[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind Here's the thing- There are many aspects of Amalia which one may find unusual, perplexing, inconsistent with expectations laid out of the girl. Her tendency to boldness, when she has been so shy; her inability to see affection from others while handing it out herself; her love of home and adventuring, and anxious discontent while doing both. Paradoxical, as all people are, she is a set of contradictions trying to do naught but live, to love and thrive and succeed and be better while wielding a boulder of fear and doubt. She is tepid, tremulous, tentative, shy, never one for wanton displays, for overt flirtation, miserably displaced in their newfound game. Yet now she is shirtless under the sun, brazenly staring at the man, her arms bare, her chest heaving, her ribs clearly visible beneath olive skin. Here's the thing- Amalia has never been fazed by nudity. Oh, full nudity is, perhaps, rare, but the only thing which makes her pause is anxiety enforced by societal norms. That visibility equates to sexuality is foreign to the girl, who grew up infinitely capable of affection without the trappings of lust or need. Which is not to say she has no stirrings- the girl has thought throughout the nights, kept herself amused with wicked dreaming, looked upon others and wondered what it might be like. But for Amalia such things are always abstract, an exercise in hypotheticals, never searched for, never felt. She feels no qualms about losing her shirt: she is comfortable around him, unafraid of judgment, that he should call her immature for stripping down. In this way she is childish, perhaps, naive and unthinking. But Amalia has never been attracted, per se, never wanted for more than emotional closeness, never trusted enough to ask for more. But here's the thing- -people change. Deimos rises out of the water, and immediately Amalia feels her stomach drop. Or is it rising, swelling up, suddenly on fire and brimming with smoke which, she thinks, might rise through her trachea, ease its way out of her mouth and suffocate them both? There was heat earlier, moments of electricity, of sharp and shocking need, but it is nothing - nothing - next to this. Anything she might have wanted to say dies upon her lips as the monolith rises from the deep, a painfully slow and aching ascent, every step an agony. The shirt on his back is utterly useless, nothing but a thin and clinging tease, serving no purpose but to incite her envy that she is not the one on her skin. There is little more modesty from his leggings, though those at least have remained opaque. Still he approaches, drawing closer, sun-soaked perfection spat back from the seas. Mouth suddenly dry, Amalia swallows, her mind a frantic, flailing blank. For the first time she is aware of her nudity as more than just exposed skin, aware of his eyes on her, his increasing proximity, the way he could reach out and touch her sternum, trace the vertebrate in her back. The urge to hide is strong; the urge to push against him stronger; in the end she is frozen, a deer in his wake, waiting for the collision, the things she never thought she would feel thundering in her chest- And then he passes with a whisper, a laugh, a devilish grin. Does he know what he has done to her, what he still does as he walks away (not a bad view, if only-)? Mechanically Amalia turns, transfixed within his orbit, her heartbeat a frantic what next, what next? He turns away, and she wonders in a bemused moment if it abashment, if he is trying to offer some dignity to her undressed state. Her feet still in the shallow water, she presses them among the sand, as though the earth might rise and quell the searing embers in her loins. It doesn't- far from it, because as she watches Deimos does more, strikes a blow and scores a point, ups the ante of the game. The baker's breath catches in her chest as he lifts his shirt, exposing a criss-crossed saga of scars, stories told in silver upon his copper back. She has never wanted anything so much as to follow every one, make him tell her every story as she traces with her lips. Shoulders, back, arms, hips, and down- again she swallows, frozen in place, her heartbeat frantic in her chest. Beneath the crescendo, another thought: what could he possibly see in her, stick thin and angular, wiry and hard? He deserves something supple, soft, voluminous, strong. As Amalia looks upon his magnificence she is that much aware of her own lack. How could he possibly burn for her, the way she burns for him? What ache and need could she inspire- and perhaps it is madness, perhaps she is strange, perhaps there is something wrong with her which incenses this lust, something broken and horrifying to scare him away. Because it is lust, heavy and hooded, avaricious, human, and entirely new- For Amalia cannot feel lust without love, and she knows, in that moment, that she- -is about to have her secret ruined. "No!" Panic, at last, cuts through the haze, and Deimos reaches for her tunic, the treasure still within. So carefully hidden, so thoughtfully put aside- the girl darts forward, no thought but to keep him from revealing prematurely his gift, that the shirt must be snatched away from his grasp. Her right hand reaches for the cloth, fingers lacing around the stone within, trying to tug it back to her breast, to shield it from his mischievous stares. But, here's the thing- In her quest to reclaim her treasure she has made a fatal flaw. Once the frantic nerves subside, Amalia realizes where she is: a hair's breath away from his exposed chest, dangerously and deliciously close. A new sort of panic rises in her now, a panic brought on by knowledge that she is entirely lost, that there is no way for her to withstand now. He is a black hole she has tried to skirt around, but at the end of the day there is nothing to do but give in. Narrow cheeks crimson with a wild blush, she lets her eyes trace slowly down his form, hooded and hungry as they take in sinew, lapping up muscle and hair and scars. Down, to the hips which rise from his waistband, and back up, her breath shallow, her heartbeat far too fast. She shouldn't let him see her, the fury which he has lit- At last her black eyes meet his blue, her expression unreasonable, her hand still on the shirt, her voice a hot exhale. "I... You... have a lot of scars." It is all she can think to say, the only decent, coherent thought, the only piece of decency above her roaring need. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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