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" THE GODS ART PERFECT BEINGS — FLAWLESS IN FORM AND IN ESSENCE ; THEIR SKIN IS UNMARRED, NAY SCAR OR FRECKLE ADORNS THOSE DIVINE . NAY LINE OF EMOTION MARKS THEIR HALLOWED, PRISTINE VISAGE. "
"Rafayel?" You ask, your voice so loud in the quiet dark of night. A hum, a shift in the arms that hold you. "I heard that the Gods are perfect."
“They are supposed to be, yes.” Rafayel murmurs, hands gently carding through the strands of your hair. The desert is quiet tonight: there is not a single howl of wind, or a curious fennec fox or gerbil, racing across the expanse of sand. The only sounds in your ears are the mingled breaths and synchronised heartbeats of you and your dear Abysswalker, tangled beneath the sheets in your shared tent.
His blue-pink eyes stare, searching your gaze. The dark circles beneath them are prominent in the shadows cast by the silvery moonlight. You watch as he takes in a deep breath, and then exhales: " ... What books did Amund give you today, my love?"
"You know very well that all Amund gives me are books and scrolls about Lemuria," You huff, thinking of the stack of dusty old books the old man had shoved into your hands at noon, "...Which would not bother me, if he did not sneer so condescendingly while he gave them to me."
"Alright, alright." He sighs, there will be things to discuss with Amund in the morning, if the slight exasperation in his tone is anything to go off of. And then, he asks, voice gentle: "What did you learn about the Gods, my heart?"
" OUR GOD OF THE TIDES HATH BEEN TAINTED. HIS SKIN HATH BECOMETH SPECKLED. HIS HEART HATH BEEN SURRENDERED. NAY LONGER PERFECT IS HE, WHO IS'T HATH, IN LOVESICK FOLLY, GIVEN BOTH LIFE & DOMAIN. "
"They say you are no longer perfect." You murmur, brushing your lips against his jawline, "using their definition, perhaps they are right. you have scars, and little beauty marks."
"The scars are inevitable. you should know it yourself, my heart." He sighs, solemn, "But they dissolve with us during each Seamoon Ceremony — I am not reborn with the scars of my past."
"And the beauty marks?"
He hesitates, a bit. There's a far-away look in his eyes that you've grown used to seeing. "They persist and accumulate." Rafayel states eventually, as if it's fact, "New ones appear, but I never lose them."
"You never lose them?" You echo, and he nods.
Leaning into him, you inspect his face as best as you can in the moonlight. Your lips graze his cheek, right above where one lies below his eye. Another lies at the tip of his nose, and you repeat the action, Rafayel's breath hitching beneath your touch. Another sits at the bridge of his nose, and you feel his eyelashes flutter against your skin as you continue.
"There is something about them, in the books." You start, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. Rafayel leans into the warmth of your touch (after all, you think, grimly, a stray dog will take all the food it is offered, afraid to go hungry again), and you continue with a smile against his skin, "They say that they represent where your lover loved to kiss you, in your past lives."
Rafayel hums, holds you ever closer in his arms, considers the thought. When he falls silent, you know he is aeons away; somewhere below the waves, somewhere thirty thousand years away—you patiently wait for his return, like the shore that welcomes a weary sailor home. A gentle kiss is pressed to right above where his heart should be, and another in the middle of his collarbone. It's instinct, second nature, as natural as the way waves lap at the shoreline and leave seafoam in their wake.
"Perhaps there is some truth in that." He finally says, returned to your side from his reverie. He presses a kiss to your temple, a gentle smile against your skin, "After all, it seems you still do as you used to, even now. Determined to uphold tradition, are you?"
( & aeons ago, beneath the waves, lies the first mark; the first bearer of sin in Eden. A young God of the Sea laughs, a rumble in His chest, as His beloved kisses right above where His heart should be. Every touch is reverent, like tending to an altar. It is no wonder, then, that He entrusted his heart to such a devout worshipper — after all, it will be in loving hands. )