From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
The rosy tint and hue to her cheeks was all the encouragement he required, raising his arm only slightly to resist her nudge, thoroughly amused, cheeks dimpling, lips turned into a roguish glint as he watched her from the corner of his eyes. “I suppose the Whispershore is nice too.” The beast, the behemoth, the warrior rolled his shoulders, but the sultry intonations were already there, in the ether, in the air, struggling not to laugh – they’d explore and delve into new roots and fields together, because there had to be worlds beyond these.
With no vegetables left to chop or peel, he settled his attentions on the grouse, grabbing a nearby utensil and stirring up the meat, listening to the crackle and sizzle as it cooked. He didn’t expect Amalia’s rapt, wondrous attention, gaze sliding back to hers as he asked about the ocean: and perhaps some of them had simply never seen something so marvelous, so wide, so powerful, tucked away in the bubble before the Spire fell. “Very,” he answered, ducking his head down to carefully pull his hair back into a bun, wrapping it around with spare ties nearby. His memories were a thousand leagues away, digging into sand and squalls, laughing with the gulls, chasing down current after current, diving headlong into its mysteries and majesty; a vivid representation of potency and beauty – an unforgiving paradise. “There is bound to be one nearby. The rivers have to go somewhere. We can find it.” Maybe after everything was said and done, and they could be free, liberated, cast off into the dunes and sunsets.
The sun mentioned her mother again, and his head tilted a little, listening as he poked at the grouse again. Similar parenting styles might have brought about a pattern of characteristics, but where he rose under his mother’s unrelenting force, he wasn’t sure what had happened to Amalia: the daring, the boldness was there, but not from the beginning. The Reaper arched his brow, pried only a little deeper. “Was she a baker too?”
The monolith watched as she grabbed hold of the dough, and he cleared off a section of the counter, maneuvering remnants and remains, shifting pots and pans so she had ample space to accomplish her work. And all the while, the inquiry that would start a story teased and taunted from across the kitchen – he raised his head a fraction, as if surprised, bewildered, by the query. He hadn’t mentioned his other life – dark and darker still, eyes narrowing as he contemplated how to go about it. There were a lot of parts she didn’t, wouldn’t, want to know, or perhaps already presumed, understood: the violence and menace still contorted and coiled along his frame, vicious and calculated, blistering and seething. “That is a longer tale,” and he leaned back against the table, wishing for something to do so he had other places to look instead of her face – dreading some sort of maddened, frightened, or disappointed outcome. “I had another life before this one – similar starts and pitfalls. That time, I lived in the mountains. We still had wars and invasions, and we still lost quite a few of them.” He swallowed down the bile, the contempt, hastening his gaze to settle on the vegetables, or on the dough. “At some point, I rose from General to King. Rexanna was my Thief.” The beast allowed the smallest of smiles to pull at his lips. “She had twins: Kiada and her brother, Kianzo, with a King from another land. The children were both bold and brazen. I may have encouraged Kiada’s spitfire tendencies.” His grin grew, recalling the audacity springing up from her exuberance, the rise of her onslaughts and upheavals. “Then I died.” The smile loosened and decayed away, a passing of time, rubble, and ruin, entombed in a mountainside, in the darkness, in purgatory. “For whatever reason, I was given a new life, and did not see her again until we found one another in Caido.” Was that enough of an explanation? He wasn’t certain – felt the need to shrug away a myriad of emotions, sentiments, and memories, but they pressed against his skull, alleviating nothing.
Her blush grows fiery under his teasing comment, spreading across her cheeks and neck, hot as fire on her skin. "Mmhm," she murmurs her dulcet agreement, unable to meet his eyes, to say more than that, though every inch of her expressive figure screams of fondness and memory, from the smile on her face to the way she shifts, her bare toes curling on the wooden floor, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. She is suddenly aware of his bare arms, his wild hair, his large and skillful hands and the things they have done, the things they could still do to her-
His offer to show her the ocean breaks her from her haze of her wanton thoughts, bringing her back to the present, the future, the things she wants to do and see. He offers to take her to see the ocean, and Amalia blooms with curious delight, turning back to him, her eyes bright with excitement. "There's a map from Safrin's library - it showed the ocean, and mountains, and the rest of the world." Her gaze is starlit, wide and wild. "I want to see it all."
She follows him as he clears the counter, laying down some flour on which to roll the dough. A bottle makes a good enough rolling pin, and as she works quietly for a moment, pondering his question about her mother. "No... she was a medic. Abandoned. My grandmother was the baker." Her shoulders roll in a shrug, thoughtful as she continues to stretch out the pastry dough. "My mother... she taught me a little about medicine, and fighting, and how to read and write." Rishima had believed in sciences and facts, while Amalia leaned more toward the mystic, the greater wonders of the world.
Deimos' tale leaves her silent, her attention rapt upon him as he speaks. It is a strange and expansive tale: he was a king, Rexanna (Rexanna?) a Thief, and Kiada a child of spitfires and mountains. The girl pauses in her work, her head tilted as she listens and takes in, mulling over the things he says, the world he paints with his words. And he died- and Amalia's heart clenches in her throat, her hand reaching out in gentle empathy, fingers trying to lace into his, to offer comfort for his strange misadventure. "Is that why you wanted to learn about reincarnation?"
The teasing had the desired outcome, a fiery glow resuming its inclination around her cheeks, but not saying anything more about the matter: he’d hoped to apply a little more taunting and a little more desire into the atmosphere, partially to entertain himself, partially to instigate and provoke. He thought about purposefully moving into her presence, invading her space, pressing and pressing, enticing and alluring, a beguiling indication of his affection. It was wanton and avaricious, but if they both craved and yearned and longed – his eyes went back to the food and hid a little sigh – later, so naught burned.
The lustful edges billowed away on the scope of her excitement and ebullience, a level of enthrallment reminding him of stars and constellations behind threads of the sun, listening as her delight simmered on the fringes of the little house, echoing in leaps and bounds. His heart responded much in the same pleasure: a map in a deity’s library, displaying mountains and oceans, the rest of the world; he wondered if there were edges of cliffs in there too, rolling crag, wide-open fields and meadows, or other places, intervals he’d never seen beyond the realm of war and pillaging. “Then when we get a chance, we should go.” Not an abandonment of duties, but an opportunity for escape, for adventure, for something other than the surrounding intervals of pending desecration and bloody tirades. There were bound to be more kingdoms, more sovereigns, more and more and more.
Deimos watched as she rolled the dough, listening for the further deciphering of her mother, of medics instead of bakers, Abandoned; she could’ve fit in well with those in his life before – Menders and soothers, assuaging the broken, scarred contortions to their fleets. So she’d taken after her grandmother instead, blending in those talents in medicine and fighting, reading and writing, applying them to pastries and business; he hummed a little in thought, nodding. “Which one led you to the gods?” Or perhaps that had been all on her own, intrigued and curious about things entirely beyond reach: he’d tried once or twice, but when he was ignored, he simply detached himself from their shrines. It hadn’t gone well since.
But then she was silent as his own tale wove itself around the enamel on the wooden structures, clenching his jaw a little, waiting for some weight to drop and fall along his shoulders. She paused and he arched his brow, not expecting her hand to reach along the void, but he accepted it anyway, fingers curling around hers. Hadn’t she died too? What was with these realms, striving to return and salvage the cracked, splintered souls, returning them to the present? His voice was strong and enduring after her question, their first encounter, lingering in the darkened halls of a ruined library. “Yes. I did not understand why I was having strange dreams. Why I saw things I had not encountered. Why I was brought back.” He still didn’t know – no answers forthcoming, except when Kiada ensured he had purpose.
Had Deimos made an advance then the girl would have acquiesced, melted easily into the flame of his touch, succumbed and seethed and risen up like putty beneath his hands. She is ever aware of him; who wouldn't be, the towering figure a bulwark, a bastion, musculature and exhalations and sweat and skin and touch? One breath, one look, and she would be his, utterly entranced, locked within his ministrations. The thought of it brings her to shiver, the hair on her neck rising, her toes curling a little against the floor.
Alas, the mountain does not press and the moment fades away, not forgotten but set aside, left to simmer on the back burner of her thoughts as they continue to work in comfortable closeness. Nimble fingers stretching out the dough, Amalia takes a moment to reply, enjoying the fading reverberation of his baritone hum. "My grandmother. She would tell me stories. She taught me most of the songs, and the legends. We would pray together." Fond nostalgia flickers in her tone, the losses gentler in his presence, the shadows eased by his light. For the first time in years Amalia begins to feel like she may truly move on.
The thought is terrifying.
