Isolation & Fear (Damned of the 2/19th Book Seven)

Love

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"I love you, my sweet Paul Foster," I told my beautiful husband, staring in his eyes as he looked down at me. My legs were twined with his, pulling him tight against my body. I could feel him deep inside me, throbbing, pumping, emptying into my ripe womb, making my belly warm and tingle, filling my mouth with the taste of sun warmed strawberries and my nostrils with the smell of time sweetened meat wrapped in wet leaves and nettles. I shivered at the sensations filling me, my belly flexing around the part of him that was buried deep inside of me.

"I love you too, Aine," He said, leaning down to kiss me hungrily. My mouth opened, my tongue rasping against him, drawing a slight taste of blood where the barbs on my tongue rubbed against his. He moaned in pleasure softly, making me shiver again.

I pulled him close, our seat slickened skin pressed together. I could hear whispering on the wind as a dark secret approached, but ignored it to feel the raw sensation of our love-sweat mingling together.

It was so good to feel him out of dreams, out of the cool still water he had slept in while I healed him from his injuries. I had missed him, my heart had not beaten right in his absence, and part of me had been in constant danger of slipping away somehow, to leave me both less and more than I was intertwined with him now, on the edge of my brook.

The sunlight sparkling on the ripples of my small stream that burbled through my glade told me that Death Speaks Loudly From Afar had reached my Aodan. Her hand was wrapped about his heart, unaware of the spikes and thorns hidden within him.

Of the monster he was, would become, and always had been.

My sweet Paul Foster slipped from inside me, and I was pleased that only a single drop of his seed slipped from my tightening womb-tunnel before it tightened enough to seal his love inside of me where it could ripen my belly and cause it to sweetly swell with another child.

I carefully disengaged from him, laying him on the soft moss. He was exhausted, his strength still returning to him, his eyes were warm and sleepy as he gazed upon me, unafraid, holding nothing but his love for me.

Shivers made my muscles ripple beneath my skin and the flowers on the vines wrapped around my shins, forearms, and in my hair opened to spread their perfume.

Seeing my beautiful Paul Foster was asleep, his eyes moving beneath the lids as he dreamed, I stood up slowly, stretching and yawning, popping my jaw by flexing it.

The rustling of the leaves sang to me that Chief Henley's hatred still existed, a throbbing red sore full of the heat of rage and hatred for all things living that did not share his blood.

The thought of how his blood must taste, rich and thick with rage, hatred, and heroism made my the thorns around my nipples peek from the flesh, the tips that would normally drip venom drained by my beautiful Paul Foster's hungry lips as he had drained the thick bloody milk from my breasts.

I wandered across the moss to a berry bush, picking the dark blood red berries from the branch, careful to avoid the hollow needle-tipped thorns that sought my skin to kiss my blood from my veins, filling one hand with them.

Prepared, I jumped from the moss to a thick branch festooned with hanging moss and scampered down the branch. The sun caressed my skin lovingly, making the fine hair on my legs and arms stand up with pleasure. Below me the brook babbled and sparkled, its song trying to lure me into its cool depths to swim among the smooth rocks who's surface spoke of deeds yet done, deeds passed, and the wear of the water was inscribing deeds being done.