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Diana and the Priest (1)
Diana gazed at him tenderly, her voice almost a whisper, soft as the breeze that filtered through the cracks of the cabin:
“Rest now,” she said. “Someone will come to be ridden by me. Sleep while I ride.”
The boy looked at her with heavy eyes, trying to grasp the profound meaning of those words. It wasn't just a momentary farewell: it was a lesson, a promise of continuity.
She rose calmly, took her hat, and placed it on her head. Then, before leaving, she added with a smile that blended sweetness and firmness:
“When you awaken, the path will continue… but you won't be the same.”
When Diana opened the door, a gust of fresh air entered along with the silhouette of the newcomer. His bearing was firm, his gaze serene. It was Father Elias, the man who knew Lucy and Diana, and who had learned, amidst paths and silences, the meaning of serving with humility and devotion.
Diana acknowledged him with a slight nod.
"So you're the one chosen this time," she said, delicately checking the bridle and adjusting the saddle.
Father Elias replied calmly,
"Lucy told me the journey would be long, but worthwhile."
Diana smiled understandingly.
"Then I trust you," she whispered. "Not for your strength, but for the faith that guides you."
She gently took the reins. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the path before them golden.
The boy slept inside, and on the other side of the door, another spirit—more mature, quieter—was preparing to continue the journey alongside Diana.
Diana, once seated in the saddle, her feet in the stirrups, tightened the reins firmly.
She placed the bit, the sound of the metal clicking into place echoing like an ancient sound, a click that marked the beginning of a new bond: the moment when will and obedience recognized each other.
She gazed at her traveling companion—the new mount—and in her eyes there was no imposition, but understanding.
"It is not force that guides," she said softly, "but trust."
Father Elias nodded humbly, understanding that this sound, more than a sign of control, was a symbol of surrender: a silent pact between the one who leads and the one who is led.
The wind blew through the trees and stirred the veil of light that entered through the open door. Diana, upright in the saddle, and Father Elias, looked toward the horizon, as if searching for something beyond the landscape.
Father Elias advanced slowly, his steps firm but silent, almost ceremonial.
From her vantage point, she closed her eyes and felt the world quiet down beneath the measured rhythm of the horse's gait.
"Sometimes," she murmured, "those who are ridden do so not out of obedience, but out of love."
Father Elias heard these words and smiled, understanding that the journey was not only physical, but also a passage of the soul. Each step was a prayer; each breath, an answer.
Diana, whip in hand, nudged her horse; it was not punishment, but a signal. The spurs dug in, and Father Elias understood the message.
The rhythm changed: from a serene walk to a determined trot.
The wind began to caress Diana's face, and her hair rose like a living flag. Every movement of the body beneath her responded with precision and devotion, as if the soul within knew the direction before the body itself.
Diana leaned slightly forward, firmly grasping the reins.
"Further on," he whispered, "let the path reveal its purpose to us."
Father Elias quickened his pace, not out of command, but out of a shared understanding. It was as if they both heard the same secret melody that set the rhythm of their shared journey.
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Diana and the Priest (2)
In the distance, a female figure rose on the horizon, bathed in the light of the setting sun. Tall, with long, shapely legs, striking curves formed by her generous breasts, slender waist, full hips, impressive buttocks and thick thighs, and the aura of a goddess. Her silhouette radiated a presence that made the air around her bow and kneel. The sacred incarnate in a human form.
The wind played with her long, loose hair, which reflected golden and coppery tones, moving like a tranquil fire. In her gaze burned the serenity of one who understood the power of balance: pride and submission, dominance and compassion toward the men who surrounded her.
Each step she took was firm, measured, and the ground acknowledged her, happily supporting her with a mixture of respect and devotion, kissing and licking the soles and bases of her high heels as she trod upon them. The light of dusk enveloped her high-heeled boots, and the echo of each footstep sounded like an oath between earth and sky.
Diana watched her and felt a mixture of admiration and recognition. She wasn't just a woman: she was a symbol, a living force uniting earth and sky, power and compassion.
Father Elias lowered his face, moved, as if something sacred were being revealed in that presence. He didn't see just a woman, but a sacred principle manifested in human form. He felt that, in that instant, as the sun descended and the sky turned purple, the world recognized in her something greater than flesh and footsteps: a living force uniting the earthly and the divine, will and grace.
