shaba, tessoroccia mia.
how i may only dream of your beauty, the fields of marigold; the point of your pulse where i would so often kiss. that pure, honeysuckle-sweet heart i held clasped between my own putrid jaws. how i wondered, for a moment, if it may quiver with one last beat.
i am a foolish man. the light of our god has turned away from me.

that fated evening when andras awoke, he felt his body lurch instinctively with the violent need to purge what little content roiled in his stomach. he saw double, his vision entranced with stars that were not there; his head, reeling, visceral. he had crawled forward with the power of only his forelimbs and wretched.
a haggard cough escaped him, then, dry and phlegmy. it was humiliating, even with no one but crushed, dead leaves to watch and to laugh.
but there was someone.
a bird; small, winsome, drawing a softspoken tune from deep in its yellow throat. he had always loved birds. always admired them, for how simple their lives were in contrast to his.

wren.

he thought that he may begin to cry, and he felt a thickness to his throat that he forced himself to swallow. he will not, should not, could not think of her.
here, in this rotting forest, was a new chapter. whoever lived here did not know him or his many failures, nor his grand achievements. the branches that bend above shield him from the eyes of a god; a dead god, a god that had long ago forsaken him.
but in between those branches there are filtered shards of moon. he must focus on that; on this, on this hope, this smoke signal, however faded! god bends his ear, god whispers, god's smile twinkles—

he is meant to be

here

the lord is with thee
the strange voice twists within his thundering eardrums. shaba shaba shaba shaba do not,
andras pauses, the air gravid with a foulness that even he himself could not place. when he looks up, he sees her. oh, a pretty young thing; a sweet thing, a pure thing. plush fur shaded with dapples of silver. he does not finish his original sentence.
from deep in his chest a buttery laugh ripples. he blinks, his head shaking before he picks himself up; a softness now painted across pinpricked eyes. rough night. yes, yes, a rough night. you remind me of my daughter.

i've been there.
but she could not understand. did not, could not, with such a feeble mind. she knew not the dreams he had, the vividness of them; she knew not the way god stretched his hand from the sky and begged, pleaded, to hold his.

h i s

the prophet. the prophet is not dead.

the new year awaits.

do not worry about me, he rises to his feet with one swift push; his hind legs tremble viciously before he takes a few steps forward and a loud crack from aging hips can be heard. why have you come to me, bambina?

she will not find her daughter. not here.
he says nothing until her back is turned toward him, until he can watch the plume of her tail bounce as she walks, can see the delicious curve of her hips and the warmth that waits for him in that sacred place.
you remind me of my daughter and yet it is not nearly the same.
when he strikes, he aims his blow to the space between her shoulders; the caress of his tongue is for the scruff of her neck. he must be quick lest someone from moontide come for her. his claws dig into the hard set of her throat, and he feels the sharp pulse — but he is careful not to puncture, not to sever. there will be no proof of his touch save for memories imprinted upon psyche.
as his nose bumps against her ear, he utters one simple phrase, embellished with lust: pray to Him, and He will listen.

you wish for your daughter to come home, sì?
a mud-caked talon, reaching, dragged across a pristine jawline. i saw her, you know, just the other day. a little girl. she looked just like you. it makes sense now, warm, warm breaths, a warm heart lodged deep in the chasm of chest — oh, how the chemicals flood him! she traveled eastward. He will guide you to her, but only if you listen close.
with a soft jerk, he pulls her gaze to the inkblack above; visible between the stalking limbs of the trees. He has sent me to you. do you see Him? do you hear His call, baby?

a soft, quivering croon. silence, for her, but in his ears is the swelling chorus of the angels.

i can help you if you will let me.

yelling, screaming; car alarms, a massive weight strikes his skull in a flash.
this was not worth the fight. he knew to choose his battles. speak of me, and no one will believe you.
she is freed from the press of his form in an instant, and soon enough, he is lost among the spires of shadows; not to return, not here, not ever again. she turns her cheek from god, and he can do nothing to save those who are blind; ignorant to their own desire for salvation.