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!
04-23-2019, 01:04 AM (This post was last modified: 04-23-2019, 04:07 AM by Amalia.)
Amalia
I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map
He leans toward her and she is aware of his weight, the way it shifts beside her, his orbit edging closer to hers. She notices it the same way she might notice the sun emerging from clouds, a warmth spreading across her skin, the breeze of his breath almost tangible, the scent of him almost on her senses. Amalia's eyes do not leave their work, to not rise to search his face, his eyes, to see the effect of her onslaught on his beard. Deftly her fingers continue to weave, though they tremble slightly with the beat of her heart; but she ascribes this to exhaustion, the strain of focus. It certainly has nothing to do with him.
He speaks again, a response to her proposal, rising to the challenge she has laid. "We don't have to do it, if you're afraid." Taunting, teasing- when did she get to be so bold, audaciously grasping, pushing and coaxing and carousing and inviting trouble to take her by the hand, carry her through the threshold and into the mischievous dark? She looks sidelong at Deimos, her long lashes a veil under which dark eyes sparkle with barely concealed mirth. Innocent, innocuous, her voice is a lilting thing, deep and sly and masking a poorly concealed smirk. She shrugs her delicate shoulders, looking back at the lush crown blooming in her lap. "I'll accept your concession. There's no shame in surrender."
But ah, he rises- he always does, always has, a towering wave of hidden whimsy wrapped in the melting glacial shield. Again the slicing stare falls on her, a well of ice she might fall into, cold pools on a summer day, water in a drought. Show me, he demands, and it is all she can do not to shiver. She wants to show him everything, the way he has shown her. The passion inside her, the hopes and dreams, the snippets and memory of a vibrant youth: she wants to paint them on a tapestry, to take him through the wildflower meadow of her heart. He is a lighthouse, and he has showed her how to step back into the sun.
She wants to show him how to stay there. If only she knew how.
"Hold on." Swiftly she finishes her creation, tying off the braided band and brandishing it before him. Dense with flowers, the crown is a symphony of colors, a sweet bouquet of scents and smiles. What it lacks in pure skill it makes up for in heart, and the beaming pride on her angular face as she displays her work.
But it is quite skillful in its craftsmanship, if the girl may say so herself.
Turning suddenly toward Deimos, Amalia lets her left hand fall near his as she extends her right, a serious action for an unserious proposition. "You accept, then?" she asks, glittering laughter in her voice, her eyes, nose crinkling distinctively as she tries to maintain some semblance of dignity upon her face. "Ten points to dance behind someone for ten seconds. Lose five points if you're caught. Winner will be crowned Fiat Lux King," She waves the beautiful flower crown. "Loser has to-" serve them, they would wager as children, but that feels dangerous now, a little too far, too likely to be misconstrued, rejected. "-fulfill one boon." Maybe it's still close to danger, but the girl feels a like tempting fate, stoking the fire of him and seeing how close she can get before she burns.
And then the girl springs up to stand, pulling him up and back into the fray, his hand in hers like an anchor, a life boat, a shield against the loneliness which he has so cunningly chased away.
At some point, Amalia must’ve seen beyond all the dense walls he’d so carefully constructed, masks and shrouds, veils and fortifications, built up and up and up until he thought it was a grating fortress, lined with thorns, nettles, and barbs. His nonchalant expressions, his apathetic gaze, his dark, distinguished demeanor with its hollowed interior and intimidating factions – the sting, the ferocity, the savagery sculpted over his figure – was enough to drive many away. Yet, here she was, perfectly capable of instigating and inciting the absent attributes stuck to his bones, rarely seen, rarely viewed, rarely exposed. He wanted to bite down on the challenge, on the borders of her boldness, savor it, relish it, pull it farther and farther into the luster so it was a simmering, smoldering boil, in reach, on the tips of fingers and strokes of skin.
But it wasn’t the provocation bellowing in his veins – the notion of fear yanking at his chains, on his tethers, on his shackles, a snare brutally winding itself along his skull. He was one of the many who’d like to spout and shout that they weren’t afraid of anyone or anything; far from the truth. It wasn’t death. He’d experienced it enough, taken his last breaths in the cascading foils of the rain, sank into purgatory and the endless darkness, broken timelines and path lives along the trail of barbarity. It wasn’t sieges; he’d been made bloody over and over again, scarred and blemished, lacerations cut into his sides, the bellowing, vicious roll of pain stuck into his skull. It wasn’t violence; he embodied it because for a time, it was all he knew or ever understand, a comprehension and balance of how to strike another being down in meticulous, scrupulous strides, how to devastate and obliterate and ruin everything in his path (because of anger, because he’d watched enough of them fall apart at the seams, begging for absolution and deliverance; nothing given, nothing granted, no gods coming to save them now).
It was always the after, not the before, when tranquility lulled and curiosity was piqued, when the listless whims became tempestuous storms, the art chaos twisted and turned in his soul – not the during, when a part of him awakened, yawned, and clamored, became more than just feral beast and withdrawn rebel. It was the agony following the rush, the fervor, the exhilaration – eventually it ended, it succumbed, it crumbled and withered and died, and Deimos was only left impaled on his own faults and flaws, on the torment and torture strung into his heart and lungs. Loss was a pattern, and he wondered about the tread, the fault lines, the rubble – and if he should’ve wandered down them again because he yearned to savor again. This trail seemed sketched in sunlight and luminescence, in fire and embers smoking, waiting, for one more inclination, for one more touch. He’d always meandered along the drowning emblems, into the currents, into the streams, into the lakes, pacing on the embankments. It beckoned and allured. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Surrender - as if he’d ever conceded, as if he’d ever thought about submitting and backing down. She knew. Was he so easy to read?
He tipped his head and leaned back, leaving her without his hovering shadow, his looming presence, steadfast gaze back on the crowd, show me fuming on his skin, on his mouth, on his tongue. He could show her a mass of things, more and more and more, between the growls, the roars, the howls, the brewing conflagration behind his senses. But before him was a crown, not of thorns, but the flowers blended back together, back and forth, back and forth, so the hues were no longer faded remnants, bright, illustrious blooms like her, and he thought he should’ve looked away, undeserving of its fervor and sagacity. His eyes rivet edback on her face instead, and the circlet failed to compare.
The Reaper had been ridiculously silent, listening and learning, a brimming monolith waiting for its moment to strike, a canvas of composure and calm despite the inward vexations and anomalies. At her laughter, because frankly he’d forgotten what the next task even was – distracted, deterred, fascinated, and beguiled by smiles and charms – he nodded, agreed. “I accept your terms,” but not for the crown, for he once wore one, glacial and icy, heavy and cumbersome, a weight along his shoulders that he didn’t miss. “One boon,” he echoed and concurred, though a brow raised again, segmenting into blossoms still curled and coiled on the edges of his wild mane. These seemed to be tenuous foils, and he reached into them because he appreciated the savagery of danger, well-accustomed to interludes of uncertainty and peril, crossed and bordered right on the fringes of his form. Push and shove, push and shove, no retreating, no withdrawing, too far gone now to even mull on the consequences.
He takes her hand, and her grin is vivacious, crinkling and softening each line of her face, dancing like sunbeams in her black eyes. The other wraps around his, too, enveloping him in her tan fingers, the warmth of him a fire on her palms. With a mighty tug (as though she could lift him, as though he were not the one who has lifted her, raised her out of her despair, her literal and figurative buoy in the storm) she heaves him up, enjoying the pull of his weight against her, the way he balances her wraithlike frame.
For a moment she forgets to relax her fingers, lets herself linger in his eyes too long. They are close again, in that strangely intimate-but-not way, in reach of each other, close enough she hopes fears she might fall into him, collapse into the easy comfort of his presence, envelop herself in his vibrancy, his life. He smells like flowers and damp stone, sounds like thunder on a warm night, laughs like a lighthouse in the dark. She wants to feel this way always, and yet she is terrified, exhilarated, her heartbeat riotous and her body tense, her cheeks stained red with coy mirth.
Then the moment passes and her hands come undone, allowing him an avenue of retreat, turning to face the milling crowd. Thoughtfully she reaches to tame her hair, fiddling and fastening it with ribbon and comb until it is in some semblance of order, a waterfall of gold cascading down her shoulders, running in tangled curls upon her back. "There," she declares with a sudden certainty, pointing to her acquired target, a man who seems more interested in drinking and watching than joining in the frivolity. Turning to Deimos with glittering eyes, the mischievous baker grins. "Now watch, and keep time. I have to last ten seconds. Don't give me away." And then like a wisp on the wind she is gone, vanished into the throng that surrounds them, blending and bleeding into the crowd.
It is less than a minute before she reappears: fluttering like a wayward leaf, the girl in green finds her place behind the festival goer and stands on her toes to flash Deimos a grin, one brow rising in a silent you ready? as she finds her place far from the stranger's line of sight.
And then the girl begins to dance, her movements carefree and uncoordinated, flashing foolish faces at her companion as she waves her arms and sways her hips and attempts to escape undetected while making as great a scene as she dares.
For an instant, he was utterly caught and snared, eclipsed by both hands, and escape was futile (would he have tried?). He was seized and captured by more than just her palms, staring into the bright, sun-kissed reaches and onyx depths, not trying to pull or wrench away, free-falling into the denizens and fathoms. The darker ethers of his features were warped and spun, obscured and blotted out, by the high rise of her solar complexities, eyes widening as he once again invited onto the floor. The beast followed, encouraged and intrigued, beguiled and allured, snagging at the strands, the seams, desperate to unravel into his merciless, unrelenting depths; a laugh buoyed on his howl, deep and comical, a current in the ocean. He basked in the sun and turned his features towards it, carved and sculpted again, not cast from marble or stone; legions and layers of obsidian giving it shape, renewal, beneficence in the cast-off shards. No, he wouldn’t bother striving to bolt or break free; he fell into the orbit time and time again, went around and around the galaxies, the stars, the heavens, squandered them all to look upon her.
He wasn’t frightened by it, the way he might’ve been ages ago, shying and shuddering back into the comfortable, familiar press of shadows and darkness, where the world couldn’t drag their eyes upon him, where they couldn’t see which parts were marred, buried, and broken. He sank into it and waited for the stream, the river, the waves, to brush up against him and swerve around his form; he was a damned rock and stone, not swerving, not recoiling, just as defiant but not for violence, not for animosity, not for acrimony. It had a name, but he didn’t relinquish it, kept it unsettled and vibrant against the angles and planes of his chest, the riddled scars, the splintered lacerations.
She granted him retreat again, and he ignored it entirely, even as hands slipped away and amusements were reborn, gone from their sheltered storm. He simply stood and watched, a damned monolith in a sea of people, arched brows and keen resistance towards anyone or anything except her; he wallowed and swallowed down the fringes of gold spiraling in his gaze. His fingers itched to reach out for the strands, before sliding back down to his side, temptation a reeling, sudden notion (he knew the singular title for these too; let them careen and ricochet off his bones) as he watched, ever the rapt scholar, responding to her commands.
Don’t give me away she uttered, as if he ever would.
She might’ve disappeared into the stray wiles and machinations of the crowd, but not to him – the piercing slate of his gaze found her over and over again, a bobbing head slinking and turning along the ravel, lungs inhaling, exhaling, body adapting and succeeding in her steps and footfalls, tracing over the foundations like water, passing through the rest of the gathered as if they were nothing. Then came the rest of the sweeping absurdity, and though he told not a single damned soul what he was chuckling at, it was impossible not to fall into a melee of laughter. He kept time in the rhythm of his mirth, one, two, three, keeping watch as she managed to elongate foolish faces and features, arms and legs akimbo, ensuing rapid nonsense. When suitable moments had passed, he raised his hand above the crowd and proffered her a nod; success, not caught by the passerbys or unknown.
But then reality crashed down on him – because that meant it was his turn, and between already making a fool of himself and watching her easily conquer the terms, Deimos was going to be the laughing-stock of the entire floor. A portion of him hung apart in trepidation, the world-weary beast who’d been mocked and ridiculed for his silence, for his faults, for the quiet, hushed lacquer stuck to his rituals. The challenge scratched and toyed with him though, hung there like a noose, because he had already sworn to the challenge, couldn’t back down or away, couldn’t fester and wither and decay, not any damned longer -
Boldness and daring occupied his movements, extending a long, held gaze with Amalia in the crowd, before slithering his way towards an intended victim. He would always be taller, broader, mightier than most of the masses, and the Reaper understood it wouldn’t be an advantage this time, this hour, in all these little segmented moments. He’d have to be underhanded and sneaky. He’d have to be the devil in the shadows. He’d have to be hidden and muted, the beckoning, clawing unknown. He’d have to be just as ridiculous as the rest of the realm.
The beast’s stare finally found some noteworthy victims; far too occupied with one another than anything else going on around them. While they were tongue-tied, and he struggled to hold his grimace against the very public display of affection, he managed to slip behind them – beholden with a straight face, no smile, no grin, drawn in complete nonchalance, as if he were not even there, a part of the backdrop. The Reaper then extended his arms in a wobbly, snake-like dance, long muscles undulating and coiling beneath his furs and shirt, absurd and stupid, before kicking out with his legs in different directions.
