together, they advanced toward the village: she leading, he reborn.
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Lucy (8)
Father Elias advanced with a firm step, and the echo of his four hooves resounded like a sacred drum on the road.
Lucy, standing above him, held the reins with the serenity of one who guides not only a body, but a soul in learning.
"Look, Father," she said softly, "the horse does not rebel against its leader, because it trusts. So too, the man of faith must allow himself to be guided by divine will, without pride, without fear."
Lucy's every word was a thorn of light that opened Elias's understanding.
Father Elias felt the rhythm of her steps, the precise weight of his rider, the sense of free obedience. He understood then that true dominion is not oppression, but communion. That he who serves with humility achieves a greater nobility.
The wind accompanied them. With each trot, the priest saw the parallel more clearly:
the rider as guide, the horse as an instrument of purpose, both dependent on one another.
Spirit and matter, the shepherd and his flock, heaven and earth.
Lucy looked at him tenderly.
"You understand now, don't you?" she asked.
He nodded, moved.
"Yes... he who allows himself to be led by love does not lose his dignity; it ennobles it."
Thus they continued toward the village, she riding gracefully, he advancing proudly, transformed not into a beast, but into a living parable of service and devotion.
Father Elías thought:
"God's ways are mysterious..."
The thought vanished into thin air as the rhythm of the hooves—firm, steady—marked the pulse of the teaching.
Lucy, above him, spoke with a voice that seemed to come from a higher plane, serene and profound, as if wisdom spoke through her.
“Father,” she said, “every guide must also know the burden of being guided. Just as a rider learns to master, they must also learn to trust. There are times when you will be a rider, and others when you must be a horse.”
Elias listened, feeling how each word mingled with the sound of her breathing and the rhythm of her steps.
“When you are a rider,” Lucy continued, “remember that you do not govern with force, but with balance. The reins are not chains, they are bridges. And when you are a horse, accept the yoke without humiliation, because serving is also a form of love.”
The priest bowed his head, slowly understanding the depth of what she was saying. Passages from Scripture echoed in his mind: the faithful servant, the shepherd who is also a sheep, the teacher who washes the feet of his disciples.
Lucy added, looking at the horizon:
“Only one who has ridden understands what the horse feels. Only one who has been guided knows how to lead justly.”
And so they continued on their way, beneath the dawn that gilded the path. She taught with gentleness and authority; he learned with humility and wonder. And as they advanced toward the village, Father Elías understood that, in the secret language of life, riding and being ridden were, in essence, one and the same prayer.
Lucy looked up at the horizon, where the sun was beginning to climb between the hills.
"We must arrive quickly," she said in a firm, almost solemn voice.
The air grew tense before Lucy. Her riding crop whistled in the wind, and the shine of her spurs flashed in the dawn light. She whipped and spurred Father Elías. There was no cruelty in her gestures, but determination; each movement was a precise command, a communion of will and obedience.
Father Elias, Lucy's horse, responded briskly, his hooves pounding the earth with a rapid rhythm that made the ground tremble and his gallop echo across the valley.
Lucy stood erect, serene, her hands firm on the reins, her legs secure in the stirrups. She was the image of control and harmony between body and purpose.
The gallop resonated on the damp earth, marking the rhythm of the new day.
This wasn't just a return: it was the beginning of something that would transform the village and all those waiting there.
Father Elias—transformed into a horse by Lucy—felt that every stroke of the whip and spur was a living lesson in dedication: moving forward with faith even without fully understanding the destination.
Lucy, her gaze fixed ahead, murmured,
"When duty calls, there is no hesitation. The path is traveled with all that we are."
And the gallop continued, blending the sound of the whip, the shine of the spurs and the force of the wind into a single melody of purpose and power.
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Lucy (9)
As they approached the village, Lucy gently pulled on the reins. Her gesture was precise, natural, almost imperceptible, but sufficient.
The powerful gallop began to slow: first it became a canter, then a trot, until the hooves marked a slow, solemn pace on the cobbled road.
The dawn air brought with it the murmur of the first voices from the village, the sound of doors opening, of birds greeting the new day. Lucy, upright in the saddle, maintained her haughty and serene bearing; her hazel eyes reflected the golden glow of the morning.
Father Elías—now in complete communion with her—responded without a word. Every command, every signal from his rider, was understood and obeyed with respect and harmony. There was no longer any resistance, only the certainty of mutual understanding: the guidance of one will and the surrender of another.
Lucy smiled slightly.
"This is how one should arrive," she said softly: "with mastery, but also with calm."
The horse's footsteps echoed in the tranquil village air, as the sun's rays illuminated the scene as if the day itself were bending down to receive them.
Upon reaching the village, Lucy gently pulled on the reins, and the horse stopped right in the center of the square. The sound of hooves ceased, and silence fell like a veil over those present.
Several villagers, recognizing her, knelt in reverence. Their gaze fell upon the rider's dusty boots, a symbol of power and a well-traveled journey.
Lucy, wordlessly, bent down and began to stroke her mount's neck; her fingers ran over the animal's ears and face with tenderness and pride, like someone acknowledging the nobility of a faithful companion.
"Why are people worried?" she asked in a calm voice, without taking her gaze from her horse.
The villagers, kneeling, responded as they kissed the hem of Lucy's boots:
"Mistress Lucy... we haven't heard from Father Elias since yesterday. No one has seen him."
Lucy smiled faintly and continued stroking her horse's mane. The sunlight shone on her boots and the bridle she still held elegantly.
"We already know Father Elias," she said gently. "He visits those in need, offering comfort, advice, love, protection... or simple companionship. He doesn't proclaim the works he does, because his work is always silent."
She paused for a moment, let her gaze scan the square and those kissing her boots, then added:
"Let's wait for him. He will return before Mass begins. There are still three hours to go."
An air of calm settled over the place. Lucy stood there, majestic, stroking her mount's neck, as the morning slowly advanced and the village seemed to hold its breath at the mystery.
Lucy remained on the back of her mount, sitting firmly in the saddle, her feet securely in the stirrups. The morning light made the leather of her boots shine, reflecting the sun with a golden glow.
