Nocturne
The sky was a massive, melting mixture of warm, bold colors. Mauve, melon. With some emerald mixed in. As well as that dark, deep sea-blue above, getting richer and richer, dye-diffusing into black. The zenith turning into one of those big, velvety throw-overs, where the stars could glitter like silvery sequins as they blinked on, one by one.
The big, fiery, flaming sun, like a too-ripe tangerine, was sinking, descending on the horizon. Earlier, it had been high and mighty, like the brightest and tangiest of lemons. Then, it had fallen, fallen. Into an orange. Now, a tangerine. Its color and brightness and size, even, seeming to fluctuate with the cycle of the day. Though, in reality, its looks never changed. It was atmosphere that did it. The atmosphere and the eye. The sun might've been the solar system's power source. But, when its rays visited the Earth's surface, it had no control over how they were dressed.
Nature (and nature's light) changing into an evening gown, readying for the coming night.
And the music, lingering, like sighs wafting.
For the creek-things were composing a nocturne. A piece of slow, quiet reflection. A night-piece for nature's well-tuned piano, framing all the dreamy, contemplative characters and song-like melodies of this life (and this story). Oh, romantic, you slimy, green creek-frogs. Oh, insistent, you trilling cicadas. Oh, like court jesters, you crickets. Hop along, hop along, sing a song!
Sing a song!
Mockingbird, you can teach them. You never seem to sleep. You seem to delight in the deepest and warmest of summer nights. So, fencepost-sitting, twilight-twilling gentle-bird, show them how it's done.
Show them, darling.
Wheel and whirl and sing for the rural mouse-boy and his flighty bat-girl.
And barn owls, with your ghostly (oh, the ghost that lives and breathes), heart-shaped faces, and your loud, sustained screeches, try not to intrude. Try not to be jealous. Owls may own the political night. But nightlife? The mockingbirds steal your show. Try not to be jealous, please. Do not make a scene.
Oh, but that poetry could be written at (about) sunset! About evening! A time of reflection, of resting bodies and minds. Diametric to the sunrise (a time of rising, waking life). These two markers of the day. These two events of natural existence. Oh, that darkness was soon to come. Oh, that the light was burning itself away. And, oh, that it would return in proper, due time.
God's creations, designs. Oh, God's art.
Worthy of worship, Lord, are You.
We tremble at Your beauty.
Adelaide's eyes were half-open, hooded. Not from sleepiness, no. But from a hot, hazy contentment. "Oh ... " A soft, sustained sigh. And then an inhale, which was shorter, sharper. "Hmm," was the gentle, throaty sound. Her velvety, winged arms to her sides, somewhat, but delicate, blunt-clawed paws reaching out. Playing with the big, dishy set of pink, blood-gorging ears that arched above her open lap (her naked, inviting thighs). Ears that swivel-swivelled in the most hypnotically-entertaining way.
Field was on his bare knees, on the grass and dirt. His silky-pink, fleshy mouse tail, long and thin, snaking about like a fishing line being cast again and again. Or like a wayward rope. Like a spaghetti noodle. Like all sorts of things! It was good for toying with. Good for stroking, tugging, and wrapping, coiling around paws (and other tails). Such a balance was a mouse-tail. Such a cute thing. No fur, no, but still among the best of tails. It didn't have flash or luxury, but looking at it (and how it grew out of the mouse's pert, honey-tan rump), it just belonged. It totally belonged. It was just perfectly 'mousey.'
A lot of things in life made little sense.
But mouse-tails?
Mouse-tails weren't one of them. They were deliciously understandable.
And Adelaide giggle-chittered at this. Sighing.
The pink-furred bat was sitting, leaning back on the old, wooden tree-swing (which was very much like how a porch-swing would be, except hanging from a black pole going between two parallel oak trees). Her bare foot-paws barely reaching the ground, toes curling and uncurling with excitement. And then curling again. Her legs lazily parted. She had a relaxed smile on. But, to be truthful, little (rather, nothing) else. Her shirt, pants, and panties off in the lush, carpet-like grass, amid the powder-white and feline-yellow dandelions. Amid the scattered mole-hills. Bra, too, in that pile. Over there, somewhere.
Field had seen to that.
And she hadn't fought it (under the condition that he get naked, too; and the rodent had no objections). And that was just one of many benefits of living in the countryside, surrounded by nature, no neighbors within easy sight. You could make lazy, luxurious love in your yard on a warm, summer night, and not have to worry about being seen or interrupted.
Only under the eyes of God.
Oh, what freedom in this air!
Oh, what privacy.
And, oh, the honey-tan field mouse was doing/enjoying one of his very favorite (mm, mm-hmm) things.
(One and a half year old Akira, meanwhile, was in her outdoor 'play-pen' closer to the house, making chitter-sounds and playing with her toys, and trying to catch and eat lightning bugs with her little paws and her tiny bat-like tongue; just out of sight but well within the reach of Adelaide's 'emotional feelers.' Adelaide sent her daughter a sharp, mental command: no eating lightning bugs! They taste bad! Their glow-juice tastes very bad. We give them immunity. Just watch them be pretty. Be very nice to them. We'll go dragonfly hunting at the creek tomorrow. If you're hungry, eat the crickets that jump into your crib. If you can catch them.
Akira's telepathic response was jumbled. Baby-ish. As to be expected. She was still learning words. And she was still very little. She didn't quite understand. She didn't know what was going on, operating more on instinct and reaction than reason. She sent her mommy a blur of images, all tangled. No thought-words. Just gurgling thought-sounds. With developing meaning.
Adelaide had to smile at their telepathic bond. Akira was growing. She'd get the hang of it soon, enough. She'd understand. Oh, she loved her daughter's eagerness and innocence. She had a personality very much like Field's.)
"Mm," was Adelaide's audible, grounded sound. Accompanied by a sharp inhale through the nose. Her swept-back, angular ears perked, listening. Her hearing wasn't as all-around acute as Field's, but she could hear higher pitches than he could. Her head leaned back, muzzle tilting upward. Lips parting. "Oh," she sighed, head coming back down. Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment (just a moment) before opening fully. Fully, for a second. And then drooping back to that hooded state as her deep-pink eyes darted over her husband. "Uh ... Field ... "
The mouse kept at it, kept at it. His honey-tan fur was matted with sweat. He'd been baling hay all day (on his family's farm, a few miles away; he and his brothers, Dover and Dandy, had 'moused' the wagons, stacking the square bales while their dad was mowing and raking another field; his mother drove the tractor, with a tendency to brake and hit the gas without warning, sending the mouse brothers all squeaking and falling to the wooden wagon-top).
But they'd done about five wagons. Unloaded three of them into the hay loft (or the 'hay mountain,' as Field had been calling it since he was very little; and, for him, the name stuck; it was always 'hay mountain,' not hay loft or hay mound). The remaining two wagons had been parked in the pole barn for the time being. They would be unloaded tomorrow. And then, day after tomorrow, they'd bale the field that Field's dad had mowed today.
During the summer, because his family needed help with the farm-work, Field only worked three full days per week at the little Sheridan restaurant where he was employed (which was on the Main Street, just a few minutes walk from the new library where Adelaide worked). He worked there Monday through Wednesday, and then helped with farm-stuff on all the other days.
But, yes, a busy day of hay-baling!
Sixty/seventy pound bales of packed, sun-dried alfalfa (they were making bales this week, not balage; balage was when you wrapped the hay in plastic and allowed it to ferment into silage; but they'd done lots of balage on the last cutting). One hundred twenty bales per wagon. He must've lifted tens of thousands of pounds worth of bales, by his calculations. Farming was never easy work. But it was satisfying. Not only did his body feel thoroughly worked out, but he felt that delightful sense of wanting to just collapse. Farming was the only kind of work where, when he was done for the day, Field felt like he'd accomplished something tangible. Something vital for the world.
Most of the hay would be put in the hay mountain. Used for the grazing 'animal' cows (not sentient, 'fur' cows, no) that Field's family kept. The cows would eat it, use it for energy, produce lots of milk, which would be used at the Big Springs creamery (for bottled milk, yogurt, cheese, butter, ice cream). Some hay would be sold, though, to horses. 'Fur' horses. The suburban ones, mostly. They loved their hay. And you couldn't really get hay at the grocery store, now, could you. Or, if you could, it wasn't so fresh.
Field's family grew other things, too. Not just alfalfa. They grew wheat (for straw), soybeans, and corn. The soybeans and corn wouldn't be ready 'til summer's end, when the harvest-time of fall came about. The straw would be ready in another month. The alfalfa was always ready before the straw. And, as far as straw and alfalfa went, you got about four cuttings per field per summer. It took three weeks for each field to grow back.
But, oh, Field didn't mind hay-baling. Being on the jostling wagon behind the clunking, churning hay baler, the green, glistening John Deere tractor put-puttering along, up and down the mowed, sloped field. The grasshoppers leaping madly, dry and lanky, out of the eaten-up windrows. The barn swallows surrounding, putting on a daring, buff-blue show. The mouse wearing long jeans to prevent his leg-fur from getting all scratched at. Dried alfalfa was very pointy. Wearing gloves on your paws (if you didn't, you'd get callouses on your paw-pads from handling all the green baling twine that kept the bales together; you lifted each bale by the 'twine handles.')
However, sometimes, you got callouses even when wearing gloves. Like today. Field's paws were a bit raw. His knuckles a bit swollen, maybe. And he hadn't worn a shirt while baling. It was too hot. Too sunny. You had to wear long jeans, but being the bales didn't come into contact with your chest and back (only your legs and knees and fore-arms and paws), he'd forgone the shirt. Gladly. Which had allowed the breeze to cool him, caress him, allowed the sun to soak in. And Adelaide had made sure to very thoroughly sun-lotion his vulnerable ears and tail before he'd started the day. As well as his nose, too. His pink, sniffy nose. All smothered with sun-lotion. And they'd all been protected. Maybe a bit pinker than they had been this morning, but not burned.
But, after it all, when all was done, he had a very sweat-matted pelt, with lots of little alfalfa leaves clinging to his fur (all over), and the alfalfa dust (green and somewhat sneeze-invoking) caking the lower backs of his ears, as well as parts of his tail. Oh, but if he didn't smell supremely earthy (more so than his natural scent). If he didn't smell of green fields and the departed, sun-smothering afternoon.
He looked and smelled of a mouse that had returned from a hard day's labor.
And Adelaide rather liked that. Liked having him a bit mussed.
It was sensibly rural, rugged.
It gave the effeminate mouse an extra touch of masculinity. And there was something very erotic about that.
"Oh, Field ... "
A few squeaky-sounds. Light and airy. And several luscious, muzzle-pressing licks. Several kisses. From his lips to her labia. Soft, lingering, smack-smacking. His hot exhales washing over her flesh, warming the thick, tufted fur that surrounded her exposed femininity. The mouse's paw, actually, on her mons. His fingers splayed, running through and tugging at her groin-fur, rubbing just above the top of her vulva. Moving down, down, lightly. Until, fingers still in her mons-fur, the bottom of his paw-pad slid above and pressed down on her proud, little clitoris, hooded and loaded with nerve-endings.
"Ah ... ah."
Pressing, pressing. Easing up. Using the bottom of his paw-pad to massage her love-bud, while his muzzle tilted, nose flaring, whiskers twitching and brushing her labia. Modest tongue doing its best to peek out of his muzzle (though it couldn't travel far). But wetting, wetting her, and lips sucking, brushing. And a hungry, slurping mouthing motion. For lack of a better term: eating her out.
"Oh, gosh ... oh, Field ... " She squirmed, her toes curling again. Her short (between two and three feet) rudder-tail slapping against the wooden planks of the back of the swing. A beautiful pleasure, she felt. Making her chitter. Chitter!