How long has it been since she acted so foolish, gowned the garb of childish fancy and let herself succumb to her most juvenile urges? How long since she laughed with such licentiousness, paid so little heed or mind to the thoughts and judgments of those around? There used to be a girl like this, a bairn named Amalia whose intents were riddled with well-meant mischief, whose shoulders were free of the weight of the world. Oh, she has always been anxious, quiet, withdrawn; but there is another side to the Loreseeker, a vibrant and vivacious penumbra around the eclipsed segments of her heart.
She has not seen that person in years. And now, in the span of a morning (but it was longer than that, really, began that day in the library when he first made her realize she was not alone) he has dug up that girl, exposed her and her carefree jovility, led her back to the sun.
Deimos' glee is all the windfall she needs, the buzz of success a pleasant bonus. It is all she can do to maintain her composure long enough to prevail, and as soon as he raises the signal of victory the girl falls apart. Her grin is an electric thing, wide enough to split her face, utter rapture written in her face, though whether the pleasure is due more to her victory or his raucous enjoyment is difficult to parse. They exchange a long, lingering look, conspiratorial and challenging, before Amalia is distracted away. Her victim spins in drunken confusion, but it is too late for the girl to be caught, and she dons a serious and severe facade as she nods to him, greeting with a restrained "Happy Fiat Lux, sir," before entirely succumbing to her mirth, laughing and turning her eyes back to him.
But when she looks up Deimos is gone from his place, vanished from her sight. Mirth is cut short, laughter fading, replaced by a sudden and gnawing fear, worse now that she has finally banished it. The floor gives way beneath the girl; she feels her stomach collapse and knot, the weight of her sudden loss and loneliness heavier than she could ever anticipate. The sun has passed behind the clouds; at once she realizes she is cold. Has she misread? Is he weary at last, pushed to the edge by her childish antics, ready to go find more mature pursuits with wiser companions, prettier wittier friends? No, he can't be-
And then she sees him, and the sun emerges once again, and the pounding of her heart is thunder in her ears, the relief that fills her a torrent, frightening in its intensity, its heat. She tries to hide it, but her face is a book, an open novel of emotion and sentiment threatening to spill secrets she does not know she keeps. She resists the urge to wave, to call, to rush to him and reassure herself that he is there, he is not leaving, he is----
Amalia meets his eyes and grins, something shuttered in her face, an attempt at something like composure. The man looks stoic, a return to the glacial presence of old, and for a moment fear rises in her again. Perhaps he was leaving, perhaps he is done, perhaps she has gone too far in pushing him and has succeeded at last in pushing him away, driving him to a breaking point and leaving him looking for escape--
But then Deimos begins to dance, and it is the greatest thing she has ever seen.
Disbelief, at first, amazement- and then a bedlam of cackling escapes the girl, entirely unrestrained, uproarious laughter pealing from her lips as she watches him twist and squirm. It is all she can do to keep from falling, collapsing on the earth in amazement and glee as the great behemoth wiggles his arm and kicks his legs, stoic as a stone. Strangers turn to stare, stunned at Amalia- including the couple, who offer a glare before turning their attention back to eating each others faces, wholly ignorant to the masterpiece unfolding inches away.
Tears fall from onyx eyes, unbidden and unrestrained; crowing, crying, the girl keeps count, raising a shaking hand at ten before giving in and doubling over, the laughter still fading on her lips. It is a solid series of seconds before she regains her composure, and even then one glance at Deimos sends her into hilarity once again.
Breathless, wheezing, Amalia at last pulls herself upright, though she cannot suppress the giggles which still emerge in fits and starts. Dramatically she raises a hand to her face, miming the donning of a serious expression, mirth still cracking at her eyes. She does not look at Deimos - cannot - instead seeking out her next target. Finding an elderly woman nearby, the slender baker slips behind her, raising her hands to begin to dance.
But then she makes the mistake of looking at him again, and dissolves once more into strangled chortling, causing the woman to spin around and inquire worriedly as to her well-being. Offering a half-assed excuse the girl hurries away, flitting back to Deimos and falling in beside him, the urge to bury her fire-red face in his chest almost impossible to resist.
She settles, instead, for staring up at him, a mask of mock indignation dancing across her face. "I demand a re-do," Amalia declares, hands on her hips, chin raised in defiance. "You cheated by making me laugh so hard."
Then the facade breaks, and she crumbles again, mirth and merriment overtaking any semblance of seriousness she may have tried to don.
Deimos could pinpoint the exact, futile moments where he’d last acted with freedom and liberation, before Caido, before onslaught after onslaught, before friends fell and he was left to bury whatever remained of them. They’d once laughed until their sides threatened to split, loud, chaotic uproars floating through bars and fields, gathering as much mischief, as much carefree, whimsical delight as they could – before battles, before bloodshed, before reality ruined them all. It’d been about everything and nothing, stupid and devilish, but it’d granted blithe countenances and tempestuous relish; exactly what boys needed when the threats came too close and the ominous, foreboding clouds became tangible, darkening threads on the horizon. They’d had their swords and shields, their armor and gauntlets, but none had been worn or wielded during the rabble-rousing affairs, unnecessary means for those slender, precious seconds. In the morning, along the foggy stretch of war, it was gone.
So now he savored what little life had to offer, grasping the opportunities with both hands, with feet, with ridiculous antics because he understood how quickly it could change, how swiftly it could shift to an alternative path. Otherwise, he’d still be a brooding, brewing mass, sticking and clinging to the darkness, waiting for it to swallow him whole so he wouldn’t have to feel, so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge, so he wouldn’t have to keep hurting over and over again (but those memories never left; punctured and pierce and cut him straight to the bone). He couldn’t forget, but he could attempt to brush over the Stygian tapestries, the molten canvases, with softer strokes and broader lines. It wasn’t consigning them to oblivion, tainting them, or failing to recall – they lived in his soul, in his veins, in his blood – but he was damned if they would always control and contort every fabric of his being.
His shoulders weren’t free, his entity wasn’t whole, but the world was lighter, painted in shades of the sun.
