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Two lovers sat alone, surrounded by nothing but the presence of the other. The Virtue, albeit of a taller stature, leaned on the Fae King. The King held his lover softly, his gaze locked on the other as if he were a painting. He studied the Virtue, admiring him like a poet admired nature, like a playwright admired the arts. He looked as if the fae was a painter, entombing his love in the strokes of oil paint, encapsulating his beauty and grace on canvas for generations. His eyes stared at his lover with such adoration, as if he was the only man who mattered to the King. And for a moment, it was true.
The Virtue’s arms were scarred, with endless divots and ledges adorning his skin. Akin to a mountain, one could say. The keen eye would find beauty in the sheer imperfectness of it, of the flaws that made it natural. Though most would find it beautiful from the start, until frozen snow and ice came crashing down, crushing anyone close enough to touch. A suffocating, painfully heavy, endless and cold expanse of glistening death. Once you got too close, you would leave, lest be crushed in its icy, suffocating enclosure. Unforgiving.
On the outside, one might be entranced by the glittering mountainscape, something untouched by humanity. But then they asphyxiate, drown, unable to ever fully reach the peak of the snow, for it is too deep, too treacherous, too daunting for the normal human. None would want to discover what lay in wait at the summit anymore, none would ever want to succumb to the cold depths of hidden sorrow and pain. And none would truly understand the mountain's psyche, just viewing it as the delicate, alluring scenery it appeared to be.
Unless you were a fool. And a damned fool he was.
Elder Faerie ran his fingertips down the Salt of Solidarity’s arm, starting from the base of his shoulders down to his wrist. He admired his toned muscles, developed from years of strict training and fighting. They were hardened from violence, but still held an air of softness and fragility to them. An innocence that would be buried at the first scent of danger. A defense, perhaps; more thorns one must tear through to reach the inner sanctum known as the soul.
He brushed along each scar, studying it. Memorizing as if he would never be able to see again. As if the Salt of Solidarity was a shell of himself, decaying as soon as the moment passed. As if he would disappear into ash right under his fingertips. He noted the frequency of his wounds, thicker, more jagged ones originating near his shoulder, from years of weathered battles.
These large, serrated wounds grew less in frequency the further down he moved. Across his left arm there was a deep cut, spanning from the Salt of Solidarity’s elbow to his wrist. It travelled daintily, almost dancing along the flesh