His story continues to bewitch and bewilder, the pieces swimming through her brain, not quite connecting into a whole, too vast and wondrous and fascinating. She tilts her head as his explanation, remembering keenly that day in the library. She had thought him a glacier, a blizzard in her domain; had questioned and rebelled against his presence. And even then he had worn her down, his patience and perseverance breaking through her discontent, his eyes like oceans, drowning and devouring her even then. She hadn't known then where that river would lead, how deeply she would fall, how far she would sink. She hadn't expected him to become a feature of her life, to fit in against her soul like a second skin. She hand't expected to--
--wait.
"Rexanna - the Rexanna I know - is Kiada's mother?"
He went back to stirring the grouse as the steam rose and the meat hissed, ensuring it was still cooking evenly, before addressing anything else – mind in multiple directions, alternating courses in the comfortable atmosphere. The god approach had always been intriguing: his family hadn’t been overly pious, their deities bent towards more hate and contempt, a blend of abhorrence amidst the living. It didn’t do him much good when he approached shrines or altars, begging for another’s life, completely, utterly ignored, starting him down towards a path of more reticence, more sedition, more unholy vigor. Helovia’s hadn’t been amidst his consideration either: the Time God sizzling and sparking in their midst, summoned when necessary, but he was otherwise away from that sanction too, leaving the trusted oracles to contemplate and muse with their creator. It’d been indifference from the start – so it made sense that they, no matter the celestial being, twisted into the same faction. He wasn’t worth their time or effort. But Amalia’s reverence had always been there, kindled and cultivated from a young age. What was it like – to have faith in other things besides one’s self? He’d always adhered to his own strength, to his own brutality, to his own ruses and schemes. Credence and conviction in a higher power was something else altogether, and since he’s remained here, his opinion on the matter hadn’t been altered or swayed. He relied on himself, on his friends, on his comrades, but never swore allegiance to the sway of the omnipotent. “Mine did not have much use for the gods,” he shrugged, as if that explained everything – the moments scattered at random, the defiance and sedition, irreverence conditioned straight into his bones.
But his stories were not finished either – he could almost hear her mulling over the topic, pondering what to make of it. The Reaper was nowhere closer to answers for his variety of inquiries: the hows, the whys, the whens, the wheres, but had nearly accepted it for what it was: a mystery, an enigma, another alteration and bizarre enmity caught in oblivion. Perhaps he’d been lucky, chosen to forge a new path, to deviate from the route he’d always chosen (destroy, rip, tear, massacre), but there had to be more to it than that.
But maybe the questions had been enough – since they’d led him to her.
Deimos almost snorted, only arching a brow instead when Amalia picked over a detail she’d must’ve missed in the entirety of the conversation, too much to absorb and savor. “Yes.” He confirmed with a nod, blue eyes roaming away from the grouse and back to the baker. He nearly wrinkled his nose, another boyish, youthful interlude, but caught himself, drawing his lips into a thin line instead. “The timelines are a little skewed there too.” He frowned, folded his arms back over his chest, as if he regretted some sanctions of advice and sagacity. “I encouraged Kiada to reunite with Rexanna. Have a discussion.” He winced a little, thinking of the potential for so many things to go wrong there. “They had a falling out some time ago.”
07-07-2019, 01:20 AM (This post was last modified: 07-07-2019, 01:30 AM by Amalia.)
Amalia
stop thinking so much
He turns his gaze upon her again, and Amalia might have blistered beneath it had the topic at hand not been so bizarre. As it is she is saved by sinful thoughts by the levity of the conversation, the utterly bewildering idea of kinship between Kiada and Rexanna still leaving her a bit bemused. "Huh," is all she says in reply, turning back to her work a moment, trying to compose the story in her head. Reaching in front of him to grab the baking dish, she gently places the crust within, a slight frown still on her pretty face. She rolls the scraps between her fingers as he continues to speak, nodding thoughtfully, shaping leaves and flowers.
It is strange, but in the end, not the strangest thing she has heard or seen. There are worlds of mystery beyond her own, tales upon tales, interwoven threads. At the end of the day the thing Caido offers more than anything else is redemption, rebirth, a chance to breathe in new life and start the world afresh. Amalia loves Kiada, is fond of Rexanna: the idea that they have been given a chance to reforge broken bonds pleases her, soothes her anxious and ardent soul. "I hope they reconcile," the girl murmurs, looking back up at Deimos with glittering eyes. "They are lucky to have that chance. I... didn't."