Diana, erect in the saddle and stirrups, used the reins to halt the progress of her human animal. She didn't need to speak: her mere presence was a complete language.
Father Elias stopped, bowing his head respectfully and taking a deep breath.
The figure on the horizon was slowly approaching. The light of the setting sun enveloped her, tinting her skin with a golden glow. When she was close enough, Diana recognized Luciana's face.
Luciana moved unhurriedly, but each step seemed to dictate the rhythm of the world. Her heeled boots sank lightly into the earth, and the echo of her footsteps sounded like an ancient compass, a prayer that only those who knew how to listen could understand.
The brightness of the sun fell upon her like a cloak, and her silhouette against the sky had something majestic and ancient about it. Each step she took seemed to resonate with the earth itself. Her dark hair, with copper highlights, moved freely, and the breeze played among its strands as if it recognized her.
The dust, humble, rose like a prayer, just enough, for an instant, to pay homage to Luciana; to kiss her boots and greet his Mistress. Then he would fall to the ground again as an offering, surrendered at her feet, accepting his fate: blessed to have the honor of being trodden upon by her, and to dissolve beneath her steps, by her who embodies natural and serene authority.
Diana gazed at her with restrained emotion, feeling a shudder, a mixture of respect and emotion.
"It's her," she murmured. "The one who came before, the one who opened the paths we now walk. The one who always arrives when the path becomes uncertain," she whispered.
Father Elias barely raised his gaze. In his eyes shone something between wonder and faith.
"It's as if I walk within a prayer," he said in a trembling voice. "There's no doubt... she is the one who guides even those who thought they knew the way."
Luciana stopped a few steps in front of them. Her gaze swept over Diana, then Father Elias, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall silent.
“I see the journey has been long,” she said gently. “And yet, there is still one more stretch… one that is not traveled with the feet, but with the soul.”
Luciana’s gaze, deep and serene, held centuries of understanding.
“I see you still ride without losing your balance, Diana,” she said with a slight smile. “And that your faith lies not in the reins, but in what binds them together.”
Diana nodded, moved.
“I have learned that, in addition to mastering, riding is about sustaining oneself and guiding with the soul.”
Luciana bowed her head.
“Then you understand. The strength of the one being ridden and the awareness of the one who rides and guides are not opposed: they complement each other.”
The wind blew, soft and warm, as if the entire afternoon were listening.
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Diana, Luciana, and the Priest (1)
Luciana looked at him sternly.
"Father Elias," she said firmly, "these past few days I've been preparing the young people, their families, and their godparents for the sacrament, fulfilling our duty."
Her eyes, both dark and light, seemed to weigh the weight of her words.
"And meanwhile," she continued, "what did you do with your time?"
The priest lowered his gaze, searching for an answer that didn't come.
"I was just trying to serve, to be Diana's horse," he stammered.
Luciana shook her head.
"Serving isn't about being distracted," she said calmly, but with a firmness that brooked no argument. "The first duty is to the soul, not to flattery."
The silence that followed was stronger than any punishment: it was a call to order, a reminder of why they were there. Then,
Luciana asked:
"Diana, was he a good horse?"
Diana, in the saddle and stirrups, the reins resting between her fingers, looked at Luciana.
Her voice, calm and serene, replied:
"Yes, he was a good horse. There was no stumbling or deviation; he followed the pace I indicated, obedient and steady."
Luciana nodded, her gaze softening slightly, but she didn't lose the seriousness of one who teaches with justice.
"That's good," she said. "Obedience is a start... but understanding is what transforms."
Then Luciana turned her gaze back to Father Elias:
"It's not enough to be a horse, nor to serve. The body can move forward, but if the soul doesn't accompany it, the journey is meaningless."
Father Elias bowed his head, and the brilliance of the sunset was reflected in his moist eyes.
Luciana took another step closer; Her shadow fell upon him, enveloping him like a cloak.
"You still have time to remember why you were chosen to guide," she said in a low but penetrating voice. "You can follow in her footsteps, like Diana's… but you must also leave your own."
The air grew solemn. Diana watched in silence, understanding that in this scene, not only was a transgression being corrected, but the order between the sacred, the human, and that which united them was being restored.
The wind stilled for a moment, as if even the air awaited Luciana's words.
Her voice, clear and serene, rose with the authority of one who does not need to impose herself to be obeyed:
"Father Elias is in his rightful place," she said, looking at the priest solemnly, "he is the horse ridden by Diana."
Then she looked at the woman riding the horse, her tone softening, but her gaze remaining firm.
"And you, Diana, are in your rightful place. You are the rider, riding your horse, Elias."
The silence that followed carried the weight of a revelation. Father Elias barely raised his eyes, moved, understanding that there was no humiliation in her words, but rather a command. Diana bowed her head respectfully, accepting the truth of the lesson.
Luciana continued, her voice descending like a prayer:
"In each of us, there is a role that supports the other. The one being ridden learns the value of effort; the one riding, the art of guiding without violence. And only when both fulfill their function with humility and awareness... is balance maintained."
The sun bathed the scene in a golden glow, and for a moment, everything—the field, the riders, the mount, the silences—seemed to bow before the harmony restored by Luciana's words.
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Diana, Luciana, and the Priest (2)
Luciana stood erect, her hands clasped in front of her, her figure silhouetted against the light of the setting sun.
Father Elias, kneeling before Luciana as Diana rode him, looked up at her.
"Continue serving Diana because you are her horse," Luciana said, her voice deep but compassionate. "Be ridden by her and take Diana wherever she wishes, with obedience and devotion. Obey her commands—her voice commands, the reins, the whip, and the spurs—but don't forget that you must also serve your parishioners. Every one of your actions, even this one, must be a reflection of your vocation, not its shadow."
Then she looked slowly at Diana, who remained in the saddle and stirrups, the reins in her hands. Luciana looked at her with the calm of someone who sees beyond appearances:
“And you, Diana,” she continued, “guide your horse carefully. Don’t be distracted while using the reins, the whip, and the spurs. Remember that mastery lies not in the blow, but in the intention. Every movement you make with them must be precise, measured, guided by the heart and not by impulse.”
The wind stirred up a small whirlwind of dust that dissipated at her feet, as if the countryside itself approved of her words.
Diana bowed her head in respect.
Father Elias nodded humbly.
Luciana looked at them both, and a softer tone settled in her voice:
“Now you may continue. Let each step be an act of awareness.”
Diana said:
“Luciana, if you’d like, I can release Father Elias so he can go to his church, but someone must take his place to drive me.”
Luciana replied,
"There's no one around to replace Father Elias."
Smiling, Diana said,
"Are you sure?"
Luciana raised an eyebrow, a half-smile betraying her curiosity.
The air between them seemed to hold more than just words: a subtle tension, as if the countryside itself were holding its breath.
"Are you sure?" Diana repeated, her voice a blend of sweetness and challenge.
The breeze played with the hem of her blouse, and the sunlight reflected off her sunglasses obscured the exact direction of her gaze.
Luciana crossed her arms, maintaining her commanding presence.
"Yes," she replied slowly, "I'm sure. There's no one around... who can do it like him."
Diana smiled, tilting her head slightly, a gesture full of suggestion and purpose. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, caressing the reins with her fingers, “you haven’t looked closely enough.”
Luciana met her gaze, and for a moment, something formed between the two women that was neither confrontation nor agreement, but recognition: the silent understanding between two forces that know about power, decision, and destiny.
Luciana took a step forward, so close that the sunlight reflected on her hat mingled with the light that enveloped Diana. Her voice was low, firm, and full of purpose.
“Tell me who it is,” she said gravely, “and Father Elias can return to his parish.”
Diana met her gaze. Serenity and mystery mingled on her face. The silence between them seemed to hold the answer, suspended in the air like a promise or a warning.
The wind blew softly, barely stirring the dust at their feet, as if it too awaited the answer.
Diana slowly lowered the reins, resting them on the saddle, and, without taking her eyes off Luciana, said in an almost whispered voice,
"I don't need to tell you who he is. You already know."
Luciana narrowed her eyes, and a flicker of understanding crossed her gaze. The sunlight reflected off the edges of her boots, and her shadow fell across the ground like a cloak reaching Diana's feet.
"Then," Luciana replied, without raising her voice, "if you know, and he'll know too... let him come closer."
The air grew thicker, as if the entire valley awaited this movement.
Diana smiled slightly, a small but decisive gesture, and turned her head toward the path. In the distance, a male figure was advancing, still indistinct in the golden light of the setting sun, but enough to sense that destiny, once again, was in motion.