While he pulled through the more absurd of his antics, limbs quick, now pretending he’s another piece of the front, an unseeing sword extended from his palm, flush against his enemies, reaching down into a lunge as if he’s just mauled an imaginary opponent. The Reaper’s gaze riveted back to her, and watched, blinking rapidly, as her face featured an anomaly of sentiments and emotions, varnished clouds and then streaks of the sun, like a kaleidoscope, too many colors for him to fathom or reach. He tilted his head in avid curiosity and wonder, eyes widening, brow arching, soul searching for the pieces, the notions, he lacked. Are you all right? he thought about mouthing to the girl, silent lips parting behind the cluster of the crowd, the smitten couple in front of him, still oblivious to his actions.
Then it was only her laughter echoing over the throng, ringing across the din like a wave of bells, and the stoic, stone fixtures were completely willed away from his features with a smug, conceited smirk, folding his arms after she gave him the signal that he’d been successful, completely ignoring the idiots who finally realized he was there. Pride scattered itself in his chest, warmed his icy, frozen, fickle heart; not for the triumph, the glory, of matching her prowess in this siege, but for the art rendered along her presence, bright, buoyant, ebullient, the sensation of radiance playing over the folds, the cracks, the lines sunken into cobblestones. She should’ve worn that demeanor all the time, day and night, confident and daring, audacious and wondrous. She could catch stars with her eyes and grab hold of the moon, the sun, the heavens with her merriment. She could vanish into anointed, consecrated oeuvres and none would be the wiser.
The beast snorted as Amalia lingered into another endeavor, conviction strong, but mind clearly elsewhere. His eyes followed her again as she appeared to dissipate into more strangled giggles, and the same superior snicker managed to assail his countenance, satisfaction a declaration in his steady gaze. He was surprised, however, when she arrived back at his side so soon, the resentment and mottled, duplicitous umbrage sizzling along her lips, he leaned in closer, a dare, a provocation, sizzling, smoldering, seething from his form. “It is not my fault you cannot handle my expertise.” You should not have challenged me was in his wicked, wicked gaze; the tones amused and content, more entertained and delighted than bestial and barbaric. An accusation of cheating wasn’t met with harsh feelings – though if he’d dared to calculate a more devious method, he would’ve made sure she never ascertained it – it was all pure circumstance that his ludicrous actions had impaired her ability to sustain more of her fancies. “If you must.” he inclined his head, nodding towards the waiting beacon of strangers alike, proffering her another chance, granting her request. “Perhaps there should be a penalty…” He arched his brow again, the smirk turning into more of a Cheshire grin, thoroughly devilish and haughty, a stage for his discord and amusement, tying the strands of mischief together in leaps and bounds.
He comes close again, a growl in his chest, and the thing Amalia feels in response is nothing close to fear. "I thought you doubted your advantage." Lightly teasing, her voice echoes with remnants of laughter, the mock severity crumbling beneath a million delights. An arched eyebrow meets his intensity, dark eyes staring defiantly into his face. She does not break or bow beneath him, though she is sure she must be trembling like a leaf, cheeks colored rosy by some emotion she cannot name. The rules of the game keep changing, and he always seems to be at an advantage over her- and despite her exhilaration she is nervous, too, learning the steps to a dance she does not know, but he seems keenly adept at.
Or are they dancing it at all? In that moment she remembers who they are, their differences, the disadvantage she is at. Surely he is skilled in this sort of thing, whatever its name may be, has taken these steps with countless partners, cavorted and waltzed again and again. Indeed, he must have his choice of cohort, his pick of lither, prettier things, less shrouded in the shadow and more adept at the game.
So why is he here, looking down at her, the brilliance of his grin and the fire of his mischief an emblazoned brand on her fragile heart?
And again he gives her another chance, invites her to continue where she has clearly failed. To say she does not consider it would be a lie: though never the most competitive girl, the taste of victory is a sweet one indeed, and she would love to taste it between her teeth, lord it over him and extract a prize. Would she ask him for a drink, a dance, an adventure, a tale? Will she beg of him fealty, friendship, fellowship in the days to come? What treasure can she take from him, to hold like a memory of today, dear and permanent and cherished and loved?
She wants whatever he will give.
He has already given her so much, and yet she wants and wants and wants, yearns for something she cannot name, fears to look too closely at. And herein lies her deepest insecurity: for while she wants the world from him, she does not know what he wants from her.
Shaking her head, the baker declines the chance at redemption, instead turning her eyes back to his. "I think you have won, fair and square." Amalia's smile softens, though her expression does not fall. There is curiosity there, a searching in the way she scans his face, lips twitching, fingers still, sable eyes ardent as they sear into his blues. Hopeful, helpless, earnest and young and naive and exposed, she says more in her expression than the words that pass her lips. "What boon would you ask of me, Mr. Shade?"
“I am a quick scholar,” rasped through his larynx, an obvious joke because there had been eons before he’d adapted instead of eroded, learned and assimilated instead of bristling against systems and scourges. There’d been days where he pressed against demands and commands just because he could, a vitriolic mess of irreverent proportions, hollowed out and scarred, bludgeoned and beaten down, raising his head out of the muck simply to bellow out his refusals, wait to die, crave and carve hell with his own two hands. It was in his bones, in his heart, in his lungs, to reach out and defy, to bear witness and then come to his own conclusions, to examine and scrutinize so he could apply advantages, so he could ascertain damages, so at some point, he’d be victorious instead of the failure, the inept, the brave, and the stupid. But her resistance and dissent seemed to match his, black on blue, and he refused to back away, noncompliant and insubordinate, the same cheeky smile fastened to his features. He let her look and he did the same, gaze slowly drifting along her high cheekbones, her luminescent tangibility, before landing on her mouth, and sliding upwards, back into her cosmic stare. They were silent, brazen, audacious provocations, hardly subtle, before arching his brow in the same insolent display – made bolder and bolder the longer they played and strayed. He truly wasn’t adept at this game either, had floundered his way through sullen hearts long ago (twice, his memory longed to serve, as if the embittered, traumatic way it all ended hadn’t bent and shifted the ghosts in his head).
No one chased after him. Hardly anyone really looked at him for more than an instant; perhaps justified in their singular glances: the broad, rough, massive man, danger and ill omens at his core. Only on a rare occasion had anyone peeked into his shadows and ramparts, had opted to climb the towering walls; so he held them close because they were familiar and particles, beacons from the past (Rexanna, Kiada, from days of snow and rime, chasing down oblivion), those that already understood his motivations, his machinations, the inner workings of a damned being. His companions had always been the ones who didn’t run away, who lingered, who waited, as if their patience was to be rewarded (and maybe it was; he couldn’t be the judge, but he’d given them every ounce of his trust and ambition, every persistent edge of his actions and motives). Most must have believed he wasn’t worth it.
Perhaps the better inquiry would be why she was here, cavorting and occupying her time with him?