The villagers, respectfully kneeling, approached to show their devotion to Lucy. They bowed their heads, kissed the leather of her boots, and licked the high heels, the soles of her boots, and the bases of her high heels. Everyone fell silent in her presence.
Lucy, serene, stroked her horse slowly, transmitting calm. She looked tenderly at the villagers and spoke in a clear voice:
"There is no need to bow down to me and clean my boots with the kisses of your lips and the licks of your tongue," she said. "True reverence is in righteous actions, in service, and in faith."
The villagers nodded, moved, as she looked up at the sky, where the sunlight was breaking through the clouds.
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Lucy (10)
Lucy looked down at those kneeling near her, kissing her boots and licking their high heels and soles. Her voice, firm but serene, broke the silence that had spread across the square:
"You may leave," she said gently. "I'm going to lead my horse home."
The villagers slowly looked up, nodded, and began to disperse on their knees, advancing cautiously and still admiring her, impressed by the solemnity of the scene.
Lucy, in the saddle, stroked her mount's neck once more. Then she gently turned the reins, and the horse obeyed immediately, advancing at a leisurely pace down the main street.
The sound of hooves on the stones gradually faded as the sun rose, bathing the facades of the awakening village in its golden light.
As they walked through the streets of the town, Father Elías—in his transformed form as a horse—felt the beat of his own hooves resonate within him like a heartbeat. Each footstep was a reminder of the earth, of weight, and of service. And yet, in the midst of that new nature, his mind remained awake, luminous, running through thoughts he hadn't fully understood before.
"What am I now?" he asked himself. "A man reduced to a beast, or a beast elevated by the will of God?"
Lucy's silence on his back seemed like an answer. She didn't need to speak: her breathing, her balance, her hand that occasionally brushed and caressed his neck were enough to remind him that service is not always humiliation, and that dominion, when born of love, does not oppress, but commands.
"I have taught so much about the soul and the body, and yet I have never felt so clearly what it is to be an instrument of good," he thought.
"Perhaps being a priest is not only speaking from the altar, but also learning from the ground... where the humble and the faithful tread."
Father Elías's senses—now more acute—perceived the world with a clarity that was new to him: the fresh morning air, the scent of the flowers hanging in the windows, the sound of children laughing in the distance. Everything spoke to him of life, of divine presence in everyday life.
"Perhaps this is also grace," he concluded silently. "Perhaps God allows me to serve in this way, to understand what I couldn't see before..."
Lucy felt him take a deep breath and, without looking back, said in a low voice, almost as if she had heard his thoughts:
"Understanding comes when pride is silenced."
And Father Elías, in his horse form, bowed his head slightly, accepting.
Father Elías continued forward, guided by Lucy's firm hands. Each movement of the reins was a new language he learned to understand, a code of balance and trust. He no longer felt ashamed of his condition; there was a serenity within him he had never experienced before.
"All my life I have believed I was teaching the path of obedience," he thought. "But only now do I understand what it means to give oneself completely, without resistance, without calculation. To serve is not to lower oneself, it is to become one with the purpose of the one who leads you."
The sound of hooves on the stones became a prayer. Each beat against the ground said, "I am here," "I continue to learn," "I trust." And in that rhythm he found a new peace, a humility that was not submission, but clarity.
"The soul," he reflected, "is like a horse seeking its rider: it needs a will to guide it, a reason to direct it, a love to sustain it. But when that love is pure, there is no weight, no yoke. There is communion."
Then he felt Lucy's hand on his neck. It was a gentle touch, but full of authority. And he understood that this touch represented something more: the guidance of the spirit over the flesh, the divine direction one must accept so as not to get lost.
"She doesn't dominate me," he thought, "she teaches me. She doesn't submit me, she commands me. Because only those who learn to follow can, one day, lead with justice."
The dawn air brought him the aroma of freshly baked bread and the murmur of church bells, calling the people to the dawn. He felt the weight of time then, the call of his duty, but no longer as a burden, but as a promise.
"Perhaps this is what I always preached without understanding it: the mystery of serving and being guided. God also speaks to us from the reins, from the ground, from the silence."
Lucy leaned forward slightly and murmured, in a calm tone:
"You still think like a priest, but now you listen like a disciple."
Father Elías felt his heart fill with gratitude. He didn't need to respond; her firm step was her prayer, her obedience was her answer.
And so they continued moving forward, she leading serenely and he learning in silence, until the village was left behind and only the sound of the wind, the rustling of the leaves, and the mysterious dialogue between the soul and its guide remained.
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Lucy (11)
The road stretched out before him, bathed in the golden light of dawn. The air was fresh, and in his chest—human in soul, but animal in form—beat a peace he had never known.
"I have sought God in temples," he thought, "in prayers, in rituals... and now I find him here, in the dust of the road, in the breeze that touches my skin, in the voice of the one who guides me. Perhaps faith is not a temple, but a journey; not a word, but a silent act of surrender."
He recalled the years when he preached from the pulpit, speaking of duty, sacrifice, and humility. "But my humility was theoretical," he told himself, "it was born not of the heart, but of habit."
Now, however, he understood that true service does not demand recognition, but understanding. It is not renunciation: it is fulfillment.
Lucy maintained constant control, and the touch of her hands on the reins was for him like the pulse of a divine presence. In that touch, he found the very image of God: firm, yet compassionate; demanding, yet just.
"Such is the Creator," he thought, "He guides without crushing, He directs without imposing. His reins do not enslave: they orient. His commands do not wound: they awaken."
The sound of his hooves on the earth seemed like a psalm to him, and he understood that each of us is, in our own way, an instrument in the hands of love: sometimes a rider, sometimes a mount, but always part of the same work.
"Serving does not lower me," he mused, "it brings me closer to the mystery. Dominating does not elevate me; it makes me responsible. God's will is not imposed, it is shared. Perhaps that is why I am here: to understand that even in obedience there is freedom, and in guidance, humility."
Lucy turned her face toward the horizon, and her silhouette against the light seemed like that of an ancient figure, as if from a sacred story.
Elías felt a warm tear flow through his interior, a painless tear.
"Thank you, Lord," he thought, "because in this silence you have spoken to me more clearly than in all my sermons. I have learned that faith is not preached: it is lived, step by step, breathing in time with one who leads with love."
And so, with a renewed soul, Father Elías continued his walk, while the sun rose, illuminating the path as if heaven itself were blessing his new understanding.
They finally arrived at Lucy's house. The road, now bathed in the clear light of day, had become silent, as if even the wind awaited what was about to happen.
Lucy pushed the door with the toe of her boot, and it slowly opened, letting in the scent of wood and fresh earth. With a sure step, she led her mount to the barn. The place was lit by shafts of light that filtered through the cracks in the ceiling, creating golden sparkles that danced in the dusty air.
There, in the middle of the barn, Lucy dismounted. She stood for a moment in silence, one hand on the reins, the other tenderly stroking the neck of her faithful companion.
"You have learned, Father Elias," she said with a calmness that bordered on the sacred. "And when you learn, the form no longer matters."
Then she clicked her tongue, the same sound that had started it all: a soft tsk, full of ancient power. The atmosphere vibrated, as if the air recognized that word.
The dawn light condensed around the horse's body; the glow enveloped it completely, and little by little the forms transformed. The skin became human, the hands opened, the eyes regained their conscious gaze. When the glow dissipated, Father Elias was kneeling on the barn floor, breathing deeply, with the serene expression of someone who has endured a mystery and emerged renewed.
Lucy watched him, calm, a smile barely visible.
"The road was long, but now you understand," she said. "The one who leads and the one who serves are no different: both walk toward the same destination, each in their own time."
Elias looked up at her, and his eyes held gratitude.
"I have understood," he whispered. "And what I understood... I will never be able to forget."
Lucy nodded, saying nothing more. A ray of light entered through a crack in the ceiling and illuminated them both. The air smelled of peace, of living earth, of restored faith.
Father Elias, moved by what he had experienced, remained on his knees—not out of obligation, but because of the emotion that overwhelmed him.
He looked at Lucy with deep gratitude, kissed her boots, and said with a trembling voice:
"My child, thank you for showing me the boundary between the divine and the human. Sometimes the soul needs to be humbled to remember that all greatness is born of service."
Lucy looked at him tenderly, bowed slightly, and replied:
"Father, there is no humiliation in serving, nor sin in learning from the bottom."
The silence of the barn was filled with a new peace, as if they had both understood that faith can also gallop between the flesh and the spirit.
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Lucy (12)
Lucy ordered the priest to stand.
He obeyed, still moved by the serenity of her voice. She took his hand—firmly, but not harshly—and led him out of the barn. The midday light fell slantingly across the yard, gilding the dust floating in the air.
"Give my sister comfort and advice," Lucy told him with a mixture of authority and tenderness. "Her husband is cheating on her."
Father Elias nodded silently. He followed her into the house, where a tired-faced woman was waiting for them. Lucy looked at her affectionately, stroked her shoulder, and added:
"I'll get ready and go to church. I'll meet you there, little sister."
Then she looked at the priest, her eyes filled with a confidence that transcended what she had said:
"Thank you for coming, Father Elias."
The priest bowed his head, understanding that this call had been more than a pastoral appointment: it was part of a test that had led him to know the deepest paths of obedience, faith, and the human soul.
As Lucy walked away, Father Elías felt something in him had been definitively transformed; his gaze followed her steady steps, knowing that behind that young woman lay a force that not even the pulpit could contain.
Lucy's sister sat by the window, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes swollen from crying. Father Elías paused for a few seconds before speaking to her; his soul, still impregnated by the strange experience, sensed in her a pain that went beyond betrayal.
"My child," he said gently, "sometimes human love breaks not because it has been false, but because one of the two loses their own path."
She looked at him without responding, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
"It hurts," he continued, "but not everything that hurts comes to destroy us. Sometimes suffering opens our eyes to see what we didn't understand before."
"And what should I do, Father?" she asked, her voice breaking.
The priest sat down in front of her, took her hands respectfully, and replied:
"Do not let deception extinguish your light. Do not stoop to resentment or lock yourself away in sadness. Look around you: you have a sister who loves you, and a God who never abandons those who trust in Him."
She nodded slowly, as if each word were a firm stone on which she could stand again.
"Forgiveness is not forgetting," Father Elias added, "it is deciding that pain will not have the last word."
Then Lucy's sister smiled for the first time in days. The priest sensed that something had lightened within her, as if an invisible burden were beginning to fade.
As he left, Father Elias looked up at the sky. The sun filtering through the clouds reminded him of Lucy's voice, which had guided him in his own learning. "Sometimes I am a rider, sometimes I am a horse," he thought. "But I must always serve love."
And with that certainty, he set off toward the church.
Father Elias listened to Lucy's sister:
"Father Elias, Father Elias, wait for me. I want to go to the house of God, but I may need your shoulders to get there. Please hold me while I go to Him."
Father Elias stopped and looked at her tenderly. There was a mixture of faith and fragility in Lucy's sister's voice that moved him deeply. That request was not only physical, but also of the soul: she asked not only for support to walk, but for support to believe again.
"Lean on me, daughter," he said, stretching out his arms.
She clung timidly to his shoulders, and together they began to walk along the dirt path that led to the church. The father felt the light weight of her body, but also the invisible burden of her sadness. Each step was an act of trust.
"The path to the house of God," the father murmured, "is not always walked with the feet. Sometimes it is reached with tears, with silence, or with the help of another heart."
She nodded without speaking. The breeze lifted the dust from the path, and in the distance the bells calling to Mass could be heard.
"Thank you, Father," she whispered finally. "Feeling you holding me... it's as if God Himself were holding me."
Father Elías smiled.
"Perhaps it is He who holds us both," he responded softly.
They walked until the church doors opened before them. Upon arriving, she slowly released her hold on his shoulders and, still unsteady on her steps, entered the temple to go to where Lucy was waiting for her with her family. The priest observed her for a few seconds and understood that this wounded soul had taken her first step toward healing.
