The magic didn't work. No light appeared. She was not transported to his world. She wasn't transported to him.
She thought perhaps she'd made a mistake, so she pushed on, penetrated as far as she could without getting lost, but nothing.
Then, fulminating with rage, she screamed his name.
"Gariod!"
She waited a few seconds, but there was no answer. Only a deafening silence reigned around her.
"Gariod!" she repeated almost hysterically. "I know you can hear me, so don't bother pretending, don't bother ignoring me. If you never want to see me again, then you should have had the decency to tell me yesterday, when you were taking possession of me as if you were never going to stop! Gariod, can you hear me? I know you can! Gariod, you bastard!"
Diria waited and waited. But when she finally tired, when she finally understood. She never got an answer
When the echoes of her last words finally faded in the soundless infinity of this sinister, unknown forest, the young woman resolved to retrace her steps and leave the forest, vowing never to return.
But she soon realized that she didn't know herself very well.
She wanted to see him so much. But more than anything, she wanted to be with him so much that the very next day, she returned to the forest. And once again, she couldn't come back to him, despite everything she'd done.
She returned again the next day and the day after that.
This must have lasted a week. Her sister Fiona had returned to her apartment because the so-called work there was finished, so all that was left was her mother, feverishly looking after her husband's return. Her formidable mother, whom she had always loved but had only recently come to understand.
Didn't she love this being in the same way? Unconditionally, even though she'd only known him for a few days, whereas for her mother, she'd known her father for over a quarter of a century.
And her beloved mother could easily guess the evil that was gnawing at her daughter and causing so much deterioration, but she didn't bother her. She decided to let her approach him on her own.
She knew her daughter so well, and knew how to be discreet in these extremely delicate cases.
Her father was a very lucky man. Far too lucky.
The next day, as usual, Diria was getting ready to leave for the cursed hill when, consulting her mobile to see the day's news, a tragic piece of news was splashed across the screen - a young couple had been found dead on the edge of the cursed hill, early this morning just before dawn, their bodies in an appalling state apart from the head. They were perfectly identifiable. The experts were puzzled by this fact, as their initial conclusions were clear: the wounds had been caused by wolves. All the inhabitants were asked to be careful and, above all, to stay away from the hill, under no circumstances closer than a kilometer.
Wolves.
It was this last indication that the young woman remembered the most, and again, it immediately went round and round in her head.
There was only one wolf who would ever dare to roam the cursed hill - its owner.
Diria was in a state of total shock. All she could do was lean against the wall, then drag herself to her bed where she let herself fall.
Like those experts who had no doubt that it was wolves who were responsible for the poor couple's condition, Diria had no doubt as to the identity of the wolves, and especially of their master.
Gariod, her Gariod, her lover...her love, why hide it any longer, she was in love with him, from the very first moment, when he was in his monstrous, marvelous, decomposed beast form like a corpse, or rather an undead.
From that first moment, from that lightning-fast, undeniable love at first sight, Diria wanted to stay with him.
No stranger had ever been more familiar to her. Then she quickly discovered his personality, unbearable and irresistible at the same time, already enriching the mad love she had for him, and then, finally, he made love to her, and this brought her love to a climax.
It only lasted a few days, but for Diria it was the equivalent of a decade. She knew he was cursed, he'd told her without needing to, it was obvious.
He had his problems, but no problem would make her forgive this abandonment, not a word, not a sign.
It had broken her heart.
That unspeakable pain so great it numbs you, Diria seemed familiar with it.
But it must have been her imagination, or just every woman's gratitude for this kind of pain.
Now this being she loved so much, more than anything, who had made her discover the beauty of the world, the beauty of life, was a merciless murderer.
He had saved her life, but he had also taken the life of an innocent human being, whose reason she still didn't know, and who she had to find out about at all costs.
And if she was to be the worst of all, as she so feared, she would still love him, she knew, but she would never see him again.
Diria waited an hour before getting up, her shock now over, replaced by determination, anger and sadness.
She changed clothes, leaving those colorful ones behind to take on a black dress as short as the others, along with leather sandals, and she pulled her sumptuous hair up into a bun placed high on her head, and finally, she washed her face, deciding not to wear any make-up.
She hadn't come to him to seduce him, but to find out the truth.
That was all.
She arrived at the scene of the crime, joined the small gathering of curious people and journalists watching and commenting on the scene, and then set off on a little detour.
They wouldn't see her, and if they did, they wouldn't catch her. She knew this place too well for that; it had become her kingdom too.
No sooner had she taken a few steps up the red hill than she fell into a sleep that had become familiar too.
And she told herself it was just as well.
She awoke in the summer part, stretched out on the blood-red sand. It was night, the stars shone above her, radiant and seemingly as close as she remembered, illuminating this infinite desert devoid of anything but crimson-red sand. A desert that seemed to reflect his own image.
There he was, nonchalantly seated on an enormous stone throne, magnificently carved and engraved with symbols that were incomprehensible to her.
All he wore was a pair of icy brown pants.
Cross-legged, with his head resting on one hand, he contemplated the horizon, then sensing that she was awake, turned to her.
"Good evening, Diria.
"Good evening Gariod."