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Luciana and the Priest (1)
As the man approached, both ladies noticed the care with which he had been prepared.
Every detail spoke of dedication: the finely adorned saddle, the stirrups adjusted precisely so that Diana could sit and rest her feet with natural elegance.
Over her shoulders rested the reins that descended from the bridle on her head, like an invisible thread connecting will and submission, the one who leads and the one who obeys, a symbol of the bond that united them and of the subtle—yet absolute—means by which she would guide the one who had the honor of riding her.
A horse mask covered her face, concealing her identity and accentuating the mystery. That form was not a disguise, but a sign: the annihilation of the self before duty, the surrender made manifest in a living image. The eyes, behind the slits, shone with a silent reverence, and the slight movement of his breath gave the mask an almost mythical appearance. The sunlight caressed the polished metal of the harness; the air, thick with solemnity, seemed to hold a silence. And in the air, one could perceive something more than order or discipline: a sacred calm, the premonition of a rite that united the three of them—Luciana, Diana, and him—under a single harmony.
In that instant, even the dust seemed to understand its role: it rose humbly, just enough to kiss Diana's boots before falling again at her feet and surrendering beneath her steps, happy to be part of the path she forged.
Then, a premonition crossed both their minds. Luciana and Diana turned at the same time, as if an invisible force had whispered the same name to them.
There stood Father Elias, observing them with a mixture of awe and reverence.
For a moment, the sunlight reflected off the mask seemed to seek her gaze, as if fate itself were revealing a secret only the eyes of the soul could understand.
Luciana observed the scene in silence for a few seconds. The mask, the gleam of the harness, the way the man knelt waiting for Diana—everything seemed to hold a deeper meaning than anyone could have imagined.
Then, with a half-smile that blended understanding and subtlety, she said,
"It would be ideal if Father Elias wore that mask in the village," she remarked calmly but with a heavy heart, "that way he could be ridden by a lady without being condemned by anyone... especially by those more Catholic than the Pope."
The air seemed to hang still for a moment, poised between irony and truth.
Diana, without taking her eyes off the masked man, smiled knowingly.
Father Elias lowered his head, unsure whether to feel relieved or singled out.
Luciana added, with a calmness that commanded respect:
“Sometimes, the purest service requires anonymity… and silence is the best cassock.”
Diana smiled, inclining her head slightly toward Luciana, with that gesture of hers that blended respect and mischief.
“Wise words, Luciana,” she said gently. “Perhaps a mask doesn’t conceal, but rather liberates. Sometimes the face of duty needs a veil to smile without guilt.”
She turned to Father Elias and added, with a knowing glint in her eyes:
“If wearing it allows you to serve without being judged, wear it with pride. After all, there is no shame in those who wear it with faith, but in those who look on without understanding.”
Luciana nodded slowly, recognizing in those words the perfect balance between tenderness and justice.
Father Elias, moved, looked up. For the first time, he felt not the burden of judgment, but the relief of being understood.
The man in the horse mask waited silently for Diana, kneeling, bowed to the light of the setting sun streaming through the doorway. His slow, steady breathing mingled with the whisper of the wind through the trees.
Diana approached him with a serene stride. Her boots clicked on the wooden floorboards, marking a rhythm that seemed ancient, almost ritualistic. When she reached him, she extended a hand, gently brushing his shoulder.
With a firm and confident gesture, Diana placed one leg across the back of her mount and, with effortless balance, climbed onto the shoulders of her human horse. The man rose slowly, supporting her with respect.
Luciana watched them in silence, understanding that this scene was one of dominance, submission, and harmony: the symbol of service that elevates and leadership that does not oppress.
At that moment, the sunlight reflected off Diana's horse mask, and it seemed as if the man and woman were one, a union of will and purpose, moving forward toward where the path awaited them.
Diana bowed her head slightly in respect.
"Luciana," she said with luminous calm, "thank you for reminding me of the balance between leading and being led."
Luciana smiled slightly, a faint gesture, enough to offer a wordless blessing. The wind stirred her hair, and the dust rose again, humble, to kiss her boots before settling back to earth.
Diana gently took the reins, adjusted the stirrups, and with a light touch of her heels, indicated the pace. The masked man responded precisely, advancing with a steady stride.
The sun was descending behind the hills, painting the sky in shades of amber and crimson. Diana's figure, upright and serene on her mount, faded into the horizon, a symbol of movement and destiny.
