I tell you without thought that I love her. If I were a poet and writ of her on the page I could not have fashioned her more perfect, for what words could describe her hair, black like an ember after the flame has died or her skin that is soft like moonlight. I felt her warmth from the moment that I entered her temple and I knew that she was a Goddess before I worshiped her. I was only a boy, rescued from the tyranny of slave work. The sisters of Bride found me laying among the thorns at the village crossroads. My brow was damp and my legs bloody where the undergrowth had sliced my skin. “Lift 'im up, 'elp us carry 'im Mayra.” I could hear the women fussing over me but I did not have the strength to open my eyes. I was weak with hunger and thirst. The one they called Mayra fretted about me, feeling my limbs and chest, repeating again and again the name of her Goddess. “Bride, oh my Goddess, oh my S
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