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Summary
Clive is being unmade, body and mind, yet one question endures through it all, ever returning, like the flesh sinking inside him. An unbreakable smile aims to leave a mark on his shoulder.
Did it all start there, at the edge of a forest-crowned meadow?
Or was it that first apple, those first steps inside that cave?
Seven hells, did it all begin when the levin-charged sands of the Nysa Defile had risen in great puffs to clothe the silhouette of the man that is now fucking him so diligently?