Inwardly, Elijah offered a silent prayer:
"Lord, may my shoulders always be a bridge, not a throne; a place of rest, not of dominion. May whoever leans on me find Your strength."
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Lucy (13)
The Mass was emotional; in the end, both sisters stayed behind because Lucy's sister couldn't walk.
Luciana approached and said to Lucy: "Don't be impatient. Your sister hasn't left her house for several days, hasn't walked, and her muscles have weakened. She can't walk, and she needs a ride."
Lucy went to find Father Elías without a word and walked down the church's center aisle. Her boots tapped softly on the stone floor, the echo filling the sacred silence that had remained after the Mass. The evening light, filtering through the stained-glass windows, tinged his skin with golden hues and his eyes with a serene warmth.
She found Father Elías near the altar, slowly picking up the missal. When he saw her approach, he bowed his head.
"Was the Mass to your liking, daughter?" he asked in a gentle voice.
Lucy took a deep breath.
"Yes, Father." But my sister... she can't walk. She's been locked up for many days, and her body has weakened. Luciana says someone must carry her.
Father Elías was silent for a few seconds. His gaze rested on the open door of the temple, where the wind gently stirred the veils of the images. Then he nodded.
"Then let me be her horse, as I was once your horse," he said with a serene smile, almost humble, but full of meaning.
Lucy watched him closely. A mixture of gratitude and reverence shone in her eyes. Then, with a slight nod, she replied:
"God will reward you, Father. My sister is waiting for you."
The priest arranged and put everything away, then walked to the back of the temple, where Lucy's sister was waiting, accompanied by Luciana. Seeing him, the sick woman tried to get up, but her legs trembled.
"Don't strain yourself," the father said gently. "Let me carry you."
Father Elias bent slowly and, with Lucy's consent, helped the sick sister climb onto his shoulders. The young woman, weak, placed her hands on the priest's head with a trembling sigh.
Lucy watched in silence, and for a moment, a deep emotion coursed through her. That scene—the priest being ridden by her sister—seemed to her to be the purest expression of love she had seen in a long time. The light from the church, entering through the stained-glass windows, drew colorful figures on the floor that seemed to bless the scene.
Father Elias straightened with effort, feeling the light but sacred weight of this woman who now trusted in his strength.
"Do not fear," he said in a serene voice. "Every step we take will be a prayer."
Thus, he began to advance slowly down the center aisle. The echo of his footsteps mingled with their slow breathing filled the church with an almost liturgical cadence. Lucy walked behind, silent, hands clasped and her gaze lowered.
Father Elias walked slowly toward the exit, carrying Lucy's sister as if carrying a precious soul. She, with tears in her eyes, murmured:
"Father, you are carrying me again... but this time toward the light."
The priest smiled.
"It must be so, daughter. We all need someone to carry us when our souls grow weary."
In that humble gesture, Father Elias understood the true meaning of service: to carry those who cannot move forward, to lift up those who have fallen.
Every step was a symbol; every breath, a living prayer.
When they reached the atrium, the breeze gently moved Lucy's sister's veil. She smiled faintly and whispered:
"Thank you, Father... you are carrying me as if you were carrying my soul."
He responded without pausing:
"That is what we are to each other: shoulders on God's path."
Lucy, hearing him, felt something deep settle in her chest, a mixture of gratitude and revelation. He knew then that that journey, from dawn until that moment, had been a lesson in faith, love, and humility.
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Lucy (14)
As they approached the gate, Lucy gently raised her hand. A faint golden light shone in her palm, barely perceptible, like a reflection of the setting sun. She murmured some ancient words, the kind spoken not with the voice but with the soul.
The air seemed to ripple around her, and a luminous illusion enveloped the scene. To the eyes of the villagers outside, what they saw was a sick woman riding serenely on a horse that advanced nobly. But in the hidden truth—the truth of the spirit—it was Father Elias who carried Lucy's sister on his shoulders, with the same dignity with which a shepherd carries a wounded sheep.
Lucy watched the spell unfold and nodded silently. It wasn't a lie, but a way of protecting the faith of those who were not yet ready to see the mysteries of the soul.
"Sometimes," she whispered, "the truth needs a veil to be understood."
Luciana, who also holds the power, watched with her arms crossed and a soft smile. The golden mist of the spell still hung in the air as her bright, wise eyes rested on Lucy.
"Thank you," she said in a low, but meaningful voice. "Thank you for protecting Father Elias. Others wouldn't understand what's really happening."
Lucy nodded wordlessly. Her gaze returned the same understanding: they both knew that some acts of faith and service were too profound to be exposed unveiled.
Father Elias didn't see the illusion, but he felt its effect: a slight lightening of his burden, as if invisible hands were helping him bear the weight. He understood then that this act was not his own, but of the Love working through him. Moreover, as he was carried on shoulders, he felt a strange vibration beneath his feet, a rhythmic, steady sound, like the tapping of an invisible horse's hooves. He looked down and saw his human feet on the ground... but the echo persisted as he continued forward, resonating from the depths of his being.
Before he reached home, the evening air was filled with laughter and children's voices.
Lucy's sister's children, a bright-eyed boy and girl, ran down the path when they saw their mother's figure approaching.
"Mom!" they cried, waving their hands. "Mom's back! Mom's a rider just like Aunt Lucy!"
Luciana, walking a few steps behind, smiled at the purity of their joy. The illusion Lucy had woven still shone like a veil of light, revealing to the little ones' eyes their mother on a noble and calm horse.
The children approached, admiring the glow of the spell without fully understanding it. The girl, with the curiosity that only children possess, looked at Lucy with wide eyes:
"Aunt Lucy... is that horse a real horse... or a man who became a horse for you?"
Lucy bent down to their level and gently stroked their hair.
"Sometimes," she replied in a melodious voice, "men and horses help each other. Some teach us to run without fear, others to stop and listen. The important thing is not what they are... but what they learn from being together."
