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They had met for the first time almost a decade prior, when he was five, and she felt as infinite and intangible as she had always been. It was a distant memory, half-lingering on the edge of reality as if nothing more than a hopeful dream and, sometimes, he had wondered if that was all it was. If that was all she was.
He had discovered her by serendipitous chance that day, dark eyes connecting with something that seemed both familiar and new all at once, and he had felt a shift in the air around him. The moment felt predestined. He had reached out a warm hand to press against the cool of her cheeks, run a curious hand along the length of her chiton. Her fingers had joined his, slender and smooth and as small as his own, gently inquiring as to his own tentative touch. He had still been awkward and round-faced, afraid of anything which might have turned the fragile moment into more than that. She had stared back at him, better than he.
As he soon discovered, she would always be better.
Mother had caught them that first time, but had not understood. Mother would — could — never understand, and had stood screaming until the old contours of her face were almost the same shade of red as graced their family crest, roughly grabbing the youngest of her children by the collar of his chiton and dragging him away against his will, leaving a harsh red mark on the back of his neck which would not fade for weeks. Mother had forbidden him from seeing her, slashing a knife across his black curls, so he was left with uncomfortable scruff in the place of the thick and beautiful tendrils: where once they had draped elegantly and dramatically to his shoulders, they were now sheared away and replaced with nothing more than uneven tufts which more resembled his brother’s locks than his own. It had left him feeling ugly and wrong, and once Nethis had managed to dry the tears that would not stop, he had remained reclusive in his chambers for days, hidden from the rest of the world because he could not face the horror of looking so broken. Now that the tresses had grown long and lush once more, the punishment existed as nothing more than a distant memory, almost fake in its absurdity.
But he knew it was real because when he had been deposited back in his chambers and had curled up on the edge of his bed to sob the thought away, it had been the first time he had closed his eyes and begged Hades that Mother might leave them. When the fear refused to leave him, and became a heavy interior mess that wrapped itself unforgivingly around his sense of self and halted any positivity which threatened to rise within him, he had begged again.
He had been so afraid, but she never was, and she did not let him stay that way either when he fell into his fantasies and let her wrap soft arms around him again.
She almost only came to him in dreams after that, stealing his mind when his eyes were shut, a ghostly vision that captured his imagination and led him elsewhere. He was happy in those fantasies, the escape well-craved and making her all the more precious to him. But all he wanted was the reality.
* * *
When he met her again, he was ten. Mother was gone at last, and his hair had grown back past where it had once sat, falling to his shoulder blades and framing his thin features. It had taken years, but he finally felt as comfortable with himself as he had once before. Almost.
Like before, he had caught sight of her without meaning to, dark eyes catching the strange glint in hers, though their inexplicable familiarity had not waned in all those years. He had run to her, caught in the thrill of the moment, breath hitched because he had not believed he would see her again outside of those dreams. She had changed in the same ways as he, veiled in a maturity that had not existed before.
He had pressed fingers against hers, held the moment as long as he could, relishing the reality of it. He had seen himself reflected in the whites of her eyes, his own wide and glistening with the worry that they would be caught again and his hopes would crash down around him. Her gentle touch assured him that all would be well, soothed him as he traced his way over her body and admired the strength she possessed. But even in his comforted state, when the door opened behind him and caught the intimacy of the moment, he had bristled in sudden fear, temporarily terrified that Mother was still alive — back and hateful — and would pull them away from one another as she had once before. He did not want to lose her again.
But it was only Nethis, and Nethis did not mind. Nethis was as kind and good to him as she had always been, and Nethis had not screamed or chastised him or broken them apart. Nethis understood.
He saw her often, then, though the meetings came as sweet surprises because he did not yet know how to find her himself. They were brief, clandestine affairs, and he did not dare linger lest Father or Dysius catch them. She was special. She was something secret for him, someone he did not want to give up.
She made him whole, and with every passing day, he only wanted her more.
* * *
Today, he had intended the meeting. Fifteen years old and, for the first time, he sought her out himself.
When he found her at last, he stared for a long while, admiring every one of her fine features like he had never before been able to, running his gaze over her with a hunger that feared she might be snatched from him at any moment. Every part of her was stunning, shrouded in the mystery and allure of a forbidden dalliance. He wanted to take in every inch of her.
