Noctisardor Bypass john 13:20

in the days following his failed reunion with wren, andras — known here as amadeo — seethed quietly in the boughs. he spent only a handful of days resting before he got back to work, even with his limp and his torn ear; he had made a promise to the man glaukos, and if nothing else, andras was a man of his word.
but now, since his return, glaukos was gone.
it concerned him at first, if only for a day or two; he missed the quiet company of someone he considered to be a positive acquaintance, if not a friend. but even in darkness, there is light; and everything happens for a reason, does it not?
and so, slowly, andras sought to integrate himself more with the rivenwood wolves. he brought meat for the mothers and paced the quiet borders, prayed over them all at each sundown. this eve, he came to search for @Heda, bringing to her the offering of goat's milk soaked moss — something shaba once loved when she had been nursing — and a warm wool skin for the babes.
but if one was to think this action was out of the goodness of his heart, they would be met with a wide, lecherous grin. she held his gaze in a way the other women here did not, and now he saw fit to capitalize upon it.

amadeo.
she didn't know him, not really. his arrival had come right before the whole —
well.
heda had dreamt inside the den until the dream had broken by itself. the stones of the ceiling she had counted over and over again, lulled by the need the children had of her.
now she started as amadeo approached, hunger piqued at once at the scent of the milk and moss. "thank you," she murmured hesitantly, not quite meeting his gaze. he was older than her, than all of them, it looked, and this reminded her at once of bartholomew.

oh, the poor girl.
she's a pretty young thing; so delicate and fragile like a beautiful vase. so easy to break.
no need, he chirrups, head lowering in a display of respect. i watched my wife go through this, too. goat's milk was her favorite when she was with child. there's a glimmer of something unreadable in the silver eyes. ah, shaba. you live on through me.
still no sign of your eldest? he thought now to make light conversation if she wished, sitting back on his haunches just outside the denmouth. he would not intrude on a mother's space. he knew she had sons — sons which needed to grow strong, and he was not one to disturb this natural process too early. she is still useful.
and if glaukos was not going to take advantage of the meat, andras would.

his voice was soothing, immediately so; she hated how her mind responded in desperation to the touch of kindness. the moss would go untouched for now; she put it aside delicately, glancing over the sleeping bodies of the children.
her eyes stole back to amadeo. "none." how did he know so much about her and she nothing about him. "did it end? for your wife, i mean," heda mumbled, unsure of what they were even discussing.
her heart felt cloven, pulsating with hurt; she tucked herself around it and tried to disguise its hurting thrum with a small curve of her lips. "are you settling into rivenwood?" she asked, a little wryly.

he had learned a lot from his time lurking; it wasn't as if anyone was very quiet about the goings on, and so andras sought yet again to sink his teeth in where he could. i am sure she will be back. she is at that age where rebellion takes root. my own daughters, his bird, his flower. they left at about her age, too.
he does not disclose why.
she was tired for a long time after she birthed our girls, he sighs, then, a contemplative expression taking hold of his aged face. and very sad. i didn't understand why. was it not meant to be a happy time? but then, i understood; it's only the body and mind trying to recover from something so taxing. give yourself grace. you are only doing what is natural to you. like a well-oiled machine.
it is peaceful here, he leans down now to rest, belly warm against the cool undergrowth. heavenly, dare i say. i thank god every day for the bounty he has offered me here.

he knew and he didn't. feeling no desire to correct his kindness, heda felt a glissade of surprise encircle her throat when amadeo spoke of god.
"rivenwood is indeed beautiful. druid and i were born here," heda said lightly, carefully, trying not to give more of herself away than she'd already handed to anselm.
god.
her golden eyes took the man in as he reclined. darkfurred, stippled in the greying of age. scars traced his shoulders, his ribs, his face. she saw that his ears were torn, one especially so. an odd shape smoothed his forehead, though no stranger than her own red touches. what caught her were his eyes, slitted, faraway. 
"i don't thank god for anything anymore," heda whispered, voice hoarsened with the grief that continued to grind her down into a spiral.

you and druid are blessed, there's almost a hint of a chuckle hiding in the monotone of the gravelly voice. you must feel very lucky to have land many would kill to claim.
a lightness takes hold of him, an ease; he settles down to idly smooth over some lingering scars that run the length of his foreleg. and that's when he hears it, his key, his call to action —
i don't thank god for anything anymore.
he understood in that moment exactly why he had been called here by the higher power. these women needed his help.
he hides the shiver of excitement with a nonchalant hum, gaze lazily cutting back to the dandelion eyes. he displays curiosity, sensitivity. he seems almost hurt by the notion, as if he is simply a devout man with unshakeable faith. why is that?

