There was a point in time when you were wary about leaving the countryside for the city, mostly because of the warnings that it was filled with demons, monsters and succubi in human form. Yet as a wing-adorned devil places a wreath upon your head before going to dance with a lobster boiling a chef, you can’t help but laugh. Everything—everyone—around you is backwards—brass is treated as gold, kings are clowns, the pretty are mocked while the priests are charmed. It’s complete blasphemy, but you adore it.
Acrobats tumble and leap alongside men towering in stilts as they toss handfuls of confetti down in a rainbow of flurried colors upon your grinning face. You feel the crowd begin to surge forward to the stage. There, a Romani man dressed in an ochre and purple joker’s outfit melodically summons the audience’s attention, a ge
~Reminder that they're speaking ROMANIAN: Lyuba=love~
That enveloping, lulling warmth. You revel every possible second within it you can, memorizing its spiced scent, what it tastes like with every sigh, how it feels of silken skin against your body. It’s your warmth—your life, your love, the very essence of your enamored heart.
Swelling with infatuation at the mere thought, you awaken with a weary smile, your (e/c) eyes met with what has become an all too welcomed sight in the mornings. Your husband, his ever unruly hair curling about his face in raven spirals, sleeps peacefully at your side, his arm tucked beneath your shoulders in innate protectiveness. His lips are parted a margin, but only the softest sigh accompanies the even rising and falling of his bare chest. You simper gently and reach out to caress that russet plane above his steadfast heartbeat. A glint draws your eye
“Do not dare to stop me from carrying out the will of God!”
“Ending an innocent one’s life is not His will!”
“But this thing you speak of evidently bares the mark of the witches! I am doing the people a big favor!”
“If you do not wish for His wrath to fall upon you, then take responsibility!”
Thunder clapped in the midst of that stormy night.
“Fine! Responsible I--will--be!!”
Gleefully humming along the tune of the music in the streets, you rub the dusty bells clean with a rug and even breathed on the smooth surface that left moist on it then you wipe it off with your arm, seeing your reflection clear as day. “Wow, am I doing a good job or what!?” You stood back up, holding your waist with your chin up, proud that you were able to make those good ol’ bells shiny once more.
“Indeed, wonderful job, (f/n)!