He kept going. Softly, diligently, drunk on this. Drunk on her. His senses overwhelmed, his heart pounding, pounding with rising excitement, lusty love. Oh, love. Oh. He pressed his muzzle into her folds, then eased up. Pressed. Short, modest tongue contacting with the entrance to her vagina. While his paw-pad continued to massage her clitoris.
Chitter-chit!
Between his bare legs, his mouse-hood hung. Tick-ticking up, upward, slowly (but steadily) with blood (toward its just-under-five-inches). A dew-drop of pre glistening at the slit, drooling down the curve of the pink, circumcised head.
Adelaide, eyes half-open, huffing lightly, noticed this. And licked her showing fangs with her long, versatile tongue.
Field, though, didn't touch himself.
Though he began to ache for touch, for relief, he kept his paws on her body. Kept his attention on her body. Pleasuring her first. Her first. She was all that mattered. And he got plenty of pleasure from the taste and scent and texture of her. From what it did to his senses. From how she reacted to it. From the sounds she made. From the intimacy of his muzzle making love to her most precious of places.
"Oh ... oh," were the chitter-moans Adelaide gave, as she began to squirm more noticeably on the swing, which lightly rocked back and forth.
To the point where Field had to use one of his paws to steady it.
A heavy sigh, her head rolling to the side, muzzle scrunched up with sensitive pleasure.
Lick-lap. Lick-lap.
Nibble-nibble-nibble.
"Field ... you," Adelaide breathed, panting, giving a few, errant chitters. A toothy smile. Her calcium white fangs showing, sharp and glinting in the late-day light. "Field ... uh ... "
The mouse stopped his lick-nibbling, his nibble-kissing. Just for a moment (he needed a few minutes to regain his breath and rest his jaw muscles, to be honest). Stopped. Swallowing, absently licking his lips, he pulled back a few inches, away from her saliva-glistening, petal-beautiful femininity. Looking up to her and taking a deep breath.
A slight giggle-chitter from her. "Oh ... " An impressed (always impressed) shake of the head, eyes gleaming brightly. "Considering ... " A pant. " ... that mouses have very limited tongues ... compared to most species," she breathed, "how is that you're such a muzzle-giving maestro, huh?" A swallow. Voice getting very quiet, very appreciative. "I don't even have to ask you, darling ... and you do it to me. I mean ... many males wouldn't go down on a femme at all, and certainly not with your relish or intuitiveness." An easy smile. "What makes it feel so good when you ... when you do this to me? Is it your eagerness? Your willingness? Your submissive ... loving nature?" she breathed. "Because it's ... such welcome pleasure," she told him, wishing to melt. Oh.
Field blinked. Cutely and innocently, he blinked, his nose all a-sniff. His whiskers all a-twitch. "I just ... I like between your legs," was his wispy, effeminate response. Simple and shy. "It's nice," he said, flushing, his whiskers twitch-twitch-twitching.
This drew a wider smile from Adelaide. And a gentle, "What's nice ... about it, mm?"
The mouse bit his lip, eyes darting. Even more shyly. "Adelaide ... I ... " The prospect of having to verbally explained why he liked her genitals, why he enjoyed giving her cunnilingus, made him very, very bashful. "You, uh ... when we join, next time you bite ... you can know, and ... it'll be in my head. In better, uh ... thoughts and images than I can stutter out ... " Hot beneath the cheek-fur, his whiskers twitched. A breath. And a pause. "I like making you feel good," he finally told her.
"But it feels good for you, too ... "
" ... yes," he admitted. "It does. But ... I wouldn't feel good if you didn't. I like giving you pleasure," he whispered.
"Darling," she breathed. A happy sigh. "I love you," was her genuine response to that. Her fingers deftly brushing the perimeters of his earlobes. "I love you," she whispered.
His eyes went to a close. A sharp, silent breath. "Oh, I love you, too ... it's ... I wish I could tell you, you know, so poetically, without any cliches ... I ... "
" ... you do tell me. You're a writer. You've written me poems, and stories, and ... I've never thought them to be cliched. And, more importantly?" was the breath. The smile. "You show me ... oh, you show me ... "
A returned smile, his cheeks hot beneath the fur. An exhale. Whiskers twitched, nose sniffed. Ears swivelled.