her ears splayed; she'd offended him. 
the only other believer she knew was john, and his gentle devotion was the reflection of god's face to which she clung even now.
but softness could not wash away pain, especially when such agonies had been caused by her own desperate and one-minded actions. in fact, to know she had caused them at all gave heda reason not to have her anguish lessened in any way.
i don't feel lucky, she wanted to say, but stayed herself for the sake of argumentativeness.
"god — i —" not now! "i was once very angry. a man of god taught me how to be at peace. and i was. god gave me a home. he gave me a husband, and children," — why was she pouring this out to someone she didn't even know, but she found she couldn't stop "— but i-i made a very bad mistake. he hasn't let me earn back his trust since," she added weakly, unable to even describe the cascade of events that had crushed her into the earth. 
either god was punishing heda or he had allowed her to suffer without seeing. the former was far more preferable. she had abandoned caracal. she had left the home god had given them. she had allowed the blessed children to scatter and turned her back on them in motherliness. she had lain with a man out of wedlock and conceived, and it had been a far more sinful union than either of them had known. she had done it again, and this time to deceive. then she had turned her heart against these men both. she been cruel toward her own much-beloved druid in her mind. and as she listed it out, the sorrow eased, for in knowing her sins she knew also that her punishments had not been so great.
a thought; "should i thank him for his — strong guidance?" she ventured after a long silence, at last looking more directly to amadeo, a wet-eyed woman sitting in a roughhewn pew, clad stoutly in black and leaning on the word of a man holier than she.

he listens.
a girl brought into holiness by a bishop, sending her down the righteous path of marriage and motherhood only to have her family be sundered and stricken. it must be her fault, there is no other conclusion; she had done something to anger god. she was a heretic and a whore, a wench; especially now with her unsanctimonious coupling and resulting children. but that was why he was here.
he could make her whole again. bring her back to god.
but he is not unsympathetic. i am a widower as well, his voice cracks just enough to reveal the underlying emotion, gaze falling to the floor. she fell ill one winter, and our girls could not cope with it. and so they left. that is why i am here. it is a pain like no other, a pain i would not wish upon anyone. even through the lies, there is a nugget of truth if one looks hard enough.
i am not god. i cannot tell you what he is thinking, or why he does these things, brings us this pain. but i do know that everything happens for a reason. he has a plan for you, much like he has one for me. you have experienced much pain, but in time, you too will know joy if you only allow yourself to have it, he gazes now upon her sons, gesturing to their plump bellies. and there is still much to thank him for. you have healthy children, both of this year and last. you have a safe home, and friends, family, and now he reaches out a paw, touching her wrist if she would allow. and i promise you that god still loves you, no matter what.

in truth, heda flinched. not in fear of hurt, but in surprise that amadeo should be so warm, so welcoming.
he assured her of god's love.
the golden eyes that beheld him were at once misted with a girl's broken tears, limned in a hope she was shocked to experience, wide and desperate with hope that god would once more catch her shattered wings to his bosom and recreate her.
this time she would listen.
this time she would obey.
i am a widower as well, amadeo had said, knowing only in the tense heda had used that caracal was no more. his even voice forced her on proverbial knee to that threshold of acceptance where anselm had stabbed her once more.
"did it get easier to miss her," she heard herself ask in a cracking whisper, not quite a question but a statement of despondency, for she had to believe this inability to draw a breath would be removed from her.
heda almost told him about The Clock.
its ticking had strangely muted for now, but she could still hear it, still picture day becoming night becoming day and the whirl of seasons.
until.
tears were falling like silent pearls to the ground between her paws, upon where amadeo had extended a single kindness to heda and she felt herself stricken forlorn by the heavy breadth of her own sins.
undeserving.

for a second, andras felt the bitter heart inside his chest twitch with pain. he did know. shaba lived within him forever, in body and spirit and mind; but that did not make it any easier on the days where he wished nothing more than to see her face again.
not easier, his head leans down to rest upon his forelimbs. but different. the way in which we miss them changes. and i know that, he swallows; i know that she is with god, and that together, they are watching over me. your husband, he is still there. god may decide our bodies are done living, but our spirits continue on.
and now, he sees an opportunity for both of them. she is not shaba, and he is not caracal — but he can bring her back to a holiness that would please the man beyond. keep her round with pups, sedated and lovely with swollen teats and kind eyes; he can give her a perfect life.
all she has to do is obey.
and we can move forward. love is still out there, you know, he comments, a softness spreading across the aged features. perhaps one day we will meet our next matches. i think that we are not meant to love only once; there are many great loves in our lifetimes, and they all show us something.