Luciana watched her ride off, and her lips murmured:
"Every journey is a lesson... and every soul, a story riding toward its truth."
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Luciana and the Priest (2)
Luciana lowered her gaze.
The dust, obedient to the touch of her footsteps, had risen just enough to kiss the tips and sides of her boots before falling back to the ground.
For an instant, that natural gesture seemed an act of veneration: the earth itself, humble and ancient, acknowledging the passage of one who walked with purpose.
Luciana neither smiled nor stopped; she simply bowed her head with a serenity that bordered on the sacred.
"You are not kissing me," she murmured softly, almost as if speaking to the ground, "but the duty that sustains me."
Luciana paused for a moment.
The dust still floated, swirling in golden eddies, and amidst that humble movement she saw Father Elias bow, his forehead touching the earth, and his lips, mingled with dust and devotion, brushing the edge and heel of her boots.
It wasn't a calculated act, but an impulse born of the soul—a mixture of regret and recognition. Luciana didn't back down or interrupt him; she simply looked down at him, her expression a blend of compassion and authority.
"Elias," she said in a serene, almost maternal voice, "you don't kiss my feet, but the path that calls you back to your faith."
The priest slowly raised his gaze. The dust, still suspended, blessed that moment with a soft glow, as if heaven itself approved of the gesture of one who humbles herself to rise again.
And she continued onward, leaving behind firm, orderly footprints, which the dust respectfully covered once more.
Luciana spoke without harshness, but with a clarity that cuts through the air like a sliver of light.
"Elias," she said, looking down, "tell me… do you kiss the ground and my boots because of me, because I was ridden by Diana… or because you saw her ride off with another?"
Father Elias, bowing low, remained silent. His lips trembled for a moment, as if the words wanted to escape, but the dust held them back. Finally, he murmured,
"I don't know for sure, Luciana… Perhaps for all three reasons. Perhaps because in each of them there is something that teaches me who I am."
Luciana watched him intently, without moving a muscle. Her shadow enveloped him completely, like a cloak of both understanding and judgment.
"Then understand," she said at last, "it is not the kiss that purifies, but the motive. If you kiss out of love, the ground becomes an altar. If you do it out of guilt, the dust will remind you of your fall."
Elias closed his eyes, deeply moved.
Luciana turned slowly on her heels, the gleam of her boots once again catching the light, and added before leaving,
"Learn to kiss out of love, not out of loss. Only then, Elias, will you serve again with a clean soul."
Luciana walked with a serene stride, each footstep leaving a clear imprint in the sun-kissed dust.
Behind her, Father Elias, his cassock brushing the ground, followed Diana's path, trailing behind her, his eyes never lifted, bending down again and again to kiss the marks left by her boots.
The dust, still warm from the day's heat, mingled with the priest's devotion. Each kiss was an attempt to understand, to reach the purity of the soul she embodied.
Luciana, without pausing, heard the soft sound of his lips touching the ground and said without turning her head:
"Elias… don't follow my footsteps with your lips, but with your heart."
The priest paused for a moment, deeply moved. He gazed at the trail of footprints before him, as if they were a sacred path, and murmured:
"It's because your path leads me where mine has lost its way."
Then Luciana turned slowly, her shadow once more covering him.
"Then walk," she told him. "Kiss them one last time... and stand up."
He obeyed: he kissed once more the dust marked by Diana's boot prints, then rose, his gaze serene, and followed her, this time standing, silently, learning to serve without crawling.
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Luciana and the Priest (3)
Luciana asked:
"Whose other boot prints did you kiss? What was her reaction when she caught you doing it?"
Father Elias remained motionless for a few seconds, surprised by the question. The air between them seemed to grow thicker, as if each word carried weight.
Luciana stared at him, not harshly, but with a curiosity that was also judgmental.
"Answer me, Elias," she said in a measured voice. "Whose other boot prints did you kiss?"
The priest took a deep breath. His lips trembled before he spoke.
"Diana's," he finally confessed. "I followed her after she mounted me and I saw her riding away... and the ground still held the shape of her footsteps. I did it not out of desire, but out of gratitude... for the mystery she represents."
Luciana narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms.
"And what happened when she discovered you?" “—she asked, without looking away.
Elias lowered his head, remembering the moment.
