Noctisardor Bypass [m] sola fide

perhaps a @Heda if u have time? :O

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amadeo was a quiet man.
he kept to himself, respected the wishes of the concerned and frightened anselm. he fished in the silverstream and hunted squirrels near the nightwatch. he slept and prayed near the cliffs. he lived in rivenwood as if he was not even there. he was simple. he was kind. he was righteous. he was meek.
andras hated being amadeo.
he was always a solitary, secluded man, having sheltered high above the cliffs in new bayridge; but now, he was well and truly alone.
fireflies swam above his head as he traversed from the northern end of the bypass. boredom and curiosity brought him near the rendezvous, the lull of evening meaning he heard no laughter of children and saw no sunbathing mothers. the lagoon calls to him, moonbeams dancing upon the gentle sway of the water.
as he closes his eyes, he can almost feel the warm, whispering touch of shaba.

the clock twitched its clicking hands.
anselm and heda maintained their cordial near-silence. the desire of their encounter had twisted back into shame for her. he had wanted to take her, but he hadn't, and he had never sought her again after that. 
the encounter had wrecked whatever tinge of self-confidence she might have gained, though heda was not yet aware of that.
the lagoon called to her, for she had found a place at its mossy streamside where soon she would bring gideon and ezra for their baptism. the evening was no exception; heda carried daffodils to line the small clearing, passing through the rendezvous.
"amadeo." the young mother set down her things, offering the dark man a smile grateful for his company. "how are you?"

ah, heda! hello, the lion had found his doe yet again. and she came to him, this time. i didn't expect to see you.
her figure has noticeably slimmed since he had last seen her, her breasts less swollen; her post-pregnancy radiance had not dimmed, however, and the brute silently takes a moment to appreciate this.
i am well, he titters, sighing as he eases onto his elbows. but how are you?

amadeo's consistent politeness placated and soothed heda. he was easy to speak with and his sharing of her beliefs made him trustworthy in a way no one else within rivenwood would be, even as understanding as druid was.
"i am well. the children are growing so fast." she studied him, then glanced away, flexing pale paws against the leaf litter. "gideon and ezra, i'm ready for them to be baptized, i think."

ah, the baptism. a delighted grin found the salt-and-pepper face. that's wonderful news, she seems to be shy about this subject, almost hesitant. are they ready? have they expressed interest? i should probably mention-- i don't like to perform such a sacred and cherished ceremony unless the participants are willing. to follow god is a choice.
this willingness meant, of course, that they were less likely to stray.
hunger roils inside of him as he watches her. he wished he could take her here, now, with no one watching, no one able to hear the screams as her pretty face is shoved into the ground. he wished to see those dandelion eyes glazed with tears, to see a pearlet of blood dribble from her smashed nose —
stop. he must stop. he breathes out a shaky sigh which to her might seem like it came from nervousness. i've been meaning to ask. were you ever baptized yourself, heda?

for a moment her eyes held a girlish vulnerability, wondering if she had misstepped in planning their baptism so soon. "well, no," she murmured with a drop of her eyes, almost submissive save for the flash of emotion in them. "i just thought it was the thing to do."
now andras asked after her, and heda — "not really. not truly. i lived on an island with a holy man once, bartholomew. but i was never baptized by him. then later, after i married and our children came, i just knew god was there every time i went into the sea."
a hope dawned on the delicate pale face, a hope too delicate for heda to word aloud.

she captivates him.
the rosy purple of sunset carves her face, her eyelashes flutter as she peels away in blissful submission. his breath, likely quite audibly, hitches in his throat. he forces himself to look away;
for the fluttering of affection that coursed his veins was dangerous.
if you'd like, i can speak to them about it, he offers, a chuckle rolling along with the honeyed words. or you can, of course-- i just think... one must be ready to fully submit themselves, give themselves wholly over to god. it is a journey, sometimes, to feel ready to be baptized! and it can be quite a frightening and vulnerable experience for youngsters, too.
a holy man. and yet this supposed holy man did not baptize her, did not claim her for himself! this bartholomew sounded more like a heretic to him. he puts on a thoughtful face, meeting her with something that almost spoke of vulnerability.
would you like to be baptized? i think, he reaches now, ever so gently, for her hand. after all you've been through, you deserve a new beginning.

her ears heard the breathy outtake and she wondered at it with the perception of a woman long quieted in body. and she wanted to accept amadeo's offer, to speak to the boys; but the press of his paw thrilled through her and she found herself softened in surprise.
her nostrils flared a little, the lashes fluttering; heda needed such specific kindnesses, and amadeo had already offered her so much.
"yes," came the shocked whisper of her wanting voice; "yes, please, amadeo." her eyes danced upon his own with the renewed ardor of love for a god who had forsaken her in all ways — but he had done so for a reason.
"as long as you — share a meal with me, after. a communion," heda dared, flushing up her cheekbones beneath the short pale fur.

