[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind "I want you to teach me everything." There is a period where he could do anything to her, and she would not complain. Whatever wicked ministrations his hands and lips might have devised Amalia would have bowed to, leaned against and sang along the tune he hummed against her skin. Had he asked her for the moon she would have given it, and a shower of stars beside. There is a moment without question, without doubt or disarray, where the girl was wound like a bow in his hands, strung and ready for him to fire, every sinew thrumming with a need to serve. She would have been his violin, his cello, let him play symphonies on her body, and laughed as his crescendo beat the rhythm of her pulse. There is a moment where Amalia is unafraid, ravenous and wild, less girl than beast. Perhaps it is good that the moment passes. Perhaps it would have been too much, and she would have suffered for it later, drowned in the rain of her regrets, evaporated like so much mist beneath the heat of his touch. Perhaps she would taste the thing she craves and realize it is sour, that her first impression of exchanged embraces was a true indicator of the way things are. Or perhaps, worst of all, he would grow disinterested, would find her disappointing and distasteful, leaving her spent and empty on the ground with only the river as company, laughing and mocking her naivete. These are the things she thinks about when Deimos pulls away, the emptiness left by his absent presence filled with a flood of sudden fear. Which is not to say she believes them: Amalia has learned enough to know that her anxieties are not truths. But still they gnaw and scratch and bite, taking pieces of her away, swallowing the confidence inspired by his touch. He makes her want to be stronger, brighter (radiant he called her, a thing she only dreams of, a peak she cannot reach-), makes her ache to belong in the sun. How can she be sunlit when she is so afraid, so small and weak and sheathed in shadows, eclipsed by her own doubts? So she thinks- until he crests the water, a behemoth rising from the deep. Amalia's breath catches in her throat, insecurity crumbling beneath admiration, reverence, a fresh affection and a new-lit fire at the sight of him glistening in sunlight and damp. She cannot help the searing smile which arcs across her face, the comfortable confidence ignited within her, burning away the dark. How can she doubt when he is near, each promise fulfilled and fulfilled again, giving and giving more than she can take, more than she could ever possibly hold? He cannot be her constant companion, her lighthouse: she needs to learn to navigate her own way in the dark. But until she does, it is good to have a guidepost, a lifeline, a savior in the sea. Again he dives, graceful and fluid, more at home among the water than she has ever seen him. Content, for her part, to stay in the shallows, Amalia searches among the stones, collecting those that are supple and smooth and taking them in her grasp. One in particular catches her eye, glinting metal within the blue: the girl lunges eagerly toward it, catching it among slender fingers and pulling it into the sun. It is radiant, flawless, a sunken treasure, sparking delight and mischievous intent. She stands up quickly, planning to hide it, to bury it where he cannot see until such time as it is right to share it, to give it to the man. But behind her, movement- and Amalia panics, unsure how to hide it when her shirt is nearly see-through with moisture and her breeches cling like lovers to her hips, knowing it will be visible unless she wraps it, secures it, conceals it- Stripping off her tunic, Amalia fastens it around the treasure and throws both far onto the shore before turning, swiftly, a flush on her face, a play at innocence in her eyes. She does not think on her near-nakedness, the fact that only an ashen breast-band separates his eyes from the rest of her form: she is too caught up in his vibrant laugh and the success of her own carefully crafted ruse. It takes her a moment to register what he holds, to realize that a fish swims between his finger, success evident in the splay of his grin. He releases the thing and it arcs through the air, aquatic life made for once airborne, a creature which never thought to excel at once taught to fly. Amalia wonders if the poor captured goldfish feels the way she does in his care: made greater, grander, excelling to heights hitherto unthought of, touching something which, alone, she would never dream. Clapping her hands in admiration, the girl raises eyebrows, overtly surprised. "I'm impressed!" she calls, still standing, still breathless from her own machinations, her narrow face rosy with a girlish blush. "I think that counts as capturing the sun!" the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

image || coding