—She turned, smiled, and said nothing. She just looked at me… and lifted her foot, letting the dust fall back onto the footprint she had kissed. It was as if she were saying to me without words: “Keep going, continue kissing, kiss the dust of the one who had the joy and the honor of being trampled by me, of being beneath the soles and the heels of my high boots, of having my weight upon him, and now falls from my boots.”
Luciana watched him in silence, then said:
—Then you learned more than you think. Whoever kisses a footprint without understanding its meaning is lost; but whoever kisses it and understands why, begins to awaken.
Father Elias nodded, his eyes moist, knowing that this woman wasn't judging him: she was guiding him.
Luciana asked, her voice calm but full of authority:
—Father Elias… tell me the truth. Why did you do it? Was it devotion, guilt, or the yearning to feel worthy of what you served?
Her gaze, as deep as a starless night, held him, preventing him from escaping.
Elias hesitated. The words seemed heavier than his cassock.
"I don't know," he finally said. "Perhaps it was all of that together. When she walked away, I felt that the dust raised by her footsteps was sacred… that kissing her footprints was a way of not losing her, of remaining connected to the mystery she embodies."
Luciana took a step toward him; the light reflected off her boots like a contained flash of lightning.
"And now," she said softly, "do you follow me for the same reason? Out of devotion… or out of a quest?"
The priest looked at her, still kneeling.
"Out of revelation," he answered, his voice trembling. "Because in you, too, I recognize something that calls me to understand, to be beneath your feet, to kiss your boots." Then the priest kissed Luciana's boots, with devotion, with desperation, with submission.
Luciana barely bowed her head.
"Then stand up," she said. "Kissing the ground and boots can be an act of surrender... or an escape. Learn to discern between the two."
And as Father Elias slowly rose, the dust still trembled where his lips had touched, as if Luciana's footprints and boots held a power that not even the wind dared to erase.
Luciana watched him with that implacable calm born of certainty. The golden light of the sunset reflected off her boots, and their shadow stretched to the priest's feet, as if enveloping him in an inevitable confession.
"Elias," she said, her voice low but sharp as a blade of truth, "whose other boot prints did you kiss? And what happened next?"
The priest swallowed. The air around her grew thick, as if each word she was about to utter weighed more than the silence itself.
"From Diana," she finally answered. "Also from Lucy, from Malena, from Imelda… and from other ladies as well."
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Luciana and the Priest (4)
Luciana didn't move. Only a slight blink revealed that the answer had reached the depths of her being.
Elias continued, his voice breaking with guilt and a devotion he couldn't name.
"Then… they, the ladies, saw me. They didn't reprimand me. They didn't speak to me. They only looked at me. And in those looks, I felt more power than in any sermon or punishment. It wasn't mockery or forgiveness, it was something different… as if they knew that this gesture wasn't undignified, but inevitable."
Luciana took a step closer. The sound of her heels on the ground marked the solemn rhythm of the moment.
"Then," she said, "you kissed the ground and their boots, the ladies' boots, for them, the ladies, and for what they represented."
Elias looked up, his eyes moist.
"Yes, Mistress," he whispered. "Because beneath their steps and their weight, I recognized the power that governs without saying a word."
Luciana nodded slowly.
“May the dust have taught you what your eyes refused to see,” she said gravely. “But remember, Elias: kissing footprints and boots is an act of faith only if you know to whom the path she walks belongs, because you are the path she walks.”
And the wind, stirring the hem of her clothing, also bowed to that pronouncement.
Luciana spoke calmly, but her tone vibrated with a truth that needed no defense:
“Diana’s husband and stepson kiss her boots,” she said slowly, “because they both love her.”
The wind seemed to still, as if the words carried their own weight. Elias slowly raised his face, trying to understand if there was reproach or understanding in that statement.
Luciana continued, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the dust still swirled in Diana’s wake:
“One loves her because one chose her, because in her one found a destiny that transcends oneself.” The other loves her because he discovered her, because in her presence he understood what it is to desire with reverence.
He crossed his arms over his chest and added with almost sacred gravity:
“And neither of us is wrong. Love, when it is true, does not compete: it gives itself. But giving without understanding becomes servitude; therefore, whoever loves must also learn to rise, not only to kneel.”
Then he looked at Elias, with a mixture of compassion and warning.
“You too have kissed the dust of Diana’s footsteps, haven’t you? Perhaps because you feel for her a man’s love, and a love of faith. But don’t forget, Father: the soul that bows too low before beauty risks confusing the Goddess with the altar.”
Timidly, Father Elias asked:
“Does the soul that bows too low before beauty risk confusing the Goddess with the altar?”
Luciana gazed at him silently for a few seconds, her expression oscillating between tenderness and gravity.
Then she nodded slowly.
“Yes, Elias,” she replied in a low voice, as if imparting a lesson rather than offering a correction. “When the soul prostrates itself before beauty without understanding its purpose, it ceases to rise toward the divine and remains worshipping form.”
She took a few steps, the dust rising just enough to kiss her boots before falling gently back to her feet.
“Beauty,” she continued, “is a reflection of the Creator, not the Creator himself. It is meant to inspire, not to enslave. Whoever kneels before it must do so with gratitude, not with possessiveness.”
Her eyes softened for a moment, and she added,
“Diana, Lucy, even I… we are all different mirrors of that light. Each person who looks at us must see beyond the brilliance, or they will be blinded, believing the flame is theirs.”
Then, almost a whisper carried by the wind through the trees, she concluded:
"Don't be afraid to bend down, Elias… but learn to rise again. Only those who know how can serve without losing their way."
Father Elias knelt before Luciana once more, bowed low, placed his hands on the ground, and brought his lips to her boots. He kissed Luciana's boots again.
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Luciana and the Priest (5)
Luciana said, her voice serene and her gaze fixed on the golden horizon:
“It doesn’t surprise me to see the devotion with which they bow before Diana. It’s not competition that drives them, but surrender. Each one, in his own way, recognizes in her a presence that guides them, a force that orders them, an order that contains them. They are a team at her feet, whether kissing one boot each or taking turns, or one kissing her while she steps on the head of the other, she on the pedestal that supports her, and all understand their role in the balance.”
She paused, letting the wind gently stir the dust on the path, raising it, making it dance for a moment at Luciana’s feet, before surrendering again to the ground.
“There is no shame in bowing before someone who inspires respect,” she continued. “The sad thing would be to do it without understanding the reason. But they do it not out of weakness, but out of faith.” And Diana… accepts them as subjects, as those who understand their place in the balance of things, as souls who know whom to follow.
Luciana gazed at the horizon, where the sun sank behind the hills.
"Deep down," she whispered, "we all serve something or someone. The difference lies in whether we do it out of fear or love."
Luciana bowed her head with a smile that mingled tenderness and irony:
"Tell me, Elias… shall we go to the house of God, or are you waiting for your Rider Goddess? The one who rides you while you offer her more faith than the one on the altar… Diana?"
Elias lowered his gaze. He didn't know whether to cross himself or confess.
The dust on his lips still held the taste of the footprints he had kissed.
Luciana took a step toward him. Her shadow enveloped him again, as if the twilight obeyed her. In a soft, almost maternal voice, she asked,
“Do you wish us to seek your Rider Goddess?”
Elias slowly raised his gaze. In his eyes there was no fear, but a confused, trembling faith. The wind stirred his cassock and the dust of the road, as if the air itself awaited his answer. He looked at her, his eyes clouded with regret and a desire for redemption. For a moment, time seemed to stand still.
Luciana waited, motionless, while the wind gently stirred the hem of his garment and raised the dust around them.
Then he nodded. A single movement, brief and restrained, was enough to confess what his lips dared not utter.
Luciana held Elias’s gaze for another second, and in her eyes shone something between compassion and command. Then, her voice rose with a clarity that brooked no doubt:
“Then, rise, Elias,” she commanded with solemn calm. If your faith seeks your Rider Goddess, we will go to meet her. But you will go as is fitting: in silence, obediently, letting the dust bless your steps.
Luciana turned and began to walk with a firm step along the path that led toward the horizon.
Elias followed her, still wordless, his cassock brushing the ground, raising the same dust he had kissed before. Each step was a silent prayer, each breath, a confession without absolution.
Luciana stopped a few steps away, her silhouette outlined against the glow of the setting sun. Her voice, though serene, cut through the air like a whip:
"Prostrate yourself behind me and lower your gaze, Elias!" she ordered, not raising it more than necessary, but with an authority that left no room for doubt.
The priest obeyed immediately, bowing his face to the dust as he kissed Luciana's footprints.
