&& there is little applause from Rhea, to indulge in war’s gifts. Her spine holds her tall, heavens no heavy thing upon bone. Hesitation rests in fingers, the only show of trepidation. “…Who is your champion?” The question spews, draconic rage subtle. “&&… will they fall?”

“I admire such bold resolve—habits forged, it will serve your child well in these halls of life…” A cranium aches, skull tilting—a chin directs his attention upon a woman waltzing with war, borrowed heart thrumming. “—Her. She is a thing of divinity, is she not? Mine.”

“Does time forsake you?” A chin lifts, fingers weaving before her—arena’s architecture abandoned from tight fists. A nod follows—shadows chasing the embers of her own gospel. “There is no other of such title; holy && bold.” She bleeds it, too.

open.spotify.com/track/6T30FrEQ…

Damnation will not be kind.

& does he have a reason to fear—has he woven sin in disgrace?

Good is rewarded with holy. It is a truth long etched into history, well known.

Has he behaved?

You must repent.

The Goddess may speak otherwise.

Find sanctuary in betwixt curves of thighs, impious brilliance painted in the sheen of the wet clinging to legs. An act most foul.

It does not exist. It just is.