"I, uh, didn't mean to interrupt you ... while you were, uh ... 'working'," she apologized, giving a bit of a chitter.
"I needed a few moments," he admitted, "to rest ... my, uh, tongue gets tired. I start to get out of breath."
"I can imagine." A bright, toothy grin. She held, now, to the edges of his lobes. Pressing the pink, delicate flesh between her thumbs and forefingers. Rub-rubbing, lightly, lightly, creating some kind of friction.
Field's lips parted. A bit of drool, of saliva stringing out from the corner of his lips. Until he licked it off. Panting, lightly panting.
"Relax ... relax," the bat cooed, her fangs glinting, looking an off-white in this sunset-light. "I have a half a mind to give you ear-sex right now ... " More pressing, deft rubbing of his lobes, fingers swirling in, in, to the ear canal. Brushing the invisible, tiny ear-hairs that lined the outside of it.
"Ah!" was the gasp. The mouse shivered, twitching. His breath was released as a whimper-squeak.
"I'm just returning the favor, darling," she whispered tenderly. "You like giving me pleasure. I like it giving it back ... it's only fair I get to make you moan." A chitter. "Tilt your head, baby ... "
His whiskers twitch-twitched, nose sniffed. He did so. Turning, tilting his head, so that his left ear was showing to her. So that she could lean forward, hunch forward. So that she could spend a minute licking at his ear. Lusciously, tongue dragging along, along, hot and lapping. Fangs grazing his flesh, even. Until, eventually, she drew a big, baited breath, and blew. She blew a stream of hot, moist air into his ear-hole.
Like a baby, the mouse squeaked, trembling with pleasure, clutching to his wife's thighs. His eyes were forced to squeeze shut, all watery. His ears burned, burned. The fiery heat! It seemed to drip down his head, through the rest of his body. Oh, the pleasure! His whiskers tingled!
Adelaide pulled back, swallowing, watching his reaction. A smile, her fingers tenderly tracing his cheeks, his chin. Going through the sweaty, matted, honey-tan fur. "Felt good?" she whispered.
Field, lips parted, weakly nodded. Unable to verbally respond.
"Did you ear-gasm?"
"N-not quite ... I ... not quite," he admitted. "No."
"We'll have to do something about that."
"Adelaide, it's ... it's too sensitive," he squeaked, very submissively.
"But it feels so good, doesn't it?"
"It does, but it ... it's too much," he panted, whiskers twitching.
"Darling, I know it's very sensitive. I'll go slow. I'll be very tender. If the pleasure starts to turn into pain, I'll stop, okay?" A pause. "Just give me a warning, okay?" The last time they'd tried this, the sensitivity had, indeed, turned to pain. A very sharp, hot pain, which had left the mouse in shaky sobs. It had been Adelaide's fault. She'd gotten carried away with what she'd been doing to him, and had allowed her telepathy to lose its focus. She hadn't realized she was hurting him until she'd heard him yelp. She'd felt awful. She'd cradled him, soothing him intently. And, after spending ten minutes calming him down, Adelaide had turned her attention to his mouse-hood, Field's mood quickly improving, the pain quickly forgotten. It had all ended well. "Just relax ... "
His ears began to fill with more blood, to get hot, hotter, more sensitive. The capillaries showing. Oh, delicate, fleshy, big mouse ears. So erogenous to sensual touch. As she so lightly, lightly traced her fingertips all around, in little circles, little lines. He shivered at this, loving it. He trusted her. If she said she would be delicate, he trusted her. And it felt so, so good, that he hadn't the willpower to ask her to stop at this point.
"I just ... I very much appreciate," Adelaide breathed, swallowing, and then taking a big, deep breath. Holding it. Letting it go. "I very much appreciate," she continued, massaging his ears, rub-rubbing, "your tenderness. The desire in your ... in how you look at me. How you want me." A pause. Gentle caresses to the outsides of his thin, fleshy, arched lobes. She could feel the heat they were giving off. "You've never made me feel anything less than lovely. And wanted."
"You d-deserve ... it," was the mouse's hot, whispered reply. His tail going a bit limp from the attention he was getting. His whiskers twitching wildly.
Adelaide's turn to flush. Oh, she'd heard all this before. They'd exchanged romantic vows, had emotion-dripping conversations before. She'd been inside his head, his heart. And he'd been inside of hers. They knew each other. Intimately. But, still, talking of love? It never got old. It never did. And, anyhow, the process of knowing was an ongoing one. The process of growth. Neither of them allowed for the intensity of their conversations (verbal or telepathic) to wane. Not in willingness or in content. After two years of marriage, they still spoke to each other with such genuineness. And such honesty.
They still spoke with passion.
They were more in love than ever before.
Whoever came up with that public perception that marriage stifled love (and sex) must've never been married. Or must've not had faith, rather, to back that marriage up with. For this was a marriage, here, built on faith. The Lord having blessed this union. This holy matrimony. And shielding them, guiding them. Helping them along the way.
It was all about trust.
Trusting God, firstly.
And then trusting each other.
For wasn't it true that there were three entities in every marriage?
The male, the femme, and the Holy Spirit.
And the first two did their best to accommodate and feel the third.
A breath.
A squeak from the mouse.
Her paws continued to make love to his ears.
Adelaide, at times, felt self-conscious. Not about her personality, no. She was the opposite of Field in that way. For the mouse was more self-conscious about his mind than his body. But, she, the telepathic one, wasn't at all self-conscious of her mind or personality. Rather, of her body.
Yes, she was the bold, confident one. She was the flighty one. The dominant partner in this marriage, by far. But, still, nearing the age of twenty-three, already having given birth to one child (and wanting, as she and Field did, to have another in the next few years; not yet, no, but in another year or so, when Akira was a bit older and they were ready to handle it), she felt that self-consciousness.
She would stand in front of the mirror, sometimes, biting her lip. She looked very fertile, very healthy. But her breasts were sagging, weren't they, more than they'd been a few years ago? Stretch-marks? Were those stretch-marks beneath her fur, by her breasts, around her hips? Her weight. She weighed eight more pounds than she had on their wedding day two years ago. Pounds that lingered from her pregnancy, from her change in hormones, et cetera. They'd stuck. And she hadn't gained more weight than that. She'd leveled out, and she was a rural soul, very active. She was by no means overweight. She wasn't as thin as Field was (being a bit shorter), but she still weighed less than his trim 150 pounds. Bats, by nature, were designed by God to be light creatures. Bones very light. Which allowed them to fly.
The last time she'd flown, bare, with no moon in the rural sky (perfect privacy), she'd noticed her wing-flaps were a bit stiffer. She'd stayed up there for half an hour, flap-flapping her winged arms constantly (for bats could not glide like birds could), all around, and by the time she'd landed, she'd been panting for breath. Used to, she could last at least forty-five minutes before she felt winded.
" ... d-darling?"
You weigh a bit more than you used to, true, but you're not overweight, Adelaide. You're not too old for things. You're nearly twenty-three. That's young! You're young, energetic. You still have your whole mortal life ahead of you. So, what's the problem? Yes, you've been pregnant, given birth. So, yes, you're not a teenager anymore. You're not eighteen, nineteen, twenty. You're a wife, now. And a mother (a full-time job in and of itself, in addition to her work at the Sheridan library). Your body's changed a bit. So, what? That's normal. He doesn't love you any less. He doesn't even notice those things, Adelaide.
He doesn't notice.
He doesn't care.
He loves you.
" ... Adelaide?" Field asked, airily, his voice almost floating away. So light it was. So gentle. The bat had stopped touching his ears. Her paws had slipped away. The mouse left hot and panting. "Are ... are you okay?"
The pink-furred bat blinked, swallowing. Her cotton candy, carnation-colored fur better than any pink the sunset could come up with. She cleared her throat. " ... yeah?"