The children looked at each other and smiled, as if they had understood more than they seemed. Then they hugged their mother, who wept silently, feeling that the spell had protected not only her image, but also her hope.
Father Elías, still under the illusory veil, listened to everything. And inside him, a deep peace ignited: the children's innocence had put into simple words what had taken him a lifetime to understand.
Lucy looked at them all sweetly.
"Let's go home," she said finally. "The journey has been long, but today we have all returned."
They continued walking in silence until they reached the house. When the gate closed behind them, the children went to play elsewhere, the glow dissipated, and Father Elias knelt for a moment so Lucy's sister could get out.
Lucy smiled calmly.
"The people saw what they were meant to see," she said. "God, on the other hand, saw what was meant to be."
When Father Elias, Lucy, and Luciana were alone together, Father Elias confessed:
"I heard hooves... inside me?"
The sound came not from the ground, but from his heart, which beat with the cadence of a sacred gallop. He understood then that something of that transformation remained within him: not his form, but his spirit.
Luciana looked tenderly at Father Elías, recognizing the mixture of bewilderment and revelation on his face.
"Don't be afraid, Father," she said calmly. "Sometimes, what God transforms in us doesn't disappear... it just changes places."
Lucy placed a hand on the priest's shoulder and added:
"You no longer carry anyone on your shoulders, Father Elías. Now you carry within you the strength you learned by doing so."
The sound of hooves faded, leaving only the pulse of the priest's heart, steady, steady, grateful. And in that silence, she knew that faith could also gallop.
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Lucy (15)
The silence in the room was serene. Lucy spoke softly to Father Elías, her hand resting on his shoulder in a gesture of guidance and gratitude. The conversation revolved around faith, forgiveness, and the mysteries of the soul.
Suddenly, the door opened forcefully. Lucy's sister's young son came running in, his face flushed with curiosity.
He stopped when he saw them and, with the ease of someone unfamiliar with the weight of words, asked:
"Aunt Lucy... are you going to ride him?"
The silence was filled with contained surprise, and then a smile spread across Lucy's face. She crouched down to the boy's level and replied sweetly:
"No, little one. He has already been ridden on the path of the soul, and I only ride him so he doesn't get lost."
The boy frowned thoughtfully, trying to understand.
"So he also teaches how to walk?"
Lucy nodded, caressing his cheek.
"That's right. Sometimes you lead, and sometimes you are led. That's also riding, but from the heart."
Father Elías watched the scene in silence, moved by the wisdom of the simple words. And he understood that, in that home, the faith was taught with tenderness and vivid metaphors, not with sermons.
The boy smiled, satisfied with the answer, and ran off again, leaving the echo of his laughter behind. Lucy and the priest looked at each other, both with a new serenity, knowing that even innocent questions can reveal the deepest paths of the spirit.
Lucy and Father Elías remained silent for a few moments after the boy ran off. The air seemed lighter, as if innocence had purified the atmosphere.
Then, from the doorway, Luciana's voice was heard. She had been observing the scene in silence, with a calm smile and a gaze ignited by the wisdom of one who has learned to read the invisible signs of the soul.
"Children are pure souls," she said serenely. "Their language is simple, yet powerful. They reason not with their minds, but with their hearts... that's why they touch the truth without hurting it."
Father Elías nodded slowly, still moved.
"Yes," he replied in a low voice. "In their words, there is something that isn't studied, it's received. Like a revelation."
Lucy looked at Luciana and smiled.
"You always knew how to listen to the wisdom of children. Perhaps that's why they trust you so much."
Luciana walked up to them and placed a hand on Lucy's shoulder.
"It's not me they trust," she said, "but the light you awaken around them."
Silence returned to the room, but it was no longer empty: it was filled with understanding, faith, and the certainty that miracles—true ones—are sometimes pronounced in children's voices.
Father Elías said goodbye by kissing Lucy and Luciana's boots, still moved by what had happened and the strange symbolic weight that seemed to accompany it. As he stepped outside, the fresh evening air enveloped him. He walked a few steps and then saw her: Diana coming toward him, smiling and radiant, riding on the shoulders of her husband.
The man advanced with a firm step, proudly holding his wife, while she, upright and serene, guided him with the ease of someone who trusts completely. The scene had a mixture of tenderness and authority, a harmony that contrasted with the priest's inner turmoil.
Diana greeted them with a nod and a slight smile.
"Father Elías," she said, "faith is also demonstrated in how we walk together, don't you think?"
The priest looked at her for a few seconds, understanding more than she had said.
"That's right, daughter," he replied calmly. "Some carry the weight of love, and others let it carry them away... The important thing is not to lose your balance."
Diana nodded, and the husband continued walking, leaving Father Elías motionless for a moment, watching them walk away. In the echo of their footsteps—and in the rhythmic tapping of the man's feet on the ground—the priest thought he heard a silent prayer: that of the soul that serves, that of the soul that guides, both intertwined by the same mystery.
==
Continues in "Diana, Her Husband, Her Stepson, and the Priest" – The Return (1)
==
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The Succubus (1)
They appeared in Mesopotamia around the 3rd millennium BC: nocturnal spirits linked to desire and sleep. Among them, Lilitu and Ardat Lili stand out, female figures who visited men at night. Within this same symbolic framework, their male counterpart, Idlu Lili, emerged, associated with attacks by sleeping women. It is no coincidence that Lilitu, the figure later identified with the succubus, is older and more persistent than her male equivalent.
In the Greco-Roman world, these entities were intertwined with tales of daemons, intermediary spirits, and erotic spirits that inhabited the boundary between the divine and the human.
It was late antique and medieval Christianity that gave them names, hierarchies, and theological frameworks. Between the 5th and 13th centuries, the Latin terms were established: succubus, from succubare, "to lie beneath," and incubus, from incubare, "to lie upon." In the medieval imagination, they weren't necessarily distinct creatures, but rather two functions of the same spirit, capable of alternating roles depending on the victim. An efficient, almost administrative, choreography.
The great leap into the European popular imagination occurred in the Middle Ages, when they became frequent visitors to the bedroom, at least in narratives. From there, they passed into the Renaissance, Romanticism, and finally, modern literature and culture.
Creatures of the threshold between sleep, desire, and fear. They were born before dictionaries existed, but they learned Latin to stay.
For centuries, they were considered responsible for sleep apnea and night paralysis, long before there was a medical language to describe the phenomenon.
The experience was almost a fixed script: waking up unable to move, an unbearable pressure on the chest, difficulty breathing, and the unmistakable sensation of a presence. For the medieval imagination, there was no doubt. Something lay above or below the dreamer, stealing their breath. The incubus explained the oppression; The succubus, desire mingled with terror.
It is no coincidence that in many European languages, folklore speaks of the nocturnal "burden." The demon sitting on the chest, the witch who perches, the spirit that rides the sleep. Apnea and paralysis were interpreted as attacks, not as physiological dysfunctions.
Modern science dismantled the demonological narrative, but it could not erase the experience. The body continues to tell the story with the same sensory language: immobility, suffocation, presence. The names have changed; the threshold between sleep, fear, and desire remains the same.
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The Succubus (2)
Seated, riding upon his chest, the succubus was desire when it hurt and terror when it weighed him down; the spirit that rode sleep and stifled his breath. She was the rider who drove. The dreamer, her horse, obeyed in a dark shudder, unable to resist the inevitable.
Therefore, in the night, the dreamer did not flee from her: he desired her. And in the silence of sleep, he sought her, even knowing what it entailed: to be animalized and ridden by her, not out of ignorance or deception, but through a tragic consent.
Thus, in the middle of the night, the dreamer encountered the succubus within his dream. It didn't matter who lay beside him: it could be a man alone, or someone sleeping with his wife while their children breathed nearby. That suspended instant belonged to no one else. It was only his and the succubus's.
The succubus had hair as dark as pitch-black night, long and thick, falling in silent waves down her back, as if the shadow itself had learned to comb it. Her skin, a deep amber hue, seemed to absorb the light more than reflect it. Long, heavy eyelashes framed eyes lined with ancient precision, eyes that didn't sparkle, but rather observed, attentive, as if they had known the dreamer since before his birth. Her lips were red, not from excess but from destiny, and that same red rose softly to her cheeks, giving her an air of intense, almost dangerous, life.
She was taller than him. When they stood, the dreamer's head barely reached her lips, and that difference in height didn't need to be emphasized: it imposed itself, like a physical law. Her body was sculpted, not through exaggeration but through proportion. Full, firm breasts, a narrow waist, wide hips that opened naturally, rounded buttocks, and powerful thighs formed a perfect geometry, an architecture designed to be gazed upon and remembered.
She wore a dress the color of a moonless night, clinging to her body like a second skin, woven to suggest more than it revealed. Her legs were encased in dark stockings that rose and disappeared beneath the fabric, elegantly highlighting the strength of her thighs. On her feet, she wore high-heeled boots, black and shiny, reaching up to her knees, with heels that seemed made not for walking but for asserting presence. Every inch of those boots spoke of silent dominance, of stability, of weight.
She didn't need to move much. It was enough that she was there. The succubus didn't pursue: she allowed herself to be found. And in its stillness, the dream understood who was in control.
He shuddered when she asserted her presence over him, imposing herself with the precise weight of her high heels, dominating him without haste, without effort. It wasn't violence or surprise: it was control. She guided the dream, and within the dream, everything obeyed her lead.
Suddenly, he felt he was back in his bed, lying on his back, his gaze fixed on a sky that was no longer the sky of the room, but the sky of the dream. Above him, the succubus stood, asserting her presence with the soles of her boots and the firm base of her high heels pressed against his chest, as if marking territory on an invisible map. Each step was slow, measured, inevitable.
She spoke without raising her voice, and yet each word weighed more than her body: "Don't try to scream. You won't succeed. Nor will you be able to move. I am guiding this dream, and I have decided that you must remain still. I grant you only your breath. Do it."
He obeyed. He inhaled deeply, not out of fear but out of acceptance, as he gazed at her standing erect above him. In that instant, he understood that he was not trapped by force, but held by his will. She guided the dream, and within it, everything followed her rhythm.
She did not bend down nor withdraw the weight of her presence from him. From that serene height, she spoke like someone opening an ancient book in the midst of sleep.
She explained that to possess was not merely to have. That it came from possidere, to sit upon something, to occupy a place until it becomes one's own. To remain. To inhabit with intention. It was not a sudden impulse or violence, but a deliberate presence. The primary meaning lay not in force, but in conscious occupation, in the act of staying.
As she spoke, the dreamer understood that those words weren't meant to instruct him, but to name him. The dream took shape around that definition, as if language itself were adapting to his breathing.
Then she concluded, without raising her voice, with a clarity that brooked no argument: "I possess you."
And the dream, upon hearing it, accepted the form those words gave it.
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The Succubus (3)
He admired her as the succubus stood and slowly advanced over him, as if he and sleep were a ground only she knew. Then he felt his wife's breathing nearby and sensed the slight movement of her body as she sat up, a sign of the waking world trying to break through.
The succubus noticed him before he could react. She smiled, not mockingly but with certainty, and placed a foot firmly and precisely on his face, just enough to remind him not to get up. It wasn't a gesture of violence, but of restraint. The exact boundary between two realities.
The dreamer's body obeyed the dream. Outside, the night remained untouched. Inside, she was still driving.
Leaning on one elbow, the wife seemed to watch the scene. Her eyes, still veiled by sleep, opened only slightly, as if looking through an intermediate layer between wakefulness and the deep night. There was no scream, no word, only an expectant stillness, a gaze that couldn't quite decide if what it beheld belonged to the real world or the uncertain realm of other people's dreams.
The succubus didn't move. She remained there, erect, confident, like a figure unafraid of being observed because she doesn't entirely belong to that plane. Her presence remained unchanged. The moment hung suspended, dense, heavy with a question no one dared ask.
Then, sleep closed in on the bedroom again, as if it had never opened.
The succubus spoke to the dreamer without raising her voice, as if she didn't need to assert herself because she was already inscribed within him.
She told him that since time immemorial she had been the mistress of men's dreams. That long before temples and creeds, more than five thousand years ago, she had been named for the first time in Mesopotamia, when civilization was still learning to write its fear and desire in clay. There she had received a name and a purpose, not as punishment, but as a presence.
She explained that the priests claimed she was a demon, but that the word didn't describe her. It couldn't. Demons and angels, she said, were asexual, beings of command and obedience. Not her. She belonged to another lineage, one older and closer to the body, to sleep, and to breath. She hadn't been created to serve or to tempt, but to inhabit.
As she spoke, the dreamer understood that he wasn't listening to a justification, but to a genealogy. She wasn't asking to be believed. She was simply reminding him who she was.
Suddenly, he was no longer in the room, but walking along a path opened up between vast, silent landscapes, gentle hills, and skies that seemed designed to never end. He moved forward without knowing where he was going, with the certainty that the path existed before his steps.
The succubus wasn't walking beside him. She was above him, perched high, as if the dreamer's shoulders had always been the place destined for her weight. Between them, the dream had placed a saddle, a precise order. She rested her feet in the stirrups and guided the course with gestures of the reins, whip, and spurs, with signals that needed no force to be understood. Everything about him responded.
She laughed softly, a clear laugh that didn't disrupt the landscape, but rather confirmed it. And she said, with the naturalness of one who states an ancient truth: "I am sitting above you. I possess you."
The path continued. He and the dream, docile, followed the path she marked.
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The Succubus (4)
Suddenly, a jolt jolted him from sleep. He opened his eyes with a start and found his wife sitting up beside him. She spoke in a low voice, still heavy with the night.
She said that a powerful woman had been walking on him, that he had felt the precise weight of high heels and the firm soles of boots pressing against his chest, as if someone had marked her presence without leaving a visible trace.
He looked at her calmly and answered slowly, trying to envelop her once more in the certainty of the waking world. He told her that the doors were locked, that no one could enter or leave without them both noticing. That she should rest. That it had only been a dream.
She nodded, still halfway between two realities. She lay back down. The room regained its silence. And so, lulled by the regular breathing of the night, they both fell back into a deep sleep, as sleep closed its doors as if they had never opened.
Then he heard a noise coming from his son's bedroom, a young teenager, that uncertain age when desire begins to organize itself and, at the same time, generate conflict. The stage when dreams become more intense, denser, and no longer seem to belong entirely to the one who sleeps.
He got up and walked down the hall, guided by a disquiet he couldn't name. As he opened the door, sleep returned to him an impossible image: the succubus was there, standing, asserting her presence on the chest of the sleeping boy, as if his son's sleep had been claimed by an ancient law.
She turned her face. She saw him without surprise and smiled, a calm, almost pedagogical smile. Then she spoke, in a voice that didn't seem to disturb the young man's rest: "He's dreaming about me right now."
There was no threat or challenge in her words. Only an observation. The father understood, with a silent shudder, that there were thresholds that were not crossed and inheritances that were not passed on with words. The dream continued its course. And she, once again, was driving.
She barely inclined her head and asked him, with an ancient, almost serene curiosity: "Are you jealous?"
He looked at her silently. There was no anger or reproach on his face, only a slow understanding, as if he had just acknowledged a law that had always been there. Then he smiled, not with joy, but with acceptance.
The succubus held his gaze for another moment and added, gently, as if stating the obvious: "You shouldn't feel them."
The boy remained asleep. The room remained untouched. And in that exchange of glances, the father understood that dreams don't obey ownership, but time.
He asked, almost in a whisper, as if afraid of disturbing the invisible order: "What is my son dreaming?"
The answer didn't come in words. The world shifted.
Suddenly he found himself in the stands of an immense racetrack, bathed in an unreal light. The stands were full, but there was no noise. On the track, not horses awaited, but men, poised and expectant, positioned like living mounts. Above each one stood an imposing, confident woman, guiding with absolute naturalness, as if this order needed no explanation.
The starting gun sounded.
The race began with a restrained, powerful momentum. From the start, the succubus took the lead, precisely guiding the young man whom he immediately recognized as his son. There was no violence or chaos, only direction, rhythm, and a clear will that set the pace. The others followed, but none managed to catch her.
The track stretched out like an inevitable destination. Upon crossing the finish line, she was the one who arrived first.
From the stands, the father understood that he was not witnessing a competition, but a rite. Not a victory over others, but his son's entry into an ancient realm, where dreams take shape, desires are formed, and someone, always someone, leads the way.
The vision faded without applause. And silence returned to fill everything.
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The Succubus (5)
The father felt darkness envelop him completely. It wasn't a hostile shadow, but a dense absence, as if everything else had been deliberately removed. He found himself alone, isolated, devoid of any shelter. From that void, he could see only one scene.
She advanced in the distance, riding on the shoulders of her human horse, straight, erect, and serene. Victory enveloped her, but not as a personal trophy. It wasn't a solitary triumph. The father understood then that the feat didn't belong only to the one who rode and led, but also to the one who was ridden and kept pace. The horse had given its best, not out of obligation, but out of surrender to her and to the rhythm she set.
The figure receded without looking back, silhouetted against a horizon that no longer belonged to the dreamer. From that distance, the father understood that not every triumph is observed from close up, and that there are times when the task of the observer is not to intervene, but to recognize.
The glorious image receded, and darkness remained, enveloping him completely this time. And within it, the silent certainty that the journey was already underway.
Suddenly, the father found himself back in his son's bedroom. The young man lay on his back, breathing with the deep calm of sleep. Above him, the succubus stood imposing and victorious, firmly planted on his chest as if that place belonged to her by ancient right.
She turned to the dreamer and spoke with serene clarity, without a trace of ostentatious triumph, as if explaining the inevitable: "You have just seen what your son was dreaming at that very moment. What you saw was not a borrowed vision nor a warning, but a granted glimpse. We will meet again, not now, not on this threshold, because your wife is already waking you to call you back to the waking world, where the labors of the day and the laws of ordinary time await you."
