The sun didn't rise in the way it used to. It unfolded, like petals pressed open by an unseen hand, spilling liquid gold across the forest canopy and down into the hollow where they lay. The altar had cooled beneath them, its glow softened to a steady pulse, like a heartbeat at rest. Around Jude, his lovers slept - some tangled in each other's arms, some curled on their sides, glowing faintly in the hush that followed creation. Lucy's body pressed flush to his, her lips barely parted in sleep, her hand still resting low on his abdomen, claiming him even in her dreams.
He didn't move. Couldn't. His body was still saturated with the experience - the union, the explosion of pleasure and meaning and transformation. Every inch of him felt new, as though his skin had been peeled away and rewrapped in something finer. More aware. He could feel the island now not just under him, but within him. In his blood. In his breath.
