[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

Deimos The battlefield had long since rooted itself inside him: a tangle of thorns, nettles, scars, and vehemence. In his nightmares, he watched his comrades fall over and over again. In his dreams, they were like scattered stars, crossing front lines and barraging enemies, victorious cries and melees over the sounds of the dying. In the back of his mind, it was always there, the rush of a sword surged and pierced into another’s flesh, protection, vigilance, quick, swift calculations – he wouldn’t have ever truly escaped its anomalies, its quirks, or its foundations. It was just a part of him as his lungs, as his ribs, as his blood, wouldn’t be stalwart without its bindings, wouldn’t be menacing without its cloak and daggers. It hummed and thrummed throughout his body, in little pieces of blemishes, in little decibels of longing, a lifetime of violence scorched and emblazoned along the inclinations of his flesh, ichor, and bone. He endured its hardships and crooned for its madness; a cyclical chaotic embrace, contradictions and calamities, because it’d taken his comrades and it’d enslaved him to perseverance and fortitude, might and brutality, the silent lilts of detachment, of isolation, of teamwork, opposing sides clashing and rumbling down his sides. It was just as bizarre and enigmatic as his presence – startling, intimidating, grim, but glorious, vital, and necessary. But his strength, the core, vitality of it all, came from conviction, resolution, and determination. He thought Amalia’s was much the same, blending and burning from the inside out, raising her head to stare at the constellations and sun, where undoubtedly the star would eventually bow, a deity next to a goddess. But then there are no other comparisons he could make: she was far more riveting than a thousand other things he’d come across, gilded and triumphant, capable of saving herself form quandaries and quagmires, from ominous entanglements and foolish tirades. The world shifted for her; while he rampaged against it, rebellion and revolution constantly on his sights, instead of accepting, imploring, exploring other avenues, routes, streets and pathways – she was infinite and daring, while he was ineffectual and ignorant, witless, inexperienced into how one gave credence and faith to something else entirely, uncertain how to wander into realms and not fight them. So he gave his credence to her. It was all he had. She uttered that the scars didn’t matter: but they’d etched and sketched their lines so deep into him he was wildly uncertain about the statement – how did one let go of the past? How was he supposed to forgive and forget? How was he meant to billow around those plentiful walls he’d scourged and created, concocted to repel and protect his vulnerable, hidden sentiments? How did one simply allow themselves to heal, piece by piece, shard by shard, ruin by ruin? Deimos had spent so long in annihilation that he found it entirely improbable to look across the other side, to drift in amongst the staunch and steadfast. But then he’d made room, granted and proffered and offered and let her take those small, minute gestures, until they loomed larger, wider, grander, more immense and intense; heartstrings above damnation, surfacing from purgatory and oblivion. Had he already ventured outward, and not even realized it? Had he tiptoed into the promised land, dragged along, and the shadows were behind him, no longer encasing his empty, hollowed vessel? Perhaps, because the Reaper felt alive here; into the light, scorched by the sun, melding his bones into something other than contempt and loathing, savoring, relishing, those knotted, gnarled threads where they’d plucked at strands and unraveled them together. If he permitted himself those days, those moments, those seconds, where he could enjoy, where he could lavish, where he could exist, he might’ve understood more than just reverence, more than just desires, more than just love. It was riveted in his bloodline too; cherished in the ichor, pulsing and pervading, ricocheting and reverberating an emblem, a tattoo, against his heart. It chiseled in waves of old tomes and narrowed eyes, high cheekbones and golden hair, the light from broken doors and golem menace, pumpkin scones scalding tongues, paws beside palms, and hundreds of other written lines, sketches of stories and foundations. Those were amidst the pits and pendulums, but so much brighter, so much better, supreme and exalted; a paragon, enriched and ambrosial. It’s okay her whisper wound its way through his ears, and maybe it was, it was, and he’d believe in it, put his soul into its boundaries and leap. They were so very stupid, he knew it, he understood it, he laughed at the coating of tears in her eyes and flooding his own, traced over in a laugh as his thumbs reached out to stroke the salt away from her cheeks, from their bouts of melancholy that should’ve never existed. He couldn’t fathom why she wanted him, why she dreamed of him, why she loved him, but he wouldn’t deny it any longer, or keep it at bay, holding onto it like a beacon, like a sanctum, like a sanctuary. Acceptance enlightened and ignited him, then roared, a beautiful, wild, untamed, savage flame, taking its time to extend into an inferno, a rush of devotion in the ardor. He abandoned the melancholy, took hold of the embers, the cinders, and let them press their way into his skin; a searing, smoldering ache, a beating, beatific crescendo. Liberation, freedom, and deliverance, all intertwined by her essence, by her soul, by things he couldn’t ever describe. Her fingers curled into his hair and he was lost again, in her eyes, in her caresses, in the nestled fury ebullient in her stare – he gasped at the sight, came undone at its stature, fixated on the sable rising, rising, rising into rage – for him and all his ineptitude, his face surrendered to her hands, mouth agape, a raw, fascinated wonder. “Are you certain?” balanced on his tongue, slid between his lips, because he was so afraid she’d regret it, that he’d take everything and she’d realize it was a pathetic mess, that it was nothing in comparison to her – but then he conceded defeat as her mouth slid to his, and he was hopelessly immersed again. On his knees, embraced and taken: at first, it was a demanding, a voracious, hungry exploration, fervent, rapacious; lips searing, emboldening, a groan, on the back of his throat growling and rumbling into the ether, both equally possessive, wanton, the slow, idle seduction a forgotten thing. Then he strived to shift it, to not tear the world apart in her touches, in her caresses, in her strokes, mouth unhurried, taking his time, exacting pleasure and demonstration, the love he whispered into her skin, never quite requiring words when he had action for his eloquence. It billowed along her cheeks and then upon her ears again, a stiletto cast of molten breaths and scintillating air; drifting down, down, down her neck, selecting the arches of her nape, pressing and pressing until he heard moans of satisfaction, tongue resting, tasting, along the pulse beneath her skin, on the waves of the sun and earth and stars. He closed his eyes and felt; recalled what she meant and who she was and everything else in between, lips scattering kisses and caresses downward while his palms lingered up and up, until teeth were at her breast band, pulling and imploring, head and neck bowed, fingers on the edges of her rib cage, memorizing the patterns, the curves, the angles. They were bold, and they’d be bolder still: alive, awakened, incensed, together, together, together, not a dark hymn, but a balanced oeuvre. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime