Noctisardor Bypass ave verum corpus

she, a moth; he, a spider. she looks at him as if he holds the key to the universe in his teeth, and he swallows it as he holds her stare.
she is his, whether she knows it now or not.
i'm glad, heda, he dips his muzzle down against her temple, almost daring to kiss the soft weakness of her skull. let me help you. come here.
the creek babbles behind them, waiting eagerly to embrace the desperate maiden; to rid her of all the tragedy which seemed to permeate her, to make her new.
andras can see it now, how she'd look by next spring; flower petals strewn about her billowing nape, ripe with new young which will be born with the mark of the Savior. for she is not shaba, and she will not be treated as such, he decides now; she —
is the Holy Mother.
he guides her down until she is seated with her back turned to the waters. tenderly, intimately, he smooths down the flyaways at her cheeks, dries her eyes, caresses her slender shoulders.
you look heavenly, he murmurs, and his smile is earnest, light peeking through a cracked door. are you ready?