The room began to blur. The weight of sleep gently lifted. And as the night closed its final images, he understood that not every encounter ends with a goodbye, and that some returns only change form.
He opened his eyes again and found his wife leaning over him, waking him with the simple light of morning. He smiled, still with traces of sleep in his eyes, and told her he would go and wake their son.
He crossed the hall and pushed open the bedroom door. The boy was asleep on his back, breathing regularly. An impossible and imposing presence loomed over his chest: the succubus, the soles of her boots and the bases of her high heels, pressed precisely against his chest, marking a slow, almost ceremonial rhythm, as if sleep hadn't quite yielded yet.
The succubus moved across her son's chest with measured, elegant steps. Then she turned her torso slightly, just enough to look at the boy's father, and spoke with a faint smile, without urgency, without challenge: "Just a little while longer."
The father understood that waking doesn't always happen suddenly. He closed the door carefully. Outside, day was already reclaiming its place. Inside, sleep was finishing its retreat in its own time.
The father found himself back in his own bed. He opened his eyes and saw his wife leaning over him, waking him with the simple morning light that already filled the room. The day had arrived quietly, with the naturalness of the everyday. He smiled. She told him she would go wake their son.
Then, with a calm gesture, he took her hand. There was no hurry or tension in his voice when he spoke, only a warm, almost domestic calm, accompanied by a slight smile: "Just a little while longer."
She nodded without protest and settled back down beside him. Morning waited. Sleep finished receding, not like a flight, but like a tide slowly going out, leaving the shore untouched.
Meanwhile, the son continued dreaming of the succubus. In that territory that belongs neither to day nor night. She was the rider. He, her mount.
There were no words or resistance, only direction. The dream unfolded under the succubus's guidance, with a rhythm the boy couldn't yet name, but to which his body and will responded without conflict. It wasn't humiliation or punishment, but a dark apprenticeship, a primitive form of order.
Thus, as the house slowly awoke, the dream continued its silent course, oblivious to the morning, obeying its own ancient laws, where desire, fear, and the shape of the world are not yet entirely separate. And in that dream, as always, someone rode and guided: the succubus.
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The Dreamer (1)
Don Manuel went to bed when his wife was already asleep, enveloped in the tranquil breathing of the night. The room fell silent, and in that silence, his thoughts began to wander.
He longed, with an intensity that defied words, for the succubus to return to him. He imagined her standing above him, asserting her presence, and then sitting on his chest, like a figure claiming the center of sleep even before it begins. There was no real movement, only insistent images, forms that repeated themselves with the obstinacy of longing.
The desire, sustained for too long, eventually grew heavy. And so, between images and slow breaths, Don Manuel fell asleep, letting sleep decide whether that figure would cross the threshold of night once more.
In his dream, Don Manuel searched for the succubus and at first did not find her. He advanced relentlessly through landscapes that defied any known geography, crossing skies as open as vaults, motionless seas, and lands that shifted beneath his steps, as if the entire world were bending to his quest. There was no weariness, only a silent determination, as if the dream itself knew whom it pursued. Nothing seemed to stop him, but neither could anything bring him closer.
Finally, he saw her. On the wide esplanade of a medieval castle with high, silent walls, erected more as an idea than a real fortress, sprawling like a stage set outside of time.
She, the succubus, was there and dominated the place effortlessly, without needing to move. Her mere presence commanded as if space had learned to obey her, as if the air recognized an ancient authority.
Before her stood a form, a strange figure. It had a head, torso, arms, and legs, but it was neither human nor animal. It lacked recognizable features, skin, or eyes. It belonged to nothing that had ever existed in the known world. It didn't belong to any catalog of the world. It was a form, an incomplete or primordial being, something yet to be named. Its outline seemed incomplete, as if it had been conceived before names existed. It didn't breathe like the living nor remain motionless like things. It simply was. This was before her.
She observed it with quiet attention, like someone evaluating something that has been entrusted to them.
Don Manuel understood, without anyone explaining it to him, that this being was neither an enemy nor an ally, but a manifestation, another frontier of dreams. Something born from the same territory as dreams, desire, and fear. And that she, the succubus, not only channeled desires, but also positioned herself there where forms had not yet decided what to be.
From a distance, he observed and knew he had arrived at the right place. The search had ended, not because he had found an answer, but because he had entered a realm where questions were no longer necessary. He knew that this encounter required no intervention. In this place, as in all others, she remained the axis around which sleep found its order.
The succubus turned her face and saw him. In that instant, space folded in on itself, and Don Manuel found himself back in his bedroom. He did not wake up. He saw himself from the outside, watching himself sleep, as if his consciousness had taken a step back. On his chest, the figure of the succubus, standing above him, moved with a slow, almost ritualistic cadence, not as a body but as a dancing presence, marking the rhythm of sleep. Each of her gestures seemed to order the air, fix the rhythm of his breathing, assert a dominion that needed no force.
She spoke, and her voice did not break the silence, but rather completed it: "Now you can dream of me. I am above you. I have taken possession."
It was neither a threat nor a promise, but a declaration of intent. The dream closed around those words like an ancient vault. And Don Manuel, seeing himself and sleeping at the same time, understood that in that realm, possession was not capture, but permanence.
The succubus looked at him as one looks at someone on the verge of understanding something that cannot be undone. Her voice sounded neither near nor far, but precisely at the heart of the dream.
She told him that what stood before her had a humanoid form because it was incomplete. That it was neither man nor creature nor finished spirit, but a structure in waiting, a figure suspended before completion. She explained that each encounter, each passage through desire and dream, had added pieces, slowly bringing it closer to its final form.
Then she added, with a calmness that brooked no argument, that only one piece was missing. And that piece, she said, was him.
Don Manuel understood then that he wasn't being called to fight or flee, but to conform. That the dream wasn't asking for a gesture, but for acceptance. The figure before him seemed to incline imperceptibly, as if the whole world awaited that final adjustment.
The succubus didn't smile. She didn't need to. In that instant, the dream was suspended, waiting for the final form to decide to complete itself.
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