Looking back down, the girl furrows her brows. Now is not the time to think of her mother, the hundreds of things left unsaid (and even worse, the ones they did say, searing lines of cruelty, unfair accusations and retorts). She wants to enjoy tonight, to enjoy him, to be enjoyed. She wants to learn about his world, his life, the sculptors hands that have woven against him, forging the magnificent thing she knows. "Kiada is lucky to have you looking out for her. They both are. It must be nice, to have people you know here."
She wants to learn where she fits within that world, and whether her place is already taken, whether she is a fool for trying to find a crevice in an already complete piece of art.
Amalia walks away from him then, going in search of a bowl. She returns with one in hand and adds the vegetables and a selection of herbs brought from the bakery garden. Milk and broth are the last additions: then she holds it out to him, inviting him to contribute meat before mixing them together and adding them to the tin.
To Naturals, to those who’d been amidst these walls their entire lives, the stories and legends must’ve been utterly peculiar, outlandish, a conflagration of abnormal means. But there were no lies construed or shared along his teeth and tongue, not for her, and despite the specious machinations and the lack of truth he’d uttered on his intertwining journeys, they weren’t present here. She seemed to take the notions in stride, but went and composed herself back into silence, and so he did the same, chiseling his surface back to something reluctant, stoic, and nonchalant, remembering the reticence as a steady, stalwart mask when he didn’t know where to turn or what to say. He watched her instead, fingers hastening to shape leaves and flowers, as if she’d done it for a lifetime, as if it were easy to cultivate and bloom, blossom and exist, rather than devastate, ruin, and destroy. Stranger still, that he hadn’t driven himself headfirst into those latter columns yet.
Eventually, the silence broke, a huge relief in a harsh intake of air, to and from the beast, sent pondering if he’d just given and granted a little too much history. “We shall see,” he shrugged, out of his hands now – the prompt there, but he’d have no hand in guiding it. That would be up to Kiada, if she could get past her anger, her hurt, and nestle down into bravery, into audacity again. He’d commend her for it, whatever the outcome. At the note thereafter though, he lifted his head to gaze upon the baker again, catching the snippet of regret and rue. “What would you say?” He asked, in case she wanted to bring it to light, in case she needed someone to hear it, in case ghosts and spirits still roamed outside walls and within thresholds – he’d have a hundred rancorous edges to proclaim. If not, that was fine too, and she could have those memories, maybe some beautiful, maybe some tragic, maybe some so painful that they didn’t bear repeating. There were some he’d never give light to again.
“I am lucky to have them.” He smiled, the beginnings of a chuckle stirred in his chest, ending on a sigh. Without those pieces of the past, he wasn’t certain where he’d be – Kiada who broke him, Rexanna who remembered him, the King before the ice, the soldier before the General, thieves and firebrands and emboldened, bestial things, when all they’d ever wanted to do was conquer the horizon. “I will always watch over those I care for.” His stare pinpointed on her, another pledge and promise, an interval of vows and assurances, words he formed with shields and swords, daggers and cutlasses, blades and knives, plots and schemes, to back them up. She’d receive the same: endless affection, protection his own unique declaration of love.
She walked away while he stirred the meat one last time, returning with a bowl, the vegetables, some herbs, milk and broth settling around their sanction. He carefully tipped the steaming grouse portions into the container, before putting the pan down, off the burner, intending to clean it up later. “What else do you need done?”
What would you say? It's another difficult question, one she has thought of a thousand times yet never found an answer to. What would she say to her mother, if she could? Everything and nothing; there is too much already unsaid to try and form it into narrative. She would tell her she loves her, misses her, aches and agonizes every night. She would tell she about her triumphs, her trials, her pitfalls, her love.
She would ask for her forgiveness, and offer it in turn.
"That I love her," she answers honestly, simply. "Even though we didn't always get along. And that I wish I'd been strong enough to realize that before it was too late."
Amalia glances over at his chuckle, drawn in once again by the tenor of it, the rich and boyish nature behind the stoic mask. Meeting his eyes, she feels herself flush, the unsaid things beneath blazing attention crawling deliciously beneath her skin. "As will I." A prayer, a pledge: I will be there, too. I am not afraid of the darkness, if you are in it.
