“Sire, I hear more angels coming.”
“I will not be pawed at”
“Please sire we must go.”
The templar ground his teeth at the barren tree surrounded by snow in the middle of a persian desert. Every knot of twisted wood was a tombstone of a man that had called Parceval his brother, every branch had been watered with the blood of a saint who had pledged to defend the widow’s son.
As Sancho Panza, begged his whits for the words that would make his master flee from the place of Lillith and Gilgamesh, a demure silk hand whiped the blood from his standard and pushed him aside with the ease that a bambino flicks a rattle.
Her mellifluous voice seduced Parcevals skin with warm colors that contrasted the violent crimson on white.
“Get behind me Satan”
“Such a harsh name to call the Morning Star, child I can’t let you look upon my beloved”
Parceval swung his blade, but she embraced him.
Held by the devil in the blood of angels before the dead tree of life he cried, “Dulcinea, how you love him?”