#starsarray

their lips meet, her black-and-white hair braided across her shoulders falling onto her back as he lifts her. their fingers dig into each other, and they move backwards, towards his chamber bed, and she will show him how exactly she would choose him.

quiet,   death himself speaks little. he is a tired thing, too  —  who do you think rebirth inherited such traits?  —  and so, he grants them silence. his eyes flutter closed, one hand going to cradle his child’s head.  whispers of comfort do not leave his mouth, instead offered through the mind and the soul, bound by khaotic lineage.  he continues to write with one hand, cradling his child in his other, for they have grown too large to cradle in his hands. they have grown far too adult for his liking, and as his visage ages at his preference  (  lines around his eyes, around the corners of his mouth, hair that does not shine like starlight but instead contains greying locks of wisdom  )  he smiles. there is a turn, a glint of kindness in gentle death’s eyes, and he presses a kiss to their temple, his hand moving to rub their shoulder moments later.  he and zagreus promised charisoula one thing :  no matter how old they got,  how far apart they grew,  they could always come home to father life and father death and seek comfort.  never would they know the absent hand of the goddess of spring and never would they know the iron hand of the once-king of the underworld.  they were a house built on life, on death, and everything in-between.  and they would always be.

gentle hands reach for the veil of violent death, sparkling eyes peering up at him from underneath her own. they have created somewhat of a curtain here, with their respective fabrics. thin and transparent but still obscuring their faces  (  she drives the mortals to madness, and they are afraid of him  )   .  split-colored eyes, heterochromia making the left eye pale and the white eye dark, meet his own, and she reaches out for his cheek. her fingernails scratch gently against his skin, their touch electrifying her.  ‘  this is a new veil, ’  she observes, holding up their fabric shield with her free hand.  ‘ did your brother’s little weaver make it for you? it’s beautiful. ’

their blades strike again. thanatos cusses again before the counterattack. 

‘ i am yours, ’   the patron saint of martyrs whispers, breathless, his back against the grassy fields of elysium. i am yours, forever, his body says, his hands finding their shoulders, their arms, wanting some semblance of touch. he has no skin here in the underworld, but they make contact anyways. he allows himself to be loved and touched by the deity of rebirth, the child of benevolent life and gentle death, and he relaxes under their touch all the same. his robes parted, privacy for as long as the eye can see, the warm sun of the fields baring down on them. the grass itches, somehow, though he has no body, and shoulder-length hair sprawls out around him like a dandelion, or a lion’s mane. he brings them closer, their bodies one already but demanding their closeness, their love, their touch. his hands are scarred with war and self-mutilation, but they hold charis’ hips so gently, and he whispers prayers into their form:  i am yours, i am yours, i am yours...