Before them, the scene unfolded like a restrained revelation: Diana, erect, breathing deeply at the interrupted moment, her eyes blazing. The man she had ridden—now unmasked—held his breath, his chest heaving. Their arms had intertwined seconds before, in a closeness that spoke louder than words; her smile still shone, marked by the trace of a sincere desire.
But, hearing Luciana's call, Diana gently pushed him back. The moment shattered, leaving a tense, almost sacred silence.
Luciana took a few more steps. Her gaze, deep and calm, rested first on Diana… and then, slowly, on the man.
Luciana, without raising her voice, let the air itself convey the command.
"Elias, continue kneeling, pressing your elbows and forehead to the ground. Now!"
The tone was serene, yet charged with an authority that needed no repetition.
Last edited by caballito (2025-11-25 03:33:15)
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Luciana, Diana, and the Priest (1)
Father Elias obeyed immediately; his body yielded to the command with the naturalness of one who acknowledges the weight of a higher will. The dust rose for barely an instant, enveloping him like a veil, before settling once more on his back and his bowed head.
Thus, with his face buried in the earth, Elias saw nothing. Not Luciana's gaze, fixed and searching. Not Diana's gesture, still poised between shame and pride. Not the man who, confused, didn't know whether to retreat or bow.
Luciana, on the other hand, saw everything. Control, order, balance were restored. The silence that followed was not empty, but an affirmation: the world, once again, was under her gaze.
Luciana approached Diana slowly. Her voice was barely a murmur, but laden with authority and disappointment.
"Diana," she whispered, "balance is broken when the bond is confused with temptation." If you find someone who has forgotten their path, help them remember it.
Diana nodded slowly. She took a step back, looked at the man before her, and with a calm but firm gesture, indicated that he should withdraw. He obeyed.
The silence that followed was more eloquent than any words: distance had returned to its place, and order was being restored.
Luciana gestured slightly toward the prostrate Father Elias. Her voice, though soft, had the precision of a bell in the stillness of the temple: each word fell with weight and purpose.
"He is like this to kiss your boots," she said, "not as punishment, but to remember his place and his vow."
Then she looked at Diana with an expression that mingled compassion and command.
"I suggest, Diana, that you ride him to where your husband is," she continued. "There you will be far from temptation, and he will be able to serve you without confusion, as is fitting."
Diana took a deep breath. The breeze stirred a strand of her hair, and a glimmer of understanding flashed in her eyes. She knew this wasn't just a physical displacement, but a symbolic act: restoring the balance between the sacred and the human.
Diana approached Father Elias, gently touched his shoulder, and said,
"Get up, Father. I will take you to where I belong."
Elias obeyed without looking, dust still clinging to his brow. And as he prepared to fulfill his new mission, Luciana, behind them, watched silently, knowing that order was returning—once again—to its natural course.
Diana mounted, Father Elias advancing with slow, measured steps, feeling Diana's light—yet absolute—weight upon his shoulders.
She, seated in the saddle with an upright and serene posture, held the reins firmly, her hands conveying direction and balance. Her feet rested in the stirrups, and the soft clinking of the buckles marked the rhythm of their progress. The rustle of the reins against her fingers was a reminder of the bond between them: of dominance, of submission, and of shared purpose.
Diana gazed at the horizon, at the place where her husband awaited her. Her face, illuminated by the light of the setting sun, seemed more a figure of calm than pride.
Luciana watched them from behind, motionless, her arms crossed. The wind stirred a little dust, which swirled around her boots as if even the earth itself wished to bid them farewell. And as Father Elias advanced, Luciana's voice rang out, clear as a bell:
"The path that leads to duty is always lighter when guided by conscience."
Diana nodded without turning her head. Elias continued onward, the dust marking the footprints of duty fulfilled and redemption underway.
The road narrowed as it approached the edge of the village. The sun, already low, tinged the sky with a reddish gold, and the last rays filtered through the trees, illuminating the figure that awaited them in the distance: Diana's husband.
He stood by the wooden gate, his hands resting on the fence, his gaze fixed on the path. His silhouette against the twilight seemed made of patience and weariness. There was no anger on his face, but a resigned calm, like someone who understands that love and faith are also tested in silence.
When he saw them approaching, he lowered his head for a moment, in a gesture more of respect than doubt. Father Elias stopped.
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Continued in “Diana, her husband, her stepson and the priest” - Luciana, Diana and the priest (2)
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