She had high cheekbones, the line of them sharp and only further accentuated by the light apple-pink tinge dabbed below them, starkly contrasting the pallor of the skin. They were slim and noble, regal contours turning her into the lady that she was not.
She had full lips, the cupid’s bow over-pronounced and neatly shaped by the vermillion paint staining them bright, quickly thieving away any attention directed towards her. They were soft and feminine, paused half-parted as though she were permanently on the verge of speech, though interrupted.
She had dark irises, the honey swirls blended with golden shimmers that threaded through their depths, rimmed in unforgiving black kohl, finely shaping the almonds of her eyes. They were deep and soulful and filled with vestiges of every misery she had suffered, but they had hope.
She had long hair, the obsidian tresses almost messy as they fell daintily over her shoulders and settled with curled Stygian tips at the nape of her lily-white neck. They were thick and heavy and delicate all at once, teasing all that could and would be but was not yet.
She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her.
He ran her fingers through her hair, and when he did so, her world came alive in his eyes. Their dark gazes connected in the mirror, and she became a part of him. He became her.
She lowered her lashes, feigned innocence in the mirror, and felt for the curves of her body that did not exist. She stared for what felt an eternity, drew herself into another world.
She could not quite believe it. She could not quite believe herself.
But this was happening. She was there, and she was looking at him. And she was so beautiful.
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She was beautiful. But she had always been.
* * *
They had met for the first time almost a decade prior, when he was five, and she felt as infinite and intangible as she had always been. It was a distant memory, half-lingering on the edge of reality as if nothing more than a hopeful dream and, sometimes, he had wondered if that was all it was. If that was all she was.
He had discovered her by serendipitous chance that day, dark eyes connecting with something that seemed both familiar and new all at once, and he had felt a shift in the air around him. The moment felt predestined. He had reached out a warm hand to press against the cool of her cheeks, run a curious hand along the length of her chiton. Her fingers had joined his, slender and smooth and as small as his own, gently inquiring as to his own tentative touch. He had still been awkward and round-faced, afraid of anything which might have turned the fragile moment into more than that. She had stared back at him, better than he.
As he soon discovered, she would always be better.
Mother had caught them that first time, but had not understood. Mother would — could — never understand, and had stood screaming until the old contours of her face were almost the same shade of red as graced their family crest, roughly grabbing the youngest of her children by the collar of his chiton and dragging him away against his will, leaving a harsh red mark on the back of his neck which would not fade for weeks. Mother had forbidden him from seeing her, slashing a knife across his black curls, so he was left with uncomfortable scruff in the place of the thick and beautiful tendrils: where once they had draped elegantly and dramatically to his shoulders, they were now sheared away and replaced with nothing more than uneven tufts which more resembled his brother’s locks than his own. It had left him feeling ugly and wrong, and once Nethis had managed to dry the tears that would not stop, he had remained reclusive in his chambers for days, hidden from the rest of the world because he could not face the horror of looking so broken. Now that the tresses had grown long and lush once more, the punishment existed as nothing more than a distant memory, almost fake in its absurdity.
But he knew it was real because when he had been deposited back in his chambers and had curled up on the edge of his bed to sob the thought away, it had been the first time he had closed his eyes and begged Hades that Mother might leave them. When the fear refused to leave him, and became a heavy interior mess that wrapped itself unforgivingly around his sense of self and halted any positivity which threatened to rise within him, he had begged again.
He had been so afraid, but she never was, and she did not let him stay that way either when he fell into his fantasies and let her wrap soft arms around him again.
She almost only came to him in dreams after that, stealing his mind when his eyes were shut, a ghostly vision that captured his imagination and led him elsewhere. He was happy in those fantasies, the escape well-craved and making her all the more precious to him. But all he wanted was the reality.
* * *
When he met her again, he was ten. Mother was gone at last, and his hair had grown back past where it had once sat, falling to his shoulder blades and framing his thin features. It had taken years, but he finally felt as comfortable with himself as he had once before. Almost.
Like before, he had caught sight of her without meaning to, dark eyes catching the strange glint in hers, though their inexplicable familiarity had not waned in all those years. He had run to her, caught in the thrill of the moment, breath hitched because he had not believed he would see her again outside of those dreams. She had changed in the same ways as he, veiled in a maturity that had not existed before.
