Sunrise

From Wrichacir

Sunrise

Fel’jya closed his eyes. As the lids slipped down, fingers slid across his waist, along the tense and hungry edge of his muscled, bared flesh.

In another life, feathers brushed against leather, wood against sinew.

Fel’jya took in a breath, and felt the nails slide up his abdomen, catching the sweat from the newborn sun. The scent of frankincense caressed his dry lungs, left him weak and heady. A soft breath brushed against his neck, wet and steaming against the harsh and arid air. A smile came to his lips.

On another world, words were shouted. Sandals shifted in the sands. Silence followed.

Fel’jya breathed out, and with that breath escaped a sweet memory, a song he’d sung every day with fervor, but only once with faith. The words spoke of worship, and he had. The words spoke of surrender to the divine, and he had. The poetry of anointed oil was written on his form in sweat and needful honey. His devotion had been rewarded in exultant melody, and the honey was as sweet as the wine of the gods.

Beyond all mortal view, sinew tensed and rose in song. Wood brushed against wood. A single shout, and then the rush of angry winds followed.

Fel’jya opened his eyes. The temple knight was fearless, they would say. His form was flawless, his eyes alight with joy and faith. In truth, he was never there. He was in the world beyond, between the thighs of his temple priestess, serving her in whatever hell they would share for their crimes. He did not see the arrows, nor did he feel them.

Fel’jya laughed, and closed his eyes again. The penetration was a release, too long in coming. The end was ecstasy. The entry carried him to paradise.