Deepwood Weald [m] bodies

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

@Marina <3