Wheeling Gull Isle sparrows

Tear-stained face, words a flurry with a wretched anguish, eyes red from every vein pulled from light. Her throats a chamber of coarse sorrow, and the priest's heart yearned, gutted with pity and seeping with long to comfort. "Oh, my Heda." Blood from the heavens, she was hurting. His head bowed, should she allow, to offer a tender touch against her own, a pierce of a gentleness struck through the holy-walker's armored soul.

"I will tell them. Be freed from home life- for a time, or for your name. Your heart must burn." A churning gut, and he felt the damn of nature whisper through mind. A sour, drunken illness that struck his eyes when he looked upon her, and his head felt a blur. A blur he knew well. A blur that made his mind weep for her and struck fear into the eyes of the holy man. "Oh, Heda," he murmured once more. "What deep wounds you must have. I feel a great terror for you." The light of day felt of a scorch and no longer a warmth- a warning. A horror. They spoke! They spoke!
God, have mercy.