He had pressed fingers against hers, held the moment as long as he could, relishing the reality of it. He had seen himself reflected in the whites of her eyes, his own wide and glistening with the worry that they would be caught again and his hopes would crash down around him. Her gentle touch assured him that all would be well, soothed him as he traced his way over her body and admired the strength she possessed. But even in his comforted state, when the door opened behind him and caught the intimacy of the moment, he had bristled in sudden fear, temporarily terrified that Mother was still alive — back and hateful — and would pull them away from one another as she had once before. He did not want to lose her again.
But it was only Nethis, and Nethis did not mind. Nethis was as kind and good to him as she had always been, and Nethis had not screamed or chastised him or broken them apart. Nethis understood.
He saw her often, then, though the meetings came as sweet surprises because he did not yet know how to find her himself. They were brief, clandestine affairs, and he did not dare linger lest Father or Dysius catch them. She was special. She was something secret for him, someone he did not want to give up.
She made him whole, and with every passing day, he only wanted her more.
* * *
Today, he had intended the meeting. Fifteen years old and, for the first time, he sought her out himself.
When he found her at last, he stared for a long while, admiring every one of her fine features like he had never before been able to, running his gaze over her with a hunger that feared she might be snatched from him at any moment. Every part of her was stunning, shrouded in the mystery and allure of a forbidden dalliance. He wanted to take in every inch of her.
She had high cheekbones, the line of them sharp and only further accentuated by the light apple-pink tinge dabbed below them, starkly contrasting the pallor of the skin. They were slim and noble, regal contours turning her into the lady that she was not.
She had full lips, the cupid’s bow over-pronounced and neatly shaped by the vermillion paint staining them bright, quickly thieving away any attention directed towards her. They were soft and feminine, paused half-parted as though she were permanently on the verge of speech, though interrupted.
She had dark irises, the honey swirls blended with golden shimmers that threaded through their depths, rimmed in unforgiving black kohl, finely shaping the almonds of her eyes. They were deep and soulful and filled with vestiges of every misery she had suffered, but they had hope.
She had long hair, the obsidian tresses almost messy as they fell daintily over her shoulders and settled with curled Stygian tips at the nape of her lily-white neck. They were thick and heavy and delicate all at once, teasing all that could and would be but was not yet.
She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her.
He ran her fingers through her hair, and when he did so, her world came alive in his eyes. Their dark gazes connected in the mirror, and she became a part of him. He became her.
She lowered her lashes, feigned innocence in the mirror, and felt for the curves of her body that did not exist. She stared for what felt an eternity, drew herself into another world.
She could not quite believe it. She could not quite believe herself.
But this was happening. She was there, and she was looking at him. And she was so beautiful.
They had met for the first time almost a decade prior, when he was five, and she felt as infinite and intangible as she had always been. It was a distant memory, half-lingering on the edge of reality as if nothing more than a hopeful dream and, sometimes, he had wondered if that was all it was. If that was all she was.
He had discovered her by serendipitous chance that day, dark eyes connecting with something that seemed both familiar and new all at once, and he had felt a shift in the air around him. The moment felt predestined. He had reached out a warm hand to press against the cool of her cheeks, run a curious hand along the length of her chiton. Her fingers had joined his, slender and smooth and as small as his own, gently inquiring as to his own tentative touch. He had still been awkward and round-faced, afraid of anything which might have turned the fragile moment into more than that. She had stared back at him, better than he.
As he soon discovered, she would always be better.
Mother had caught them that first time, but had not understood. Mother would — could — never understand, and had stood screaming until the old contours of her face were almost the same shade of red as graced their family crest, roughly grabbing the youngest of her children by the collar of his chiton and dragging him away against his will, leaving a harsh red mark on the back of his neck which would not fade for weeks. Mother had forbidden him from seeing her, slashing a knife across his black curls, so he was left with uncomfortable scruff in the place of the thick and beautiful tendrils: where once they had draped elegantly and dramatically to his shoulders, they were now sheared away and replaced with nothing more than uneven tufts which more resembled his brother’s locks than his own. It had left him feeling ugly and wrong, and once Nethis had managed to dry the tears that would not stop, he had remained reclusive in his chambers for days, hidden from the rest of the world because he could not face the horror of looking so broken. Now that the tresses had grown long and lush once more, the punishment existed as nothing more than a distant memory, almost fake in its absurdity.
But he knew it was real because when he had been deposited back in his chambers and had curled up on the edge of his bed to sob the thought away, it had been the first time he had closed his eyes and begged Hades that Mother might leave them. When the fear refused to leave him, and became a heavy interior mess that wrapped itself unforgivingly around his sense of self and halted any positivity which threatened to rise within him, he had begged again.
He had been so afraid, but she never was, and she did not let him stay that way either when he fell into his fantasies and let her wrap soft arms around him again.
She almost only came to him in dreams after that, stealing his mind when his eyes were shut, a ghostly vision that captured his imagination and led him elsewhere. He was happy in those fantasies, the escape well-craved and making her all the more precious to him. But all he wanted was the reality.
* * *
When he met her again, he was ten. Mother was gone at last, and his hair had grown back past where it had once sat, falling to his shoulder blades and framing his thin features. It had taken years, but he finally felt as comfortable with himself as he had once before. Almost.
Like before, he had caught sight of her without meaning to, dark eyes catching the strange glint in hers, though their inexplicable familiarity had not waned in all those years. He had run to her, caught in the thrill of the moment, breath hitched because he had not believed he would see her again outside of those dreams. She had changed in the same ways as he, veiled in a maturity that had not existed before.
He had pressed fingers against hers, held the moment as long as he could, relishing the reality of it. He had seen himself reflected in the whites of her eyes, his own wide and glistening with the worry that they would be caught again and his hopes would crash down around him. Her gentle touch assured him that all would be well, soothed him as he traced his way over her body and admired the strength she possessed. But even in his comforted state, when the door opened behind him and caught the intimacy of the moment, he had bristled in sudden fear, temporarily terrified that Mother was still alive — back and hateful — and would pull them away from one another as she had once before. He did not want to lose her again.
But it was only Nethis, and Nethis did not mind. Nethis was as kind and good to him as she had always been, and Nethis had not screamed or chastised him or broken them apart. Nethis understood.
He saw her often, then, though the meetings came as sweet surprises because he did not yet know how to find her himself. They were brief, clandestine affairs, and he did not dare linger lest Father or Dysius catch them. She was special. She was something secret for him, someone he did not want to give up.
She made him whole, and with every passing day, he only wanted her more.
* * *
Today, he had intended the meeting. Fifteen years old and, for the first time, he sought her out himself.
When he found her at last, he stared for a long while, admiring every one of her fine features like he had never before been able to, running his gaze over her with a hunger that feared she might be snatched from him at any moment. Every part of her was stunning, shrouded in the mystery and allure of a forbidden dalliance. He wanted to take in every inch of her.
She had high cheekbones, the line of them sharp and only further accentuated by the light apple-pink tinge dabbed below them, starkly contrasting the pallor of the skin. They were slim and noble, regal contours turning her into the lady that she was not.
She had full lips, the cupid’s bow over-pronounced and neatly shaped by the vermillion paint staining them bright, quickly thieving away any attention directed towards her. They were soft and feminine, paused half-parted as though she were permanently on the verge of speech, though interrupted.
She had dark irises, the honey swirls blended with golden shimmers that threaded through their depths, rimmed in unforgiving black kohl, finely shaping the almonds of her eyes. They were deep and soulful and filled with vestiges of every misery she had suffered, but they had hope.
She had long hair, the obsidian tresses almost messy as they fell daintily over her shoulders and settled with curled Stygian tips at the nape of her lily-white neck. They were thick and heavy and delicate all at once, teasing all that could and would be but was not yet.
She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her.
He ran her fingers through her hair, and when he did so, her world came alive in his eyes. Their dark gazes connected in the mirror, and she became a part of him. He became her.
She lowered her lashes, feigned innocence in the mirror, and felt for the curves of her body that did not exist. She stared for what felt an eternity, drew herself into another world.
She could not quite believe it. She could not quite believe herself.
But this was happening. She was there, and she was looking at him. And she was so beautiful.
