Noctisardor Bypass [m] sola fide

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.