[seasonal event] to find a soul somewhere

amalia chandrakant there is a color that shines through your skin Like the moon on the wind His haughty tone works as intended, eliciting a laugh from the quiet girl, a pealing of bells against the impending storm. "No, you're not," she answers wonderingly, one hand reaching up to cup his cheek, feather-light and reverent on the soft hair of his beard. Her thumb dances lightly over his skin, his lips, as though she is afraid of smudging off his smile, rubbing the ardent devotion away. He is a masterpiece she does not deserve, wrought from steel and ice and fire, copper skin and rosy lips and eyes like the swelling tides of the sea. Again she wonders what it is he sees in her, what she could possibly offer a man like him. He is stalwart, confident, courageous and strong; she is crumbling, faded, sharp edges and brittle bones, lost and lonely even when she is not alone. Amalia gives herself away, pieces offered and rarely returned, her heart on a plate served without reserve because it is who she is, how she is made. All she asks is a heart in return, that the exchange be made, the hollow in her filled; but inevitably she is left without, a little emptier, a little more betrayed. How to explain this to him, to make him see? It is not that she thinks he will hurt her, that she thinks him cruel or uncaring or wont to betray. It is simply that the world has been as much to her, that her past is full of kindness and love easily whisked away, taken by death or distance or disinterest, debts paid. Amalia reaches for the sun, but clouds plague her sky, leaving her shadowed, shuttered, caught in the dark. Deimos is a sunbeam caught between her fingers, hot against her skin. She cannot let him slip away. She cannot bear the clouds. In the hold of his arms the girl relaxes, shielded and secured by his embrace. She lets her hands slip over his shoulders, down his back, though one tangles comfortably in his hair, gently teasing the tangles among the curls. Her face buried comfortably in the crook of his neck, Amalia exhales heavily, his words curling in her ears like smoke. I'm not going anywhere. Even though she doesn't believe it, she also does, because she has to, because she has nothing else. She has to give to be given back, to put the faith in him he has granted her; she has to give him a chance to love her, before accusing him of betrayal. Wrapping her arms tightly around him, Amalia smiles against his skin. How can I convince you?- and only one thing springs to mind, an immediate answer, a little silly, a little sweet. "Teach me to swim," she murmurs across his skin, pulling back just enough to peer up at his eyes, the blush upon her cheeks eloquent and sincere. Share with me the things you love. Give me your time, your attention, your care. Give me your heart, and I'll take it all, and give you everything in return. the night is full on behalf or your evaded mask And the rings round your eyes

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