Mature Content Warning

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please
please, amadeo
please
it rang over and over in his head so many times he thought his eardrums might burst.
she needed him. needed this. needed him him him
visions of her pretty face soaked in the holy birth of the lagoon, the lovely staccato of her terrified yet pleasured moans and cries as he rails her into the ground —
a flash of excitement finds the slate of his eyes. i would be absolutely honored, angioletta, he pulls the paw which sat in his grasp close to his chest, gentle, so gentle with her. gentle was what she needed. gentle was what worked. oh, i haven't had such an opportunity in so long. you are the one doing me a service, dear heda.
his own face flushes, now, hidden beneath the granite peppering of his face. you will have to tell me what your favorite meal is, then. i will hunt it for you, and i will-- ah, have you ever had wine? there's a boyish quality to his countenance, a softness, an ease that almost, for a blink in time, felt genuine. everyone knows you cannot administer the rite of eucharist without wine.

beneath her splayed paw she felt the beat of his good and godly heart, and in her eyes there suddenly flickered the embers of a religiously poised hunger: that of wife for head of household, helpmate to a man of god.
no one had ever taught her these things; not mahler, not sequoia, not bartholomew, and not caracal. heda had only tasted of wifeliness so briefly that her mind sought that companionship over and over.
his anticipation sparked her own. "i — anything you bring will be fine," and had heda hands, she would have self-consciously smoothed the fabric of a long modest dress against the back of her thighs as readjusted her sit.
the rite of eucharist. she'd never heard it called that before, and her gaze glimmered with an unquenched curiosity. "i've never had wine," heda murmured, "what is it?"
and her mind shrilled then with the clarion intensity of a memory.

though she did not speak it, in some way, andras knew.
these urges of hers, this need to be beneath a husband. to rear his children. to feed him. to be held. to be disciplined. to be fucked. all in the name of the holy man who smiles down with crooked teeth.
he wished to chain her to her white robes, to veil her head; stroke her cheek with a calloused thumb and force her legs open with the other. he wished to taste her, drink from the sweet wine in her veins.
he wonders what the pale pelt of hers would look like stained.
no, no, you must choose. i insist, something brash, something daring; he bends down to press a kiss to the dainty knuckles, featherlight. it will be a celebration for you, and for your bond with god. whatever you ask, i will deliver.
his heart lurches — oh, she is so innocent that she does not know what wine is, and he feels the serpentine pull of his urge to press his lips to her neck. berries, he chuckles. fermented, so that their juices will be sweeter. it is said that our lord turned water into wine.
and then he notices it, the flare of memory behind her eyes. he senses tragedy, and the opportunity bubbles beneath the surface. he allows the hazy shrill of crickets to swallow the silence before he quietly asks, what is it?

so shockingly pleasant and unexpected was the sensation of his breath against her paw that heda became very still, watching almost wide-eyed as amadeo moved back from the soft kiss to her skin and resumed his even tones.
her heart leapt in a gallop; her chest swelled faster.
and her paw remained in amadeo's own, perched gently on its edge as if it were an alighting moth.
after a flurry of blinks, heda shook her head a little, laughed at herself. "i suppose i'm fond of honey and elk. together. you might not think it could be good, but it can be."
wine. amadeo asked and heda sighed, at last returning her hand to her own proverbial lap. "my husband — turned to fruit fermented at the end, i think, to sort of cope with how little help we had with so many children. i've never had it. i'm not even sure i want to have it, amadeo."
it was in an ask for reassurance that her eyes found him now.

when was the last time someone had treated her as she deserved?
her reaction sparks electricity in andras's veins, the beautiful sweetness of her doe-eyed look as if she were a virgin who had never before been caressed. even if she clearly was not, it felt as if she was — a starving wench, the poor creature.
he holds her hand as if it were made of gold.
i believe you, he laughs, pressing a soft squeeze to her palm, tracing over her knuckles with the tips of his nails. it shall be done. you will have your very own feast, as christ would want for you.
and then; ah, she pulls away, shrinking in on herself, and all andras can do is listen, attentive as ever even still. her husband had forsaken her and turned to drink, abused it. he thinks of shaba, of how at times she too would turn to it in order to drown him out, and how she would drift into a restfulness that could not be disturbed no matter what he did.
you do not have to, he leans forward, gunmetal against champagne, wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. i will bring it out of obligation, but it will be entirely up to you. there are many who do not consume it, only admire it for its symbolism.
heda, he says her name as if it were holy, as if he were calling down a saint. you are safe here.

as christ would want, she was safe.
heda believed him, and sinfully, she wanted him to touch her hand again, to run his palm along her arm; she shut her mind on this, and on him, and on them, and fixed it only upon the one who had sent amadeo into her path.
his face so near; her eyes could not help but flicker with eagerness over the scars and marks of a life long-lived, each a story she almost begged to know;
but demurely she fell away, and her eyes with her. "i should get back. i'm sure someone needs me," she said at last, flushed, unsure of what else to utter.
the look she gave him, however, conveyed an eloquent gratitude for more than the guidance of the older patriarch.
"thank you for always being peace," heda managed, flustered in a pleasant way.

you don't need to thank me.
his chest aches as he watches her turn away, the flustered little bird preening at her wings. his gaze conveys fondness, even with the carnal urges that burn and nip and claw at him from the inside out;
take her take her take her
not yet, he tells himself! for when the time finally comes, it will be a ceremony of worship. she will lean against the metaphorical podium as if her voice was that of god herself.
he straightens his back, clears his dry throat as he calls out to her one final time. i'm here whenever you need me.

DAMN i thought i replied to this OOPSIE