[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

Deimos The Reaper regretted the loss of her in his arms for those few, crucial seconds. They’d fit together easily: the ardent, fervent meeting of smoke and sighs, stone and gold, stars and the moon, the sun gathered in curves and fumes, against the storm, the tempest, buried in the twist and turns of his veins. She was breathtaking in her acceptance, in her tolerance, in her credence, and he would’ve given her in anything in those moments – the galaxies, the heavens, the mountains, the crags, the sovereignties. Had mischief not been a more paramount motive (immediate regrets, once he realized what he had in his hands), he might have continued, persisting, pursuing, slipping his mouth, raking his teeth, along the outer shell of her ear, delicate and tender, then smug and certain, maneuvering down the length of her neck, moved by the moans and gasps. Slow, savored seduction, tastes on molten tongues, willing participants in the haze of lust and ardor, moved by affection and a smoldering, wanton haze; more, more, more echoing and bounding along the heart’s reverberations and the mind’s blatant disregard. But he’d been a knife instead, wielding devilry as it thrived and prospered within his soul, as it coiled around his essence and nestled like an asp, like a fiend, like an iniquitous, Cheshire cat. Perhaps it was better still, not crossing lines, not pressing boundaries, not fettering and fraying at their aligned strands; he swallowed down the rush of too many things, too many unsaid notions, too many hushed, unholy vices, pushed into diversions and amusement, the stark, vivid cold rushing along his skin again. The water called him home – he’d had too many, between tides and mountains, between battlefields and sepulchers, between the chilling, nonchalant isolation, and the warmth of her – enfolding and pressing against his presence with a bewitching reminder of worlds before, a mother’s uncanny intelligence, a father’s blistering frame, sand between his fingers and toes, the pulse of the current rolling over his figure. In his youth, he’d been beneath its sanctions and along its swells more often than not, swimming, embarking, trusting in its staunch, colossal embrace (eternally enduring, forever intertwined). It did the same now, casting and beckoning within his stasis, but not as strong, not as fortified, not as beleaguering, a touch, a fringe, of its power and might. A little kingdom, full of enchantments and invocations he’d never quite understand or comprehend, but all theirs for the moment, cloaked and covered in merriment, in ridiculous antics, in halcyon edges and gilded beams of light. He’d anoint her queen of the river’s flittering, twinkling frame, and his throne the boulders, the stone, the pebbles underneath, unmoving, unattainable, unreachable, except for the babbling of the brook as it intoxicated, as it unraveled. Though, by Amalia’s reaction, perhaps being soused and drenched, a foible and foil of his antics and plans, hadn’t been her main agenda. He swam over to her as she called his name, summoned, commanded, demanded, a lover’s siren melody, his brow arched, struggling to make his features appear sheepish and ashamed. Instead, they turned into raw chuckles and laughter again, a rumble in his chest as he took her back into his arms, her hands locking over the fortitude and mass of his shoulders, bearing all her weight. He maneuvered slightly inward, more towards the embankment, where the pitfalls were more shallow, where he might be able to touch down with little effort. But the warrior still kept her caught and trapped there, ensnared along his grasp, as if it’d been his intentions all along. His voice was a deep roar over the river’s sonnets and stanzas, inquiring before he tried anything else; not believing in putting her in jeopardy, in harm’s way, when it was all from revelry and humor. “Can you swim?” His hands maneuvered along drowned clothing, down her back, ensuring his steadfast grip maintained her head, her shoulders, her body above the water, safeguard and sanctuary even amidst something unfamiliar and concerning. Thereafter, as his eyes managed to swing away from Amalia (how; when she was the onyx, sable wildfire along his ribs), he noticed the slightest sheen beneath the ripples, the curl and coil of the inlet’s rise and fall, a promise under billowing, oscillating surfaces. “See that?” He indicated, a toss of his head where his fingers were otherwise occupied, and curiosity, inquiry, got the best of him again, bristled in his breath, a dastardly grin pinpointed and segmented straight along his grin; ominous and threatening, a Machiavellian threshold crossed and wired. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime