Transubstantiation

I have not yet failed you, friends! I had a very busy day today but I did manage to bang some words together. It's about Keshena - she'll tell this story herself in a much more straightforward way before too long. I realize it's a little sassy to rhyme "love" with "prove," but Shakespeare did it, and there's a long history of people thumbing their noses at that particular slant rhyme, so I think that makes it okay. Historical precedent redeems us, right? It’s not a mistake if you can show that someone else made the same mistake fifty years ago!

Taste of blood on the wind…
the distant drums.
The wave rolls back and leaves the beached remains.
Men reduced to little more than stains.
Held-breath silence until the next wave comes.

She finds what's left of him, minus his heart -
the dead men always take the hearts away,
and then when the sun rises the next day,
the soldiers hack their friends' corpses apart.

She knows at once that he's too big to move.
She takes his face - the one thing they can't steal.
She knows this sacrament cannot be real.
In his god's eyes, he's nothing left to prove.
She knows a wound that's hidden will not heal.
He'd call her grief pride, not an act of love.