"Are you okay?" he asked again, with more composure.
A nod. "Yeah ... "
"You, uh ... zoned out. I, uh ... "
" ... Field," she breathed.
"Yes?" From his knees, between her legs, he looked up at her, innocently, lovingly, with his dilated, blue-grey eyes. The pupils dilated. Such innocence. Such faith.
She opened her muzzle. And then closed it. And then opened it again, eyes watering. "Thank you," she mouthed. She moved a paw to his cheek, brushing his twitching whiskers with her soft, pink fingers. "Thank you so much ... "
" ... for ... "
" ... everything. For being such a good husband to me. A good lover. A good ... everything. You never let me down. You ... you're a good father, too. I watch you when you're with Akira, and ... " She trailed. " ... you're just a blessing, you know? In my life."
Bashful whisker-twitching.
"It's true. I know I've said this a hundred times before, but ... and you say it back to me. But I gotta mention it again. You ... make me feel," she breathed, "so wanted, so loved, so ... making me feel like I feel right now." A swallow. "Making me feel so good."
Field flushed at this, finally replying, "Well, you deserve it."
"You always say that."
"Cause it's the truth." He looked to her with sincerity.
She looked back to him. And sniffed, sniffled, eyes watering. She blinked a few times, clearing her throat. The mouse's love was truly unconditional. Was pure. Was rooted in such deep, emotional things. And she never need fear losing it. And that reality, that promise, that vow (that they'd both taken; to honor and to hold, in sickness and in health, for as long as they both shall live) gave her such comfort.
Life was not easy. Was full of hardships and heartaches. They'd both had their share. They'd both been crushed, at one time or another. And, in future, they would face many losses. They would face many pains. But they would do it with a shield of love, a sword of faith. They would do it valiantly.
Their battle, their war had been fought for them.
Christ, on His white horse, had taken the fall. Had risen again.
So, do not fear.
Do not fear.
"To be fair, Adelaide, I'd ... I'd be an aching shell," the mouse admitted to her, "if you hadn't come into my life. If you hadn't ... " He trailed, swallowing. He cleared his throat. "I, uh ... "
" ... it's alright," was the protective, caring whisper. A pause. And a little nod. "There's a lightning bug on your shoulder-fur ... look ... "
Field craned his neck, trying to see. He blinked a few times, nose sniffing at it. Whiskers twitching.
A giggle-chitter from her.
"Think he likes being mouse-sniffed?"
"I can't help it," was the whisper, as he watched the little insect.
The lightning bug glow-glowed. Stopped. Crawled onto his arm. Stopped. Glowed. Phosphorescent, bio-luminous green. Opening its wings and stealthily, silently buzzing away.
"Guess it just wanted to say hello," Adelaide whispered, watching it go, watching it become a part of a whole. A drop of light becoming an ocean of light.
"Guess so." The mouse smiled, turning his head, locking gazes with his wife. A sigh from him. Thanking God for such mirth, such beauty. Such hope (oh, such eternal hope). That they had both been redeemed. That joy had been made possible.
It was very dim, now, the sun having mostly set.
Akira having dozed off in her playpen by the house.
And Adelaide saying, after a moment of dreamy though, "What would you say, darling, to, uh ... forgoing further paw/ear/tongue-play, and, uh ... commencing to some good, old-fashioned hip-grinding and fang-biting? Some good, old breeding, huh?"
"I'd say," was his wispy reply, smiling, his paws resting softly on her knees, "that I get to be on the bottom."
A bright giggle-chitter. And a nod. "Course ... of course," she agreed, chittering some more, tilting her head. And she slowly slipped off the swing, to the cooling, dewing grass, her winged arms enveloping him fully, like blankets, as they fell, panting, naked, to a lie-down in the country dark, beneath the sparkling stars and the blinking lightning bugs. Beneath the moon that was soon to rise.
But, oh, all those sights could not compare to what these young, wedded lovers were about to do!
Oh, 'twould be a glorious, God-made thing.
Oh, 'twould be blessed.