She would be giving birth soon. She might have given birth already.
Zephaniah struggled over the thick, waist-deep grass of the swampland, barely able to avoid the bogs and predators with his sense of smell. He refused to transform, even so; his wife was already vulnerable, nigh to her delivery, and considered cursed by her people for choosing him, though their reasons still made little to no sense at all.
Kursorian — they said it meant he, as a Sokaiuan, a lower order of angel, had sullied his faith in God.
Hard to sully what you never had to begin with.
If they saw him flying in, they might kill her. If he walked up to the front of the village, they might kill her. He was banking on his staying out of her life to keep her safe, but this... this was childbirth. However safe her life on a day-to-day basis, Zephaniah couldn't help but think in this one time, the enemy was both within and without.
Would the village kill her? Would the child?
Please, Nansci. Please, I beg you, you have to live.
He crested a hill and stopped.
Bones with ripped and rotted flesh scattered the little dip between two hillocks. Cerise strands of hair hooked around grass, occasionally clumped together with dark, dried globules of blood. A sign, barely the size of two hands, angled up from the gruesome remains of a ribcage.
He could hear her voice in his head, soft, innocent, as he approached.
"Zeph, I love you. I don't care about your past."
She claimed that so sweetly, willing to bury herself in ignorance for his sake. Willing to look past the faults that had branded him for centuries now.
HERE LIES THE WHORE OF A HERETIC. PASS NOT BY HERE.
So this is a short piece written for my thesis project; a flash fiction from my antagonist's perspective 365 years prior to story canon. Do I have your attention yet? 8D