The Reaper gave chances to those who took some on him, and Amalia was still here, breathing in his sanction, in his orbit, in his fathoms. Why, why, why? But victory was granted, the redemption turned away, and he loosened an exhale he’d been holding, close to his chest, strangling in his lungs. There was a slight disappointment in that she wouldn’t be demanding a boon of him; he’d been curious, intent, on discovering what she’d wanted from him (there were a flicker of things circling his mind, and if he were any bolder, the snicker would’ve developed into a haughty thing). He didn’t lord it over her though, like some vicious, irreverent king, and instead, a smile, nothing mocking, nothing Cheshire, spread along his lips. It might’ve been considered entirely boyish, removing the traces of warfare from the planes of his face, the horrors, the treacheries, the wounds he’d met and had scalded over his skin. Triumphs were so scarce, so few, he took whatever was proffered. “Mr. Shade would like a story. A truth from the past.” He laughed, but it was light, not a deep, booming opus, trying hard not to disturb the relative peace, the tension wrapping itself around his heart. Was it wrong to want to learn more about her? About this world and her place in it? “If you want, I can do the same.” Even if she hadn’t won, he still found himself yearning to tell her something, not to let the cobwebs simmer and froth there, in the back of his mind, for too long.
She offers not knowing what es expected, what price he will extract- but ready to pay, eager and waiting for the toll to be asked. What does a behemoth ask for, what does a winter soldier need? A drink, a dance, a treasure, a kiss joke: her dark eyes gaze boldly into his, the brazenness of her actions offset by the patter of her heart.
And then he speaks, his intonation a rolling thunderclap against her soul. A story. She is surprised by the request; she does not know what she expected, but it was not to be asked to spin a tale, give a piece of herself to him. Never one to talk about herself, Amalia resists the urge to recoil, retreat back into her insecurities and hide from the request. You offered this, a nagging voice reminds her. You made the rules. You brought this on yourself. Your mistakes are your own.
She wants to give in to that voice, to rally against it and beg for retreat. It is easier to fall down into the dark than uncover a section of her soul, bare her spirit and let the blood rise, vibrant from her veins.
And again, it is Deimos who draws her back. Deimos, his smile like a beacon; Deimos, his laugh a balm on her pain. Deimos, who offers to bare the price with her, give her something of himself in return. Wrapped in the safety of his blue, blue eyes, the sunlit baker feels stronger, capable, appreciated, good. And so she swallows, breathing deep, before offering him his prize.
"Once upon a time, there was a girl who was born on the last day of the longest night. She lived with her mother and grandmother, under a glass that hid the sky." As she speaks her dark eyes drift, turning to the heavens above, distant dreaminess in her voice. "As she grew, the girl learned many things. She learned about baking, and stories, and gods. She learned about medicine, and history, and myths. She learned everything she could, but there was one thing she never could master.
"How to stop feeling alone."
Swallowing again, she lowers her eyes and begins to pace upon the grass, arms extended, one foot before the other as though she walked a tightrope. Her toes dig gentle furrows in the dirt; she enjoys the mud between them, feels grounded by the malleable earth. Amalia does not look to him to follow, only hopes he will. There is more to the story, if he will listen.
Or perhaps he will not. Perhaps he will let her drift away, and the story will end the way it began: with a child, trying to find her moorings, but never quite able to spot her star.
Perhaps he asked for too much – he had always been an avaricious, mercenary, covetous being, summoned by the bastions of vengeance and violence, onward to glory, to triumph, even when it was so firmly out of his grasp, his reach. He waited for some form of rebuttal, for her to refuse, he’d driven himself in where he wasn’t wanted, asked to turn right back around from where he’d come from, watching, waiting, eyes narrowing briefly, then looking away, uncertain what he should’ve been doing in those tremulous, tumultuous seconds. He might’ve given her the chance to escape too, because if anyone had ever asked him to share, to pick a sprig from the past that wasn’t riddled or mired or disastrous, the man would’ve balked too, spun around, hissed and snarled, detached, insouciant again. But he’d offered to give her a piece of himself, sharing, a tether, a line, one of those crumbling shards not marked and sparked by some evil, belligerent design, not thwarted, not blighted, not haunted by ghosts and catacombs, the graves he’d dug for his own iniquitous soul. In the span of those extended seconds, he parted his lips, had the release on his tongue –
And then she began.
The rapt, eager listener was back, but while she swayed and paced and fought nervously against the bounty of words aligning the backbone of her existence, his hands aimed to lead her away from the crowd, from the stirring music. He aimed for the ramparts of quiet, the grass beneath her bare feet, the comfort of hushed platitudes and his curious silence. The Reaper’s head tilted, hushed and riveted, stare watching as she glanced at the heavens, where she might’ve been descended from while he shuffled his way through the immoral coils of hell. How to stop being alone indeed, and there was a moment where the edges of his mouth lifted into the faintest smile, where his glance shifted entirely on her with shifting, upward brows and truth pervading from his lips. “She must have learned at some point.” Maybe she didn’t realize it, how surrounded she was by friends, how often he’d seen her, bright and cheery on the banks of battlefields, encompassed, enclosed, and encircled by those who cherished her. He’d never seen them hesitate to go towards her. He’d never seen them evade or avoid her presence. She’d been the sun and they orbited her, extending the warmth back and forth, no light fading, extinguished, or wasted. Can you not see it? he almost asked, the intonations held back because he’d always been the heathen, the fiend, stripping away any thought, any notion, of companions.
Once, Deimos made the choice to be alone, tucked back into desolation and nonchalance because it was easier to die amidst the doldrums, the throngs, of phantoms and specters, memories and foundations of the quaking, quivering world, than have to face one more onslaught of loss and anguish. It was torment in another form, self-imposed and inflicted, drawn across his figure with the weight of the realms pushing back, so that the more he drifted, the more he waned, the more he withered, cracked, and decayed, the more he needed others, the further he was, eternally adrift on a sea of his own creation. He hadn’t always been that way. He hadn’t always been miserable and asinine, drowned and broken, too afraid, too frightened, by the foreboding apprehension, the seething, killer claws of cycles, of patterns, to reach out and savor another. It was simpler to wash it all away and die on the vine, from unseeing eyes, brooding, grieving, disintegrating, mighty king’s crown tossed aside for another life where he wielded nothing but bloodied swords and rusted barricades. The shields and armor were the same. The reasons were different. But ultimately, it was always his loneliness that did him in.