Still crafting the careful leaves, Amalia looks over the pie. "Now we pour it in and bake it. Is your oven warm?" She pours the mix into the pan, adding delicately carved foliage to the top. "We'll know it's done by the smell, and if it's golden"
Deimos’ last moments with his parents hadn’t been strained – they’d been expected, the art of growing up and forging out on his own, promising to write from campsites and beneath ivory tents, after training exercises, in between barrages and sieges at the front. His father’s boisterous, bombastic influence and persona had brandished him with a warm embrace, massive pats on the shoulders, bright, lilting grins he could never hope to replicate. There’d been pride instilled amidst those infernos, and when he’d turned to his mother, the quiet, hushed platitudes emerged from her presence, a shield drawn in front of her features, as though she’d been afraid to lose her son to the foreboding storms. He’d assured her, in all those youthful, arrogant drawls, that he’d be fine, that he’d be safe, and he’d see them again soon – that he loved them, that he’d miss them – and something about the finality had never even dawned upon him until he walked into the vacant world seasons upon seasons later; when they were already gone, tarnished, and desecrated.
So his eyes, full of their own ghosts, phantoms, and wraiths, cloaked and smoked in blue (like the tides, like the currents, like the bottomless fathoms he once wished would just swallow him whole), turned towards hers, confident and assured. “I am certain she knew you loved her.” Family was family; even when the seams appeared frayed and damaged, even when there were pieces broken off and chiseled away. He hadn’t always seen eye-to-eye with his mother. The same could be said for his father. But it was everything underneath the callous words or the acerbic intonations, the protection, the love, the persistence, the affection – he was always safe with them, no matter how ridiculous, no matter how dumb, no matter how foolish. He would’ve died for them, if he’d ever been given the chance.
That was how he existed: protection and guard, living blade, sword, and cutlass, taught from an early age to find each and every advantage, to utilize its brutality for his own purposes at any cost, to ensure those he cherished remained whole. He had no shame or regrets in it – only if he didn’t do enough, if he wasn’t enough. Her vow reverberated along the threshold too, and his eyes, once distracted by the smoldering grouse, riveted back to hers; took the pledge and smiled. They were in accord then – armor upon affection, armor upon love, armor upon dedication.
At her instructions, he checked the oven he’d turned on earlier, ensuring it was molten enough for the incoming food. He nodded, watching as the mix filled the pan, the intricate leaves and flowers finding their way to the upper layer, adorned and decorating – despite the fact that they’d eventually be devoured. He ensured the oven door was open, gloves extended to intercept the pan, and placed the food within, tilting his head to listen to the instructions – knowing it was completed by smell and hue. “What to do while we wait…” He snickered, pointedly not looking at her, as if it were an absent-minded thought, hardly voiced out loud.
The pie vanishes into the oven, where heat and time shall do the magic of transforming it into something edible. In a way, they are all tempered by fire and the passage of time, each moment another molding, modeling, the hammer of life falling down upon them and strengthening or shattering the mettle of their souls. For a long time Amalia thought herself too brittle, to fragile and flawed to be worth anything. Who would want to take her spirit and build from it a house, a haven, a place of sanctity and sanctuary against the impending storm?
Then a man walked into her library, and she learned she was not shattered. She simply needed a higher heat.
His comment about waiting sends a shiver down her spine, salacious thoughts rising dangerously close to the surface of her mind. Alone in his home, she knows what she wants to do, how she might while the minutes away. More heat, more pressure, more beating on her heart; Amalia swallows and licks her lips, trying to stifle the based urges which take her each time she glances at his form.
Pushing off the counter, the baker steps away, ostensibly to admire more of his weapons. She drifts like a wraith around his home, award of the stains still on her skin, the state of her dress, the picture she must paint. Stopping, the girl pulls herself onto the table, leaning her weight slightly against it, her hands palm down upon the wood. "Maybe I ought to take a shower " A wry laugh, the sentiment only made more ridiculous as she reaches up to wipe her face and only succeeds in spreading the blackberry on her cheek. "I'm a bit of a mess today."
He’d shattered before – and let himself fall into harsh, unrelenting pieces, jagged at the edges so no one would bother to pick them up, leave him be between the mercurial threads of darkness and foreboding. It wasn’t a fragility, but the sensation of giving up, of losing one’s self, eager to head straight into oblivion with no rhyme or reason to look back, everything cared for, cherished, or loved gone and vanquished. Anything else would’ve been a pointless venture, and he’d carved himself hellbound, adrift, waiting to catch the right thorn, the right sword, the right barb to finish what he’d started. Leave me be, he’d uttered to the world, gazing into the Stygian abyss with such a state of longing, wondering if crypts and catacombs would settle him down into the outer regions of perdition, damnation, a scathing, blistering inferno devouring his soul whole. He would’ve continued the same mantra, rinse and repeat, leave me be, leave me be, leave me be, had an onyx gaze not pinpointed itself on his audacity, on his incredulity, staying there, within the confines of broken ceilings and drifting light. He was a storm and she’d been been a haven, a sanctuary, a sanctity he didn’t deserve but moored and grounded himself within, striving to make it whole, make it real, make it something other than the rancor sizzling beneath the surface of his skin.
His comment must’ve raised something else – purposeful, a predilection, a snare, laden for her – the beguiling interludes pressing in and lining his form with other desires, wanton bliss. He turned away from the oven simply to watch her, meandering her way through his home, over the plain adornments, making them better, finer, with her imprints, with her presence. The beast stared at her as if she were the sun and the stars and all the other elements in between, the smallest of smiles indented into his cheeks, dimpled, gaze hooded as she came closer. Laughter curled and coiled against his senses, conspired and shivered, undulated the roll of his muscles as he leaned forward to match her movements, stare following the swipe of her hand, the stain growing longer, more expressive over her cheek. He desperately tried to rein in his own chuckle, and so it came out strained, pulsing behind his teeth.
But he took the hint, gaze sliding down over her lips and back up again, an arch to his brow, a glimmer of something else in the depths of his ardent stare. “I have a bath upstairs.” The Reaper then maneuvered away, a ghost of his breath laden along her the shell of her ear. “So am I,” a husky whisper, an intended, guttural reverberation, before moving towards the route, the nod of his head a blatant invitation, wandering upwards, into the midst. There were doors on either side, the left his room, but he lingered to the right, opening the door and sliding across the floor towards the silver basin, twisting a knob so that the water suddenly flowed freely.
And into the space, the interludes, a simple, simmering, primitive song. They both sing it, a repeated refrain of desire and allowance, give and take. Another strange change which occurred within a year: Amalia never anticipated to know the melody of this tune, never though she could compose lyrics, find steps. But Deimos is a gentle teacher, a stalwart and stately guide. Beneath the searing blue of his eyes she is helpless, captured and happily so, emboldened and emblazoned in the tattoo of his heart.
How couldn’t she be caught when he looks at her like that, as though she were a prize, a treasure, something more beautiful and vibrant than the reality could ever be? And how can she not return it time and time again: ardor for ardor, measure for measure, her own smile lighting and heating her face? Amalia glows beneath his regard, her mind turning sinful, scandalous, knowing and wanting and yearning for more. He draws near and her breath catches; his lips are on her ear and she curls her toes, an unbidden gasp exhaled in response, always tantalized by his ministration, biting her lip to hold back the moan.
Then he is gone, and the absence is painful, palpable against her chest. She reaches out as he pulls away as though she might catch him between her fingers, rise on her toes and take him there, pull him between her arms, her thighs. Her face is hot with desire, aflame; it is good, perhaps, he is not looking, for the things in her expression are feral and hungry, avarice written on every line.
He leads and she follows, always follows, a ship on a mooring, a kite on a string, keeping a distance so she can admire him as he walks away. Upstairs and down a hallway, to a room that lies beyond, the silver tub claw-footed and large enough, the intonations clear. Suddenly mischievous, suddenly wild, Amalia waits until he looks away before slipping off her skirt, so she stands in nothing but a blouse and underwear, leaning against the wall. Her heart is pounding, her narrow cheeks flushed; she regards him through challenging, dangerous eyes, waiting to see what he will do, how he will respond.
Deimos’ songs were not often bright, incandescent things. They were dirges and requiems, strains and anthems to ballads of battlefields, marches along plains, one foot in front of the other, eyes up to glance over the mist, over the fog, over the death knells. They were throngs and harmonies spread between funeral beats and long, lonely trumpets, announcing the fall of another, one more put into the ground, amidst the earth, the dust, the desecration. But for her, he composed and orchestrated alternating stanzas, not the cold, primordial, malevolent pieces – these were scattered with as much warmth and affection as he had within the chambers of his broken, nefarious heart (healing, mending, learning how to stitch itself back together). They were not an oeuvres or masterpieces, but a blending of scars and love and devotion, christened and anointed with his blessings, his strength, his confidence, beguiling, alluring, daring to take her places she’d never been. Somewhere along the way he allowed him to be snagged and enraptured by her sonnets and declarations too, not worthy, not deserving, but lingering within her grace, her fire, her divinity, reverent to her.
It pulsed through his frame and pervaded through his soul; perhaps one of the few virtues he had left.
They were wild, feral, and hungry, untamed, barbed savages roaming throughout a shelter, and he kept the incensed, the kindled intonations below the surface of his skin, tempted, then tempered with patience. He could hear her following him up the stairs, the snare already tied and tethered to limbs and bones, the depths of an unseen smile lingering along his mouth. The roar of the water cascading into the empty basin, hollow for a few moments, echoed and bounded, covering over the sound of her treads. The Reaper stepped towards a closet within the room, retrieving a few towels, some soap, some shampoo, wrapping them together in a cluster as he turned back towards the bath. The warrior had just enough time to place them down on a nearby stool when his eyes caught her along the wall – then they widened, brow arching upward for a moment before stifling a smirk. Between the time he’d taken to turn on the water and grab materials, she’d already begun to strip, skirt gone, residing on the floor.
There was a challenge there, in her eyes, defiant and silly, one more provocation before some other storm hit. He raised himself to his full height, crossing his arms, ensuring a long, slow drag of his eyes was visible, forthright, voracious, hungry, fervent. He started at her toes and worked his way up, a distant touch, a delectable, savoring promise, appreciating everything he had to see. When he reached her face he tilted his head, an inquiry, a question, left completely unsaid – incitement in the silence. Then his hands took hold of his waistband, fingers sliding to the buttons holding the garments upright over his hips, undoing them gradually, no hint of a rush, slow, steady seduction. He slid them down in a warrior’s grace, fluid and effortless, before tossing them aside, then raised his chin in a seditious, unwinding smirk.
To Amalia it does not matter whether his songs are anthems or sonatas, so long as they are for her. He makes her vices thrive and hunger, raise their long unburdened heads and display beautiful, pearly teeth. Greed for every touch he offers, his every glance, his very breath; jealousy, lest she lose her treasure, the prize she still cannot comprehend how she came to claim. He makes her preen and flaunt her pride, delightful awe at being his: she wants the world to know their onus, that they have been claimed as their own; she wants to hide the truth away, to keep the beautiful thing they have safe and secret from prying eyes.
And then, of course, there is lust. Lust, which Amalia has never been accused of, never counted among her sins (and oh, there are too many to count). Lust, which the girl rather thought herself incapable of, resigned herself to a passionate life marked by dispassion in this area alone.
Ah, how she was wrong.
She watches him as he sets to work, methodical, purposeful, patient and serene. And when at last he turns around his surprise is all the reward she needs, a fierce blush rising to her cheeks, defiant merriment in her sable eyes. She shivers beneath his raking gaze, hazily delighted to know it is her, that she can incense such interest from him - interest further evidenced as he slips off his pants, a fair exchange, tit for tat. Slowly, scintillating, a dreadful tease; Amalia shifts and bites her lip, her thoughts written frankly on an expressive face. Patience is not among her virtues: she begins to ache to move things faster, to take the thing she so dearly wants.
But doing so would be admitting defeat, and she wants to be the one to quell him, to make him bend and break, even though she knows full well that he is in control. It is part of the game, part of the challenge, part of the dance they waltz. Her eyes on him, Amalia begins to untie her shirt, slender fingers pulling slowly at the tie which holds it across her chest, a bow undone in nigh slow-motion, the front of the dirty blouse falling away to show her sternum, the clearly defined clavicles that rise beneath her skin. Reaching up with her right hand, she pushes the left sleeve off her shoulder before repeating the action on the other side. A shrug; the blouse slips to the floor, where she kicks it away with barren feet, her dark eyes glinting as they sink into his blue, her body bare but for her breastband and drawers, the bones of her body sharp edges and lines, her figure far more concave than curved. Her smile is marred by the heaviness of her eyes, the way her breath comes heavy and fast. Forcing her arms to hang by her sides, Amalia waits for his response, anxious and ardent and wonderfully enthralled.
