The moon does not shame to look upon the consummation of Elsa's and Anna's love. Its snow-white rays pierce the chamber window, unappalled by what it finds.

Pale light lingers upon Elsa's face, so lost in ecstasy. It is as if the gleaming moon wishes it might caress the queen and bestow affection upon her. The light catches Elsa's eyes, shut in sensual bliss. It illumines her soft lips, just parted in a high, euphoric whine… It gleams upon her hair, which in this late hour is now a wild mane, seemingly strewn with star-glow. In the moonlight's luminescence, head fallen back in ecstasy, the queen of Arendelle seems as marvelous as a marble statue of a goddess.

And in this artist's image, Anna stands in for Adonis or Mars. She is more beautiful, more exquisite than they, those paramours of an immortal… The moon bathes her too in its shine, washes her over in silver waves and coats her in silver-crested moon-brine.

The moonbeams bathe them both in a halo of light, even as Elsa suckles upon Anna's breast, even as Anna's tongue slips between her sister's legs…

The moon does not veil itself with a shred of cloud. It does not hide in hate of an act that most all of humankind would deem obscene. No sin does it see here, between these two desperate souls, clinging to a condemned and desperate happiness.