The warrior didn’t know what else to say, didn’t know what else to do. His hands had tucked hers against his palms at some point, squeezing lightly, trying to comfort two parts of the same whole, alike and altered in similar aspects – except she seemed to always want to head into the light of others, and he shied from it, blinded by the radiance, undeserving of its warmth.
Was there more to her tale? He wanted more – the bestial, ravenous, voracious glutton of his figure incensed and kindled by the intrigue, by the interest – or they could trade in parts. He could give. She could give. They could both take.
But he didn’t know where to start, didn’t know how much to grant or implore, struggling to pinpoint the beginning and the end, swallowing down the scales, nettles, and barbs. “Once there was a boy born in the depths of winter, to parents who beheld fire and water.” The Reaper’s eyes lingered downward now, on the ground, head bent, feeling small and insignificant despite his massive, monolithic size. “He thought he would be like his father, flames and infernos. He thought he would be like his mother, calm and wise.” Perhaps he ended up a combination, or a disappointment; he couldn’t ask them now. “Then they discovered he was gifted with death.” His jaw clenched, something clicked in the back of his mind, a whirl, a blade, a war where the consecration was uttered ten times over, the splitting of bones and ribs and hearts. “For a time, the boy avoided that aspect, was naturally curious, learned to read, to write, to brandish mischief with his friends. But then glory called, and he turned to blades, rapiers, and cutlasses, to training himself with victory on his mind, the world in his grasp.” He thought about stopping there; his throat was baffled, his tongue was marred, by how long he’d discussed, by how long he’d talked, by how far he’d gone without fettering and unfurling, unraveling and disjointing, puncturing his soul and slinking back into the night. “Then he went to war, and death was his only friend.” For it took everything, a constant companion. “And he chose to be alone.”
05-03-2019, 09:00 PM (This post was last modified: 05-03-2019, 09:17 PM by Amalia.)
Amalia
I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map
She scarcely notices his guiding hands: not because they are insignificant, but because they rest so easily, feel so comfortable on her shoulder as to scarcely register as other. She lets him lead her away from the throngs, the massive, milling crowd, into greener grasses and warmer sun. She scarcely notices, because why should she? They are merely ornaments, decorations to a setting, props to the play. He is the audience, the author, the spotlights, the soundtrack. Her story is for him alone; so long as he listens, she will be content.
Her silence is an invitation. As the last words leave her lips she waits, back to the man, eyes on the ground, arms extended like the wings of a bird, ready to carry her into the sky, away from his rejection, his scorn. Has she ever given so much of herself away before? Yes- but never in such a way, the intonations and connotations running deeper than either of them will say. There was a time when she offered her heart up freely, gave in away to any who asked, a proud child eager to shed light on every shadow. Now she guards herself fiercely, terrified of the bitter rejection, lonely and lonesome in the howling night.
But he is a lighthouse, vibrant and alive, and she cannot help but steer to him through the darkness of her storm.
Amalia turns back at his voice, something brittle in her slender face. "She tries," she whispers in response, wide sable gaze scanning his face for the secret meanings within. Something like a smile teases at her lips, tender and vulnerable, a painful yearning to be understood. There is more to the story, but she finds she cannot say the words. Amalia swallows and licks her lips, once more a buoy lost at sea.
When his hands wrap around hers it is like fire on her skin, warm and rough against cold fingers. Her eyes do not leave his as he begins to speak, his tale pulled easily from the recesses of his history, spun from secrets into gold. Shadows and darkness, yearning and failure: his is a story she has not experienced, but one she understands. She wishes she could reach up and touch his cheek, feel the soft curls of his beard beneath her fingers and draw those cyan eyes to her, show him she is not afraid to fall inside, for she knows he will not let her drown.
As he finishes, Amalia turns back to their hands, withdrawing her own without letting his go. Instead she wraps her own fingers around them, stacking them one atop one of her palms as she traces the lines of them thoughtfully, drawing an invisible painting on their breadth. "Time passed, and the girl began to see the darkness in the world. She was hurt by her own insecurities, afraid of the changes of life. She watched her family slip away, one after another falling into Ludo's hands. Slowly, she retreated away from the world, buried herself in books and dust and tried to forget the sky."
His hands are warm against her palms. She wants to place them against her cheeks, to feel the heat of him more closely, press against it and thaw the pieces of herself so long left in the dark. "Then, one day, the world shifted, and someone walked into her sanctuary. He asked her about the books, her only friends, and made her want to step back outside. He helped her build up the ruins of her home, and reminded her of the things she enjoyed, stories and baking and feeding people and seeing their faces light up. Together they fought pumpkins and fed luxeres and made bread. He brought her fuel when the night grew long, and he held her when she died."
She swallows at this last admission, remembering sharply that bitter night. "The girl had forgotten, but he helped her remember how to live. He reminded her that there was light outside, and that she had loved it, once." How strange, she muses thoughtfully, how wrong she had been, to see him as the glacier and herself the flame.
Drawn and drawn again, along the snare’s den, courted and thwarted, his attention solely on the riveting contortions, on the secrets uprooted and laid aground, on the shoreline beckoning him home, on the rain echoing past his ears (stitches in a thousand seams; a tranquil smile lifting out of the corner of his eye). It was sun and oblivion, tracing over the foundations of his heresy, of his irreverence, and lacquering them with gold; he thought to resist, to shy away, because that was all he ever did, because it was ingrained from a lifetime of learning to let go. But instead his frame, his figure, his presence remained, moored by the rays, by the ebon tides, by the unknown beckoning him time and time again, descending along the pinnacle of the threshold and watching, waiting, flesh and bone consumed by enticement, by appeal, by allurement. Maybe that should’ve have been how the world worked, for he’d procured his chances once – had them slide through his hands, through his grasp, through those clenching, tightening fists, struggling to deny the trials and tribulations death coiled against his manifestation: a behemoth, undeserving, unworthy, an unrelenting force meant to take but never to give. Hadn’t he used up his opportunities? Hadn’t his flaws and defects caught up with him? How was she still here? The lure was irresistible and he chased it down with his unrelenting intrigue, with his proclaimed curiosity, with all the nuances, notions, and sentiments the realms had once pulled from him, pulsed and pushed back into fruition by patience, understanding. But that didn’t explain why she bothered with him - and he nearly asked her what he had to offer, the irreverent blade, the ruthless, conniving warrior, the soldier who slayed his own ventures, who wallowed and grieved and tore against the strands instead of daring to look beyond the traps and bindings.
