[se] chasing the rapture

Deimos Deimos had very rarely given an ounce of care towards what others thought of him. For a modicum of his life, he was determined and stalwart, and thereafter, between the cracked, rebellious pieces, detached and indifferent. “In tatters,” he mock-shuddered at her response, disinterested and apathetic where others were concerned about what he did or whom he adored. Jigano had tried to pry it out of his jaws, and the beast had toyed with secrets for her, and then because it amused him, to not allow the bard some information, to dangle it within reach and then scatter it away on petulant, infantile silence. Most of it had ghosted away anyhow, between dances and diversions, touches and fragments, and unless they were all turning blind eyes, then the revelations had always been there. He was about to take the blaze, the inferno, further, ignite just for the revelry, but what will they say about you on the tip of his tongue, as if it were shameful for her to be in his presence, in his orbit, little moons and suns spinning their way around his bestial existence – But then she pursed her lips, and he tilted his head, eating away at the quandaries and possibilities, until it seemed he’d been successful, and the chase was vanquished, finished, coveted in his grasp. It was quick and sudden – he hadn’t expected the finale to end so abruptly (their play and pretenses were always lengthy monologues and soliloquies, then a volleying, back and forth, back and forth, a quip, a dagger, a grin), earning her scowl and interwoven smile. Disappointment in his victory was bizarre, for a greater portion of him had regarded her with a smug, satisfied smile, the cat caught with the canary and not even bothering to release it: stepping back into her path and trajectory with a savage stride. Some other contortion, the more eager, fervent, ardent grandeur, was simply pleased with the notion of a gift - claiming bringing a feverish, sultry, molten tint to his movements and motions. His eyes, somewhat hooded, somewhat superior, flickered from her to the basket and its contents. There was nothing tentative in his advance, but reverential, methodical, pondering over the last time anyone had ever gifted or granted him anything (not worthy his world, his mind, would’ve said and added; no one presented anything to a machine, to a colossus, to a glacial statue seething on the throne) – one hand reaching in as the other continued holding the bestowal he’d created for her. It was wrapped, hidden, tucked away, and his palm slid over it carefully, studying, awaiting the contents to slowly unravel themselves, bits of blue and gold sparkling back at him. When he finally disentangled it completely, he beheld it in his hand: a beautifully crafted whale, with ichor christened in sunlight and rivers, tail skittering across imagined waves, speckled as if honed from the heavens. It was like her and him and the little star-dusted companion, all melded and molded together: gilded armaments for her grace and audacity, sapphire for his eyes, for the water, for the ice tied in his soul, and the coo, the croon, of Jyoti lavished and gathered there, harmonic, a serenade, an oeuvre. “Thank you.” His voice was hushed, but his eyes were not – captivated, lingering to meet hers with everything else he couldn’t name, say, or think. “It is wonderful. Did you make this?” Then, he supposed, it was his turn: no longer hiding the package behind his back, extending his arm in offering, as he’d done so many times before, would continue to do for eternity. Its wrapping was not so fine and honed as hers, but the gift within was what mattered the most: upon her unwinding, she’d find two enclosed together: the first, a small notebook, bound by three spirals of gold thread, but the cover was the truly exceptional piece. Perhaps they were both inspired by the same, small companion: for it was embossed with galaxies and constellations, bright, lingering stars and patterns of blue, lavender, and ivory streaks, with a whale dancing within the middle. Cloaked along its side was a quill, with a lengthy feather and plume of an owl, found upon the forest floor, cleaned and dried, pressed to make something new. “I thought you could use it to write down recipes.” He strived for an explanation, but it was all he could accurately convey, two taken by the sea and its inhabitants that had fled for the skies – apprehension and consternation suddenly rumbling along his chest and ribs, pondering what he’d be able to concoct if she didn’t like it. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime