[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind They ebb and flow, touch and fly, grow close together then fall apart again and again and again. It has been games, so far, a child's thing, fun and folly and ever easy to find the rules, to follow where the other might lead. And they have taken turns leading when the destination did not matter, when both were clearly falling and tumbling, their edges and armors smoothed away by the wild journey they shared. Everything has been play thus far, an easy dance composed for two, steps taken with eagerness if not grace, skirting and stepping around the fire. But when the time comes to look, to truly move forward instead of to the side, the game begins to fall apart. Foundations built from folly will fall apart like sand: and oh, how close they are to crumbling, neither willing to admit to need, to confess they are afraid? There is something suddenly cold and shuttered in the distance between them, something she does not see at first. Too preoccupied with small treasures and minute victories, meaningless trinkets and innocent mischief, she does not notice what she has lost, does not catch his crestfallen nature until he sits at a abyssal distance- and then the blanket may well be the universe, the space between them the barrier she had long thought thrown aside. Bemusement, pain, alarm, and guilt grapple for dominance in Amalia's heart, clawing and choking in her slender throat, the heat of his presence doused with sudden cold. Was she too forward, too coy, too bold? Was offering nearness a mistake on her part - did the man yearn for distance, ache to be freed? The young girl shifts, extending her legs, curling them up and resting her chin upon the prominence of bony knees. She ought to have put her shirt back on, considers, for a moment, grabbing the thing, rebuilding the shield between them so that at least there is an excuse, a reason for the frigidity she feels. Except- Deimos' voice is like ichor, like tar; she sinks into it, is drowned by his tenor, the gentle lapping of deep intonations a balm upon her skin. Turning her head so she faces the man, Amalia follows his hand with her eyes, watching him trace the silvery lines, listening as tales are revealed in turn. The world he comes from sounds wicked and strange: the baker cannot imagine such violence, such bloodshed, and her heart twists and aches and burns for the knowledge she cannot save him, that he has had to endure. How many wounds has he had inflicted, how much steel carving into his skin, and why, why, why could it ever be needed, what action could justify such wanton hate? At last Deimos lifts his arm, revealing the face she has come to equate with light and acceptance, safety and home. "All of them," Amalia is quick to reply. "All of you." For a moment after she is silent, a quiet contemplation of onyx on blue. She lets her hands peruse down her ankles, a flurry of thoughts hidden behind her calm stare. There is a path to choose here, a fork in the road, an option which opens up trails in her mind. She can let the distance widen, fester and burn, can keep her own fear and wear it like armor, shielding herself against inevitable pain. It is a safe option, the one that has held her thus far, and it would be a shield for him, as well, sparing him disappointment and dismay, letting him run now before she can betray him, leave him wishing he had not stayed. Or she can close the distance, return to innocuous play, pretend that the cold moment was only a breeze, continue to stumble blindly in the dark. It would be fun, and foolish, and sustained for a time, until the fire grew once more too hot, and her feet brushed against it and she pulled back again. Misunderstandings would grow in between them, sharp shards of glass they tried to avoid but inevitably stepped on again and again. Blood would be spilled in the sand between them, footprints of indiscretions and mistakes; but they could ignore them, probably, for a time, let them mount until they invariably crumble, leaving baker and Shade buried by the thousand, million things unsaid. Or she can be strong, and radiant, and bold. She can have conviction, and accept herself- the things he said he saw in her, the qualities he claimed had made him hers. Sighing softly, Amalia shifts, extending her body upon the blanket, her actions mirroring his own. She can hear the water in her ears, ringing and ringing like a fire alarm, cautioning her that this is not the right plan. She can feel the hot coals in her loins, telling her to take the step, to close the distance with actions and leave the world unsaid. She can hear her heartbeat in her chest, a rhythm on repeat. Lying on her left side, Amalia looks at the man, her face and voice carefully composed, attempting and failing to keep out the quaver which vibrates electric through her form. "Deimos," she says into that space between them, filling the silence with an alto hum, her voice a statement, an admission, a fact. "I think I love you." Then she moves to roll onto her back, her heartbeat visible in the thrum of her chest, unwilling and unable to look and see the inevitable shock and rejection on his face. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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