This son of darkness, so comfortably dwelling in the belly of malice draws closer, his dark head - so close in make and mold as her own, emulates her position. The soft velvet of his lips, the warm moisture of his breath caresses the fur on her ears, sending a shiver down her spine. She holds her breath, almost expecting some kind of little death; no, a reprieve from his murmurs - a release from this life that threatens to drown her, but he only gives her words to ponder, the noiseless plush of his voice. Show me, he whispers, corrupting the stillness of the night. Blue eyes wander to his, studying their brightness, their shadow, how the curve of their corneas reflect her own gaze. She watches him unflinchingly, the slight quiver of her nostrils the only sign of life on her face, her body. From beneath the damp curtain of her forelock she watches him, traces the austere arc of his jaw, the hollow above those electric eyes, the sweep of his throat. She tries to imagine what his heart looks like, nestled in a ribcage, between iron lungs. He is alive, there is no doubt about that; she can feel the rhythm of his breath, his heat so close to the cold dampness of her body.

Show me.

She says nothing; it begins to rain once more.

It does not begin with violence: just the pitter-pattering of droplets against water. But quickly it begins to gain in intensity, until all she can see of him is a grey haze, near but so far away. He is no longer a source of heat, but another cool form in the tempest. Water trickles down the smooth onyx surface of her horn, between her eyes. Raindrops are caught by her think trimming of dark eyelashes, running down the delicacy of her cheeks, amid the soft curves of her nostrils. The lake sings ever louder as the rain comes down stronger, and they are married, exchanging song and movement as the downpour becomes near opaque. Stray raindrops fall into her lungs, but she does not drown, she cannot drown.

Eyes close; this is her element, her sanctum, where she has always belonged - between the raindrops. What are we all but drops of rain falling from the sky, lost in the vastness of our own world? How will we know where we will fall - can we even begin to predict it? For the General's sake, the storm begins to wane, but still it precipitates steadily. She opens her eyes once more, attempting to glean some reaction from Deimos' expression, seemingly chiseled from the finest marble, the monolithic face of a cliffside. She inhales, and the humid air, cool and damp, fills her lungs, but she can also smell the dry smell of withered grass, the sterile scent of winter. Huyana marvels at his closeness, at her own endurance, at how strange life has come to be. She no longer trembles, quite forgetting how cold she is. So still she stays, wondering morbidly what would happen if they made contact - would she wither like an autumnal flower? Would she fracture and break into pieces, dousing the entire world in a deluge of dying dreams and bitter obstinacy?

Would the entire world drown?

""