Undying frivolities and intrigue; she stayed, lingering in the way a placid spring does, listless and languid, tranquil and serene, and he strayed, stare fixating on the walls of winter, so that he would remain forever locked in place. Slinking in the boughs of his calamity, the minute, unwinding motions of control, every fiber gripped and ensnared by the meticulous persecution of his sinister canon. In the darkest, dimmest hours of earth, he’d still devour and dragoon, contort and compel, bringing the fiercest flames of his recoil and grace to the strangling hold of his ruthless tenacity. He strangled and reaped, and when his hot knife had scalded every creation, he would rest in the wake of his turmoil and bedlam. Potency, archaic and primordial, drenched his existence in the overwhelming furor of his imperious distortion. She couldn’t change that, the little dabble, the tiny snippet, the singsong sonnet of sorrow and melancholy, blanketing the tundra in that vernal harpsichord she’d arched and woven around the frigid threshold. Yet, she was quiet, so hushed along the confidence of his unholy sedition, the layers of his scintillating, ripping annihilation, the ravenous, simmering depravity of his formation, that he did naught but withstand, endure, the silken threads of her aura. Instead, he struggled to glare against the horizon, watching and hoping that it too shattered from the forces of his debauchery, the rampant decree of his predacious splendor, to counter the weight of her radiance, of her luminescence. She threw him not a single barb, did not threaten the livelihood of his countenance, did not chew upon his hedonistic scenery as if it were not a lethal canvas, and simply abided the silent tones of his imperious recherché. She didn’t wither, she didn’t push, she didn’t transgress, she didn’t unravel from the seams of the waiting chill, and when she didn’t vanish he settled into the reach of her ethereal element, let the snow cast upon the shades of his argent enigma, allowed himself to be buried, a rotting denizen, in the earthen tides of contemplation, opulence and iron.

She murmured something quickly, a swift, angelic, corporeal stance so brisk and muted that he barely caught the whisper, found himself leaning in her direction, twisting an ear to revel in the reverie of her morose qualms and quelling. I’ve lost so much; he knew nothing about her except the visceral pain she carried, cherished like a beloved, martyred and ruined against the outcrop of rock and ice. Her statement caused a slight stir of curiosity amongst his brow; it furrowed for a few moments, unseen and untouched by her eyes, turned to stare at the woods and cliffs. They were vastly similar, painted by rims and dark hues, where his colors ran into vices and hers into virtues, both ultimately scattered into pieces, either by birth or circumstance. He’d had something once too, a family to admire and preserve in his blackened, shriveled heart, long since passed by the way of life, and he still revered them, held them aloft in his esteem when his actions proved true and worthy. But then, they were gone, and his youthful glow had weakened, and the ghastly scion had been punctured, pierced, cooled and deluded by the curse, by the gift, clinging to his veins, to his muscles, to the rancorous coil of his thoughts and sentiments. What had she treasured? What had she mislaid? What had been consigned to oblivion in her eyes? Did she rupture it; cause her own misfortunes, tracing the weary castles of the world until there was naught left, lacerated, pierced, broken, forgotten? Gone before she had a moment to toss farewells across her lips? What was it like to have and then lose? Was it worse to trap it in your grasp and let it fly away seasons later, or to never embark on the venture at all? His silence brewed, pervaded in the crisp shades of immorality, the culminating friction of wasted, ravaged bliss, exposed to the harsh regions of maelstroms of acrimony, never to return. He fed on ferocity, and forgot what it was to drink in the ambrosia of life.

Slowly, ever so slightly, his graceful, disastrous head pivoted towards her direction. He allowed the severe stare of his blue eyes to pierce her then, lacing the contours of her desolation, watching lashes curl against cheeks before lifting again. Her strange smile appeared afresh, anew, and he didn’t understand it, the ability of a crumpled soul to become enraptured once more, laced by the wings of verses and stanzas of the earth and air. He’d never fractured or splintered, and so couldn’t relate to the chiseled curves of a tired grin, couldn’t find it in his heart to return the painful beam. Instead, he embarked on domination, authority, mastery of maelstrom and decadence, proud, arrogant, but always, forever, eternally worthy of its scrupulous merit. Even in the midst of defeat, he often found a way to conquer, to triumph, to bludgeon and scar, rid the world of its full conquests and fineries. He blinked once or twice, deliberate, diligent motions designed to rid her frame of its sheen, perhaps her passions, her ardency, would recede, be born again elsewhere, another time, another place, where his apathetic gaze did not have to burn from its opulent glimmer. But the reverie and rapture remained, and he looked away again, away from seraphs and sorrows. His voice, however, kindled its rough, sibilating grate, the whisper of demons and infidels, still unrefined, still dissolute, but reaching, extending, towards the revel of her figure and creation. If only because she didn’t condemn him, if only because she didn’t scorn him, deride him, seek to rid him of his infernal, nefarious puissance, and merely sought solitude in the wake of his heinous deliverance. Curiosity, he supposed, was a very strange thing to have, but he held it, displayed it, bore it aloft so she could see, hear, and witness. “What is your name?”