heda did not know the bleak thoughts which prowled behind the veneer of that worn and godly face. she saw amadeo only for who he presented himself to be: a grieving widower who had given his pain to god, and encouraged her to be thankful for all the good she had not lost.
but she closed at his next words, just a small expression which shuttered her to the very notion in mind, body, and soul. in all her imaginings and self-loathing, heda had dreamt of what her life might have been like even after caracal's death. if she'd done things correctly, kept to her year of mourning and stayed in sweetharbor, she would have realized in time that her choice should have been john.
a vestige of purity might have remained then, a humble widow living in respect of the husband she had abandoned. 
instead, she had — well. heda adored her boys, knowing that in many pious eyes, she was worth less now. 
love. it had died with caracal. 
and for the physical act itself, well. heda had lost even the barest intrigue in such matters. in part it was due to the demands upon a body which gave too much of itself. but another goodly portion was her own decision that her unworthiness might dirty someone else.
heda gave amadeo a quick, apologetic curve of her mouth; "i regret not living as a widow. part of my atonement is going back to it." it felt beautiful to speak of these things to someone who truly understood them, and engaged with her in discussion on these matters of god.

live as a widow? andras was surprised; in his own sect, he had never mandated such a thing, at least not for the stock. it mattered not — they were to recouple as soon as possible, to grow with new children in the next year whether they sought it or not.
but he sees now a soft, delicate expression of feeling, of sorrow, of regret. she came to him as one would to a confessional, as if she were clutching prayer beads in a white-knuckled fist. already, she sought his guidance as a figurehead of god — as a prophet.
but he mustn't get too eager. there is honor in doing such a thing, his expression deepens into a soft, glowing smile before it drops down to the boys at her swollen breast. but you have already moved forward. it is more worthwhile to embrace that than to shut the door upon yourself. do not do as i did.
i spent many moons in complete isolation when i lost my beloved. there were many opportunities i missed, many different paths i could have taken. mourn for a time, integrate it into your life; keep his spirit alive through your actions! but do not let it control you. god does not want to punish his children for healing, for moving forward.
why would she not want to? she is young and fertile, clearly; there are many sons to be built from her pretty body, and now andras saw himself rearing them from her until she became useless dead stock. perhaps afterward he would have to take a trophy from her to honor her service to him. ah, it was a pleasant fantasy — his spine secretly ripples with the shockwave of shivers.

"surely there are many ways to serve god, amadeo. he gave me ten children!" heda said, an exclamation of dedicated joy that became a sob as she looked sharply, starkly, down at the boys. when the golden eyes raised once more, they gleamed with tears as of yet held back from a final flood. "and then god saw fit to take six of them, to lead them from me. to keep them from me. to take one for himself. my sons are —" and there was a fracture in the pale surface, "but he led a daughter back."
rambling, a thorn-rose in danger of being desiccated beneath the sun of amadeo's eyes. "i will listen," she said earnestly to the darkfurred man, "and i will — accept — what god has for me. but surely i've displeased him in motherhood. it's the only reason i can think why his punishment has been so harsh."
a breath; "but anyway — thank you. i - i needed to hear the things you said."
a shaking exhale turned her once more back to the sons at her side. "they'll need someone who knows god too."
she'd left him behind on the island, for the most part.

she was getting louder, sharper, like a fragile piece of glass. she questioned him! andras did not like it. but he continues to listen, forcing down the urge to create a bruise upon her untouched pale face.
god gives us a plan, but ultimately, it is our choice to follow it, he tries to soothe her by lowering his own voice. he did not lead your children from you. they made the choice to leave you, to leave god. it is up to them to find their way back. he can only save those who choose to repent; whether that atonement is here on earth, or on their day of judgment before him.
she will listen. he smiles earnestly. you know, after i was a general, i was a priest, he admits this quietly, breath hooked in his throat. i have seen many things. miracles, tragedies. i have spoken many things into existence through prayer, and i have also watched him ignore me. he can be fickle, i will admit! but, he grabs the alabaster paw now, so tiny and frail beside his own. he is always listening, and if you trust in him, listen to him, he will reward you. even if you do not see it now.
she thanks him, and andras feels the warm coil of lust tighten in his belly. it's no problem. it is-- comforting for me, too. to talk to someone who understands. there are not many of us out here, i've noticed. we must stick together, eh?
he looks down to the boys as she does. he can see the slow rise and fall of their backs. would you like me to baptize your boys, heda?

the wide fluttering of dark lashes conveyed so deep a shock that heda did not realize she had grasped amadeo's paw in return. baptism! her own first children had never been formally so, though the holy waters which surrounded the island had always been enjoyed with a sense of worshipfulness.
almost she said let me ask. but who would she ask? and why should she ask at all? "yes, amadeo," heda murmured with a quiet, glowing pleasure as she shyly looked away from their clasped paws to the sons now asleep beside her. "I'd like that, i think."
the idea that god would reward her for anything was too agonizing for heda to even contemplate in their shared moment. she had only just become accustomed to acceptance of the life which was given to her. heda had not dared to think of more, for she'd had it and lost it. why would god give her such an existence a second time?
but — she looked to the man amadeo, to his knowingness and his goodness; she searched herself and found comforted in the way that the man was so assured, both in himself and in god. "we'll go to the lagoon when they're weaned, maybe," the young mother added softly, wondering if he knew a better way.