Her fingers slid along his hands, and he inhaled, chest heaving, expecting her to dash away; it was an instant where she could be free of him and he wouldn’t chase her down, wouldn’t try and convince her otherwise (he knew very well what he was – why anyone would shriek and scream and flee). Instead though, she simply placed them together with hers, and he stared down at the combination, large and small, rough and smooth, releasing the stolen breath, feeling his chest heave with a relieved, contented sigh. She traced over divots and callouses, palms made for swordplay and devastation, tucked between the segments of creation and renewal, as if they were not murderous wakes and bestial shards. He allowed one bemused snort before the tales continued - his story wasn’t finished and neither was hers, but she’d yet to turn and escape, to hide, to liberate herself from the beguiling strands.
The Reaper might have been satisfied with the darkness shrouding, with the incoming of ruin and demolition (was this when they’d all arrived, shuffled through portals and falling through air?); the way she’d feared change, the way life slipped and curled off into the catacombs and crypts, the way she retreated – similarities between the pair.
Deimos didn’t expect the catalyst of change to be him however; it went beyond his pursuits, his endeavors, his beliefs. He’d been the broken, stoic man, the blending of shadows, the immersion of hatred and wrath, the slate of contempt. He’d been the judge, jury, and executioner on the battlefield. He’d been the graveyard keeper, pushing dirt across his friends, prone, still forms. He’d never been the one to inspire alterations or change. He’d been the heathen, the fiend, the demon (beware the Reaper, they say he loses everyone), the pinnacle of demise, ushering souls across the void until it was his turn again. At first, he thought to shake his head, crumble all those confirmations back into rubble, contradict all the affirmations, the tales. Instead, he unleashed a deep laugh, a broken, choked, strangled hold of amusement and beneficence long since buried, turning her hands over, biding his time while he struggled with what to say, what to do, how to commit to anything without falling apart. “The boy went home to find it destroyed, everything gone, the village smothered while their soldiers were gone to fight another crusade. He buried his friends, his neighbors, and his family. Then he met a girl out in the rain, who represented everything he was not.” He swallowed down the bile smothering his lungs, took her hands and pressed them along his mouth, his breath ghosting over smooth skin, tethering them in place, reaching out for a lifeline he’d missed long ago. “For a time, he thought he had conquered those demons, and then she got sick. He went from village to village, looking for healers, for a cure, for anything to help her. Nothing worked.” The specters were in his eyes and he expected her to be aghast at the sight, to wither away, to reel back, so his gaze shifted downward, along the sprigs of grass and the beams of sunlight still casting on their frames. “So he kneeled and wept at the shrine, begged and pleaded for the gods to fix her. He would have done anything. But they didn’t answer, and there was naught he could do.” The warrior exhaled again, brushed his lips against her skin, her knuckles, her digits, billowed kisses and strokes, allowed them to muffle, to absorb, the rumble of his voice, the echoing pitch of despair again. “He buried her by her favorite river, and then thought he would eventually follow her. He took his time, biding away the seasons, trying to find different ways to join the ones who’d left him behind.” Darkness, hollow and empty, had surrounded and swallowed and consumed him, and he’d let it, embody his essence until he was a damned, cloaked mess, brooding and drinking, waiting for the world to take him apart.
“Then he fell into a portal.” Deimos moved her hands to his chest, where his heart was wild and erratic, beating maddeningly, afraid and cautious, tender and devoted, so she could feel it, sense it, actions over eloquence, faithfulness over the fragmented, shattered beast. “Try as he might to evade everyone and everything, there was this girl who kept coming into his life. He tried to find books about lifelines, and she was there. He tried to help others, and she was there. She told him stories about this world and did not fault him for his ignorance. He tried to repay favors and debts. He held her when she died and thought everything simply happened all over again, and that was the pattern he was doomed to repeat. He watched her come back to life. She brought him back from ruin.” His eyes flicked back to hers, softened sighs passing along his nose, his mouth, uncertainty blinking in the outline of blue. I do not deserve you he tried to echo, tried to proffer, buffered, tied, and fettered for an eternity in his gaze, in his mind. Then he released her hands, gave her one last escape route, as boldness and audacity took hold, as the determination held him steadfast and strong, as he reached for her warm, soft cheeks, as he stroked one hand beneath her chin and raised it to meet his gaze. There were entirely too many things to be read in his heart, in his soul, in his stare, and he’d let her see every single damned one of them; then he closed to fixtures and gently brushed his lips over hers, featherlight and soft.
In the wake of her admission, silence. Oh, there are sounds: the cries of ongoing festivity, the strains of flute and drum and bow, the roaring thunder of her heart. But he is silent, contemplative, lost in the flood of what she has said, the tender and vulnerable reveal. Every passing moment is unbearable torment; Amalia can feel her throat grow tight, her body tighten and retract at the inevitable rebuttal, the rebuke of her exposed truths. I did not do that for you, he will say - gently, kindly, the worst kind of rejection, as though she were a child. You are just another shadow of this world, another friend.
I do not want you.
These are the things she expects to hear, the consternation that whispers between her ears, growing louder and louder and louder and louder as she waits for him to drown them out. She wants to run before she can hear it, to shift into the leopard and vanish into the crowd. It is only his grip on her hands which keeps her moored, gentle yet firm, turning over and over as their fingers entwine and retreat. Amalia stares intently at them, unwilling to see the rejection in his face, still hopeful despite the hopelessness of it all, wishing and willing and praying that he will not let go.
It is his laugh which bring her eyes up, startled by the sound, searching his face for meaning behind it, heart in her throat. The shadow of an uncertain smile creeps across her lips as she knits her fingers tighter into his, reckless and afraid. What does it mean?! her frantic mind screams. Swallowing down her uncertainty, Amalia stares at Deimos' eyes and wills herself to wait.
The story she is rewarded with is melancholy and cruel. Amalia listens in silence as the Reaper begins to speak, his deep voice a rumbling ocean, tides and swells and stillest seas. He talks of a home lost, a family gone, and she squeezes gently against his hands, wishing she could wrap his arms around her, show him she isn't afraid to help carry his pain.
Then he speaks of a girl, and for a moment she freezes, suddenly deeply unsure.
Her heartbeat is thunder, lightning, a sinking, surging ruin rising up to swallow her back into the depths. He met a girl in the rain. He met a girl in the rain. So there is someone else, someone at home, a possessor of his affection for whom he continues to long. It makes sense, now- why would there not be, how would he possibly been without? She had expected this, braced herself against it, but it is still a crippling blow. She lets her dark gaze fall back down, tightening her brow. There have been no promises passed between them, nothing more binding than a day of sunlit fun.
She does not look up as he places her knuckles against her lips, though her stomach flips in bewildered response and she wants to choke a laugh. How have they gone from carefree frolic to whatever-this-is, and where are they going, and what does it mean? Amalia has no idea, doesn't know anything except that his lips are unexpectedly soft, his breath warm against her fingers as he begins, once more, to speak. And as the story continues to further unfold she hates herself for her bitter jealousy, hates the world for hurting him so, hates the sadness in his voice, the specters in his eyes. Turning black eyes up to his blues, Amalia extends her hand to ghost across his cheek, lightly brushing over his beard, thumb curling up the angles of his face, down and to his lips. Her heart breaks for the weight of his loss; her eyes are damp with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry," she breathes into the space between them, wishing she could do more.
Then her hands are on his chest, and she presses them closer, looking for his heartbeat beneath the layers of cloak and fur. And when his tale continues there is another girl, not rain-washed but shadowed, a ship to his lighthouse, a moth to his flame. Amalia does not know what to say, what to do. Every word is a broken hymn, an unearned affirmation; she clings to them like a starving child, a reverent disbelief in her wide eyes, aching and yearning and hopelessly his, raw and exposed and infinitely giving. The offer of escape is boldly rejected, her fingers tangling in his clothing, grasping and anchoring herself to him. His palms touch her cheek and she curls against them, pressing closer into his grasp, lashes fluttering as she lets him lead, turns her face up to meet him, the space between their heartbeats closing, the things unsaid left bare in their eyes.
His kiss is the gentlest, tenderest of touches, and it sets the girl aflame.
She pulls away, but only just, her onyx eyes searching desperately, shock and amazement and hope and bewilderment and happiness written within. Woefully inexperienced, horribly afraid, Amalia does not know what to do, what it means, only that she must not let him slip away, melt between her fingers like dew on a spring day. Her hands do not leave his chest, but her grip on him tightens, and she drops her head, leaning toward his chest, his shoulder, trying to burrow into the tender promise of his great embrace. Hold me, Amalia wants to say. Keep me. Save me. Let me belong to you. I'm frightened. I'm lonely. I'm not good enough. But you make me feel alive.
"Deimos," she breathes against his shoulder, low voice shuddering with words unsaid.
The Reaper believed it was his turn to face inevitable rejection, the kind of refusal and dismissal that would sting and scald, simmer and smother down into his lungs, bask and ricochet across his ribs, clench and grasp at the thawed sanctions of his heart. He thought it might freeze entirely back over then, gone and done in with it all, frigid and glacial still, walled up so readily and defiantly against the world, unattainable and impenetrable. The realms could barrage and assault and siege upon it and he wouldn’t have faltered, or crumbled, just remained still and stoic, nonchalant and apathetic, disconnected from anything but the void; drawing himself inward until the sovereignties could gaze upon a simple machine, adapted for violence and naught else. He’d given everything he had, all those secrets, all those fractured memories, all those segmented anomalies and disasters, droplets of rain and showers meant to douse and destroy. Maybe he’d misinterpreted, misheard, the ties and tethers binding, springing, tilting the sun towards his face, his features, and this would be the instance in which all his calculations and inquiries meant so little, that his curious mind had prodded too far and too deep, fathoms clenching and tightening around the warrior’s throat. Maybe his tale was too overbearing, too much, too everything – and she saw him for what he was truly worth (nothing). They were friends and nothing more, and he’d placed himself out into the ether, exposed to the elements, ready to waste and wither, decay and ferment, like a pattern, like the scrape and click of a clock. The raw music and earth quaked and shuddered beyond them, and he couldn’t hear a damn thing, not with the doubts, the misgivings pounding in his skull. Perhaps he’s crossed a line and she was about to send him off, not taking his unsaid offers, the miniscule scale of his essence, of his presence, of his figure, eyes widening, waiting.
He didn’t want to return to those lonely ramparts, casting his shade and darkness over the tempestuous eaves, desolate and forlorn, brooding and brewing (for what - more of the same nothingness?). He’d tried so damned hard to not flicker and sputter out over the drain, sinking lower and lower until he was ultimately, finally, consumed.
Her eyes met his, and the beast braced himself for it, the onslaught after onslaught, the bestial, barbaric knife stuck into his chest. He didn’t expect her hand to slide along his cheek, the curls of his beard, soft and sorry, apologetic, gaze holding tears at bay; he leaned in and sighed, puffs and wisps of air that had so much to say, but remained silent, and hushed. He didn’t have the words for it; only action and reaction, staring back at her devout amazement, astonishment. Perhaps she believed she had no power over the Reaper and all his fault-lines, all his sins, all his barbaric iniquities, when it was surely, certainly, the opposite. She didn’t escape, didn’t reel back, didn’t fetter at the seams like he’d anticipated, followed the heart beat pulsing savagely in his chest (a roar, a beckoning, Cheshire howl, scintillated and ravished, begging for more more more). There was a chance written in there, in between their hands and souls and rushing ichor; he reached for her and she appeared to accept.
He did laugh at her face as she pulled away from his mouth, but only because of the shock and bewilderment, not the amazement, the hope, or the exhilaration. Deimos has no idea what his face managed to conduct, probably something along the same etchings and details, except the cheekiest of smiles managing to entrench and intertwine itself through his lips. Her fingers still clenched and grabbed at him, make it impossible for him to evade anything (as if he’d want to), facing the siren song of the unknown again, and instead of eluding, avoiding, and dodging, he stayed in its embrace, welcomed its voracity. She dropped herself into his shoulder, into his chest, marking a space in his being solely dedicated to her, his arms following, tugging her in further, strong and enduring, promises and convictions burrowing deeper in his being. A long, lingering sigh unfolded from the icy barracks and barricades, a drawbridge willingly extended down for her; his gaze flicking up to the sun and spying upon the rays spanning their way along the music, song, and dance, a muffled, contented chuckle waning into the abyss. He’d never dared to dream of these things again, even in his most seditious, irreverent decadence, even in the vehement, ferocity of his vicious vanguard; now he was just a man staring back into the day, wondering how his damned soul had managed to find hope again. He caught his name whispered into his form, and then nothing more – as if they have no idea where to go from here or what to do; his grin became more devil-may-care, face bending down to envelop her entirely, mouth a ghost along her ear, woven in the gold. “Amalia,” and it’s almost a deep sing-song, drawing back to extend another kiss on her cheek, a breath billowing and lingering, skin along skin, brushing one more on the tip of her nose with a reverberation of her name again, a deliberate rumble. As he met her other cheek, his voice took on a more resonant faction, rich and potent, powerful and incandescent, a kindling of fire, incensed and gilded. “Will you have me?”
