The Troll Queen's Bride
It sings a lullaby, somber, like the wind, and rocks her with arms like sin.
She stirs, rosebud lips opening in question. Her cherub nose tilts upward, as if breathing in the moon. He hushes her silent struggle, kisses her blue marble wrists asleep.
“In time, my rose, I will harvest you. When you are in your prime, for fruit from the vine is sweetest. In three times seven years, your mustard seed shall bloom. Nothing is beyond the scope of God, and I am a man of the book, eldritch vestments and infernal inclinations aside.”
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