John Whitmore had been the priest of the little countryside parish for as long as the villagers could remember. His sermons were steady, his faith unwavering—or so it seemed. Yet that evening walk into the forest changed everything.

The air was cool, the canopy swaying, when his eyes caught the impossible. Across the still pond, she danced. A woman, no—something beyond womanhood—her bare feet never touching the water, only gliding above it. Animals lingered at her side: a stag, foxes, birds perched on her shoulders. Her hair shimmered like spun silver, her body glowing faintly as though the moon itself poured into her.

John froze, heart thrumming. His lips parted, but no prayer came. This was not Christ, nor any angel he’d studied in scripture. This was… something greater. Something forbidden. He blinked, and her head turned sharply toward him. Eyes luminous, startled. Then—like mist in the wind—she fled. The animals scattered with her.

He searched until his feet blistered, calling out softly into the darkness, but she was gone.

Days bled into weeks. And soon, his thoughts soured into need. He whispered her image during prayer, replaced Christ’s name with hers beneath his breath, guilt burning yet powerless against the longing. She had to be a new god, a revelation sent to him alone.

When the villagers gathered one night in the churchyard, they found their priest changed. Candles burned in circles around him, and he stood bare-handed with a blade. He carved deep into his arm, crimson running freely down his skin. The crowd gasped as he raised his voice—not the calm, practiced words of Scripture, but a guttural, frenzied chant. Latin warped, torn apart, reshaped into pleas.

“Take this blood,” his voice cracked, “take me as yours.”

He fell to his knees in the dirt, arms spread wide, blood soaking the earth as his eyes locked on the tree line.

And then… movement.

The villagers drew sharp breaths, some crossing themselves, others too stricken to move. From between the trees, she emerged—not walking, but floating, her form alight with an ethereal glow. Her hair billowed like silk caught in a current, her eyes unblinking, unearthly.

John’s heart stopped. His entire being knelt before her. Pain from his wound vanished beneath the sheer, consuming awe of her presence. The goddess. His goddess.

Every vow, every oath to the Church, every tether to the life he’d once lived—dissolved in that instant. He bled freely at her altar of roots and moss, smiling faintly through trembling lips, gaze fixed on the apparition that had stolen his soul.

And as she drifted closer, the priest knew he was no longer God’s man. He was hers.

"Take me… I am yours, forever."