Although she was still connected by a clairvoyant mirror with her brother Murmur, she could also almost read the shining thoughts of Francis. She knew his prayers before he spoke them, she heard the music of his song, and thrilled to the core of her being, just to sit with him in silence.
Why could he not show her the tenderness he most easily gave to the goat?
This was not to say that the elven monk had romantic encounters with the beasts that gathered around him - no, he was not like the herdsmen of the north who the villagers would complain of, saying that their wild children had hairy backs and were born in paddocks, later to be but mute simpletons digging and ploughing for their fathers.
No, Francis did not engage with his animals like the fancies of the Roman courts, whose zoos were salons of iniquity - parlours of coiffured creatures wearing their golden harnesses, brushed and fragranced, feasting on the tables, soiling the marbled floors with the Egyptian servants hastening after them.
No, Francesco had no fetish or inhuman lust - he quietly and simply bore love for everyone, and everything.
- Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances
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