*

When the stars rose, the villagers lit the bonfire in the center of the camp and pulled Capillata into the whirlpool of celebration.

Capillata had never thought his legs could be used for dancing, nor that his belly could hold so much food. The songs pouring out of the villagers' mouths were more varied than the nightingale's melody, inundating his ears like honey. Though he couldn't understand every word, he could hear phrases like "morning star", "virgin son", and "salvation" repeated constantly.

The villagers treated him with utmost hospitality, filling him with a false sense of confidence like an inflated bull's bladder. He wandered around with his newfound confidence, searching for the fragrant scents of black currants and silver grass, but got lost in the mixed odors of carnality, perfume, and food.

Capillata couldn't find Vit’via in the crowd, but saw the caravan where she lived was aglow with firelight. He sat alone at the table, waiting eagerly for her appearance, his inner emptiness and anxiety growing.

He saw a plump serving maid lift the curtain and say something to the witch inside, perhaps asking if she wanted to eat something. Exiting the caravan, the serving maid, with a wooden tray full of dishes in front of her chest, swayed her hips towards the long table. The soup bounced on her chest and splashed onto her dirty apron, greasy tabletop, and even onto the guests. She placed meat pies, custard tarts, de-skinned capercaillie sprinkled with fennel, and seared venison liver with a browned crust on the table one by one.

Capillata picked up a meat pie and took a bite. Perhaps in order to bake the most pies in a short amount of time, the lower part of the pastry was slightly burnt, while the upper part was a little undercooked, but the meat was just right, and the cumin flavor that rushed up his nose made his eyes red.

A glass dame-jeanne bottle appeared on the table with a clang, and the half-full purple liquid inside the container emitted amber light. He leaned in to smell the bottle's opening, and was as expected, overwhelmed by the pungent scent. He curiously tasted it with his tongue, and the suffocating bitter taste made him furrow his brows.

"The witch asks you to drink this for sure." The fat woman kissed Capillata's cheek with leech-like lips as if to pull his head off. Then she giggled and swayed her hips as she left.

Capillata raised the bottle and carefully examined the ever-changing luster through the faint light from the carriage. The liquid in the bottle was like the witch's true heart. From one angle, it looked like sweet wine, but from another angle, it looked like deadly poison. Without drinking it, there was no way to know. So Capillata pulled out the cork stopper.

The liquid, emitting purple smoke, slid down his throat, and all the pores on his body suddenly relaxed. The hard table became as inviting as a pillow. He leaned on the table, closed his eyes, and the joyful noise disappeared unconsciously. In this brief moment, everything was so beautifully peaceful, until he felt something wet and cold on his right cheek. He reached out and felt the unpleasant sensation of the humus soil sticking under his fingernails. Capillata opened his sweaty eyelids and turned over. A round, pale full moon hung just above his heaving chest.

The boy struggled to sit up. The pitch-black bonfire froze in the night like a giant corpse. The table was still a mess of cups and dishes, but the revelry was over, and there were no dancing figures to be seen.

A gust of evening breeze blew, and Capillata didn't feel cold at all. His skin was burning hot, but a terrible emptiness was gnawing at him from within.

He lifted his nose and sniffed. At this moment, all kinds of smells settled down, and a thread-like fragrance emanated from the extinguished carriage. He quietly lifted the canvas, as the sour sweet of black currants and silver grass hit him.

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Vit’via lay on her side in the faint moonlight. Among the books piled up in half of the carriage, she chose one that was the right thickness and had a soft cover as a pillow. She was draped in a thin blanket, and her slender, delicate tail, like that of a chamois, lay across her furry hindquarters, trembling rhythmically with each breath.

Capillata held his breath and tiptoed into the bed. The smooth back of her neck was as bare as a white chalk cliff in the dim light. The white chalk should be tasteless, but her snow-white skin carried the sweet and mellow fragrance of plums and milk. The comforting scent of sebum made Capillata half-close his eyes.

Alcohol and the euphoric feeling of being praised as a Morning Star, like the warmth of spring awakening a python, lured the foolish courage out of Capillata's body. He gently embraced Vit’via from behind. Her slender and tight waist was like a valley sleeping under the thin blanket of night fog, and the hidden curves were deeply fascinating. His fingers, like lost travelers, traversed the smooth and elastic exotic rock. If not careful, they would wander into the dense jungle -- that plump, firm, and sheep-like buttocks.

Wandering in the pitch-black darkness, the obsessed traveler becomes increasingly crazed and frustrated. How can his sluggish fingers appreciate all the mysteries of the valley? Surely, the divine must have bestowed such talent upon another prophet. That lowly prophet, who has endured the torments of friction and compression, is slowly but surely rising.

At this moment, he heard a gasp. Vit’via's shoulders were rising and falling violently.

"You drank the wine I prepared for you." It turned out that she had already woken up, but had been holding her breath. Compared with the burning touch, her tone was cold and hesitant.

"What's so special about it?" Capillata asked as he slid his sensitive fingers over the plump hips.

"It's ordinary formula. Dried toad powder, dumb swan tongue... mixed into an love potion," Vit’via twisted her body and said with tears in her eyes.

"You don't need to make me drink these things. I know my feelings are real." A sense of sadness arose as Capillata knew he could not prove the emotions he possessed at the moment. He was puzzled by Vit'vias actions and couldn't help but stop caressing.

"It seems I mixed too much," Vit’via tried to persuade the young man behind her. "Thinking that what you feel is true love, is actually the side effect of a high concentration of love potion." At the same time, she also tried to convince herself, huddling her body, choking back sobs, "But I must have made a mistake somewhere."

"Where?"

"Even though I was extremely careful, I must have accidentally drank the potion at some point," Her lips turned white and trembled with fear. "Because I don't dislike your touch."

In silence, whether persuading the boy or herself, she miserably failed.

"So be it, let it be wrong then." Capillata lightly kissed her neck. "The moonlight is bright, we can do this all night."

Vit’via briefly indulged in unfamiliar kisses, but in the warmth of the embrace, her blood seemed to freeze. "Tell me, how bright is the moonlight?"

"Like soft frost...snow...I mean hail." Capillata didn't expect her to ask this and searched for words in his alcohol-numbed brain.

Vit’via propped up her body and widened her eyes. Her fearful gaze made Capillata shudder. She even ignored the boy, just staring at the moonlight that penetrated the canvas seam.

Her face turned pale in an instant and the color drained from her lips. As if drawn by the moonlight, she pushed Capillata away and left the carriage. Capillata followed, but no matter how he called out, Vit’via did not respond, just dragging her hooves on the grass.

Her bewildered silhouette knelt in the center of the open, appearing so small surrounded by the forest. Capillata reached out to the girl bathed in the moonlight, but she was unaware of anyone approaching from behind, tightly grabbing her black hair and murmuring to herself.

"Vi..."

The familiar atmosphere pervaded the surroundings, making one shudder. The dark clouds were blown away by the wind, and the jaundiced full moon sprinkled sickly moonlight. Vit’via arched her back and threw Capillata away.

She shook her head, the edge of her irises still clear as porcelain, but all sense of reason was gone. The subsequent collision came suddenly, and her head was already on Capillata's chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Vit’via straddled the fallen boy and, with a brute force disproportionate to her slender body, grabbed his collar. However, at this moment, she regained some consciousness and, with her remaining Holy Wisdom, pulled her head over, turned her body, and rushed towards the rocks scattered in the open space. The horns scraped against the blood-stained stones, making a harsh scratching sound.