Moonspear you wouldn’t leave 'til we loved in the morning

theme: mitski - last words of a shooting star

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He was there. The moonstruck druid could feel him before she saw him; knew him by the way the earth shook and trembled when he walked. Her husband had a weighty presence and that’s what the lamb loved about him — the way she felt swathed in his gravitational pull before her eau-de-nil eyes could look upon him. Then, how she could feel him closer still before she could glance at his chiseled jawline and imposing frame. In reality, the sylph never saw him at all; his pelt of crushed, black velvet melded into the darkness of the night and the vacuity of that mountainside. He was a whisper in time, magical and fleeting.

What did she need sight of him for, when his very touch ignited a kaleidoscope of vivid colors and obtuse shapes in her mind? The energetic picture they painted, together, was far more beautiful than the dying, pestilent world in which they lived. Olive knew her lover, knew their souls were intertwined — sometimes she entertained thoughts that the pale fae and the swarthy brute were, billions of years ago, once part of the same celestial body... but since them, scattered to the eons. They had reignited with such force that the earth shook from its axis and set off a series of karmic precedents — each one a disaster in their own right, no matter how small. She now understood the role she played in the world's chaos... and it gave her great guilt to cause harm to the ones she loved. Despite that, here he was, stirring love deep within her breast. How could she still feel such a sense of divine felicity, when the pursuit of that very feeling had caused so many hardships? The upheaval of teaghlaigh, the thieving of her firstborn, the exhausted and weakened state of the entire family — it could all be blamed on her own avarice. 

Olive was certain that she was never meant to be a wife; attachment was not the way to achieve true nirvana, all the sage astronomers had said. Of course, the paragon of wolfkind, Dakarai, had easily convinced her otherwise. At first, the world had made so much sense [why would she turn away discarnate oneness when it stared her in her hollow, scarred face?] but now, she knew. The stars — they had told many, many times before but her heretical thoughts and actions veiled the messages; concealed from her third eye. Now, she knew.

At first, Dakarai said nothing and the silence was reassuring. There was no need for words right then; so many things had been spoken; so many arguments beaten to death — when it was just her and Dakarai [and all the filfth had been washed from their hands] words needn’t exist. A world of just her, just her mate… yes, that indeed would be divine.

“I…”

The problem was that they were confined to their physical bodies, tied to the planet and made to interact with others. There would never be a world where they could exist together, in their divine perfection, and not shake the existence of everyone around him. However, the physical bodies which confined them so also gave them the means to more… corporeal pleasures. Dakarai’s mouth nibbled a familiar trail [behind her ear, down her neck, to the very top of spine and between her withers], eliciting a small, gasping breath from the lamb. She closed her eyes and received his touches fully. Even the simplest of his ministrations enraptured her, and she found she couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't thing and most certainly couldn’t remember her spiritual revelation. It was a concern lost to the wind, at the behest of the dark man’s lingering touch. 

“You—“

Then she fell silent, her voice and thoughts completely silence by the metronome of Dakarai’s cosseting.

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