[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

Deimos Everything encompassed, implied, such a variety of entanglements that he had to dive beneath the current again to hide his smirk, his snicker, his grin, his blush; for despite the innocent proffering, the resulting thoughts were not so – incited, evoked, iniquitous developments, wanton, longing, yearning smoke, fire, and ashes. It was either a seducing, craving, hankering ministration on teeth and tongues, balanced between lips and skin, or nothing at all, so he saved the nuances, the sentiments, the bestial, barbaric elements of his imagination for the water, savoring the chill racing down his spine instead of a host of other elements. You could have me he almost announced, anytime, anywhere, but perhaps he conveyed it through motions, machinations, and gazes alone; and she wasn’t as eager, wasn’t as fervent, wasn’t ready, and there was a place, a threshold, he wouldn’t push. He’d gladly lift her up to the heavens, cajole her strength, her audacity, her provocations, but there were boundaries, lines, he wouldn’t dare cross. So it was a breath here and there, a long exhale, thoughts twisting and turning back down other paths and alterations, so he didn’t make a mess of things, so he didn’t frighten, so he didn’t lose her. It was a battle of apprehension, consternation, and trepidation, the tremulous, mercurial efforts tying and binding him in its intricate tethers – too long since he’d danced on those fabrications and entanglements, out of his element, stuck in the hollow, in catering to oblivion, the stretch of isolation and nonchalance. There was once a time when he didn’t worry about these things at all: completely, utterly detached from anyone or anything, a true behemoth and monolith within closed quarters and glacial outcrops. He’d been rampart and munition, indifferent to the likes of anyone outside his damned, tempestuous kingdom, rightful ruler of nothing but ice, anger, and acrimony. It had pulsed and bled within his soul for so long – when the rain was gone and then the cycle repeated, no matter what timeline he was in, no matter what life he was living – that sometimes it was hard to articulate how he’d ended up here, holding his breath underwater, thriving beneath the sun’s gentle caresses, quiet confidence, beatific graces. He resurfaced, caught her smile brimming along the shallows, grinned back in that rogue barbarity, pondered all the while on these layers, these lacquered, gilded days. Were it not for her, would he even be here now? The likelihood was frail and feeble; he understood very well his mode and method of behavior, would’ve been straight into the denizens of hell where he belonged, scouring shadows and growling at, with, fellow monsters. She’d pulled him out of the labyrinths and warrens, but wouldn’t be able to do so forever – he wouldn’t dream of it – and eventually, he’d have to learn how to find the luminous beams, the warmth, the sanctums and sanctuaries on his own. The Reaper would have to become proficient, would have to cultivate and manifest, would have to forge – but for now, he relished, he hungered, he desired, rapacious and voracious, intent on following the offerings, the affection, the ambience. He pushed his hands along his face, scrubbing the cold liquid into his features, then blinked the moisture out of his eyes, shaking his head from side to side as he intended to linger back to the shore. After all this time, his muscles had finally begun to ache, recalling, remembering, how long it had been since they’d been fully pledged to the depths, to the fathoms, and how much he’d stand to gain from swimming against the currents again. He allowed the rivulet to push him along, closer and closer, snatching at a few stones beneath his feet, glowing and golden, before maneuvering into the shallows, drenched, soused, shirt hiding absolutely nothing about his refinement. Only then did he notice an alteration in Amalia’s physique, tunic completely gone and tossed along the dirt, stone, and sands, only a breast-band clinging to her chest. At this, he raised his brows, eyes widening a fraction, surprised, bewildered, tempted, but saying naught about it. It was a suspicious bout though; normally he’d expect shyness, a retreat from the bold. Was she stringing along her audacity again, teasing, taunting, tormenting, delighting in forming the chase, in watching him scrutinize, puzzle out the complexities? He stifled a snort, then continued onward, until more and more of his form was revealed, totally soaked, nothing hidden, wandering out of the confines of the river and feeling the sudden chill wash over him, the water-logged fabric no longer useful, necessary, or practical. There, along the banks, he ghosted closer to her, but remained out of reach, concocting his own scheme and ruse. At her words, a Cheshire grin embedded itself along his mouth again, impish and devil-may-care, deep blue gaze entirely on her onyx stare. “I thought I already had.” He said naught more of the implication, on what it meant, on what it conveyed, turning and drifting closer to his basket, depositing the stones still held in his hands. Then, because while he was occasionally stalwart, valorous, and steadfast, he intended to remind her that he was also a fiend, a heathen, and turn-about was fair play, he lifted the hem of his soaked shirt and took it off, face rendered completely innocent. But he knew what he had – confident in those angles, undulations, and coiled sinew – muscles upon muscles, but also scars upon scars. They were a map, an outline, of every detailed march he’d taken, every sword he’d swung, every wound he’d endured, encountered, and survived; etched, sketched, deep into the contours of his strength, power, and brawn. The lacerations scattered along his shoulders and collar bone, then struck deep and fast along his chest, hardly a sliver of perfection anywhere on its section, some vicious and rapacious, winding their way down to his abdomen, unleashed over the muscles, skin, and flesh there. Some were mere jabs and stabbing marks, where he’d fettered and done something inept, stupid, slow, and suffered for it; each one a tale, a stanza he’d left untold. There were a few even along the dip of his hips, stretching below, beneath his pants – unseen, for now. The plains of his back were much the same; warrior, soldier, brute, and enforcer, guardian and protector of too many realms. The beast didn’t turn to see if she looked; a guiltless play on his face, hanging his shirt along a warm rock to dry. But he wanted her too – to stir, to incite, to induce, kindle, and instigate, to unravel, to bait, to goad – a configuration of emotions all calculated and ridiculous. Thereafter, in one more show of irreproachability, he leaned down to grab hold of her tunic as well, so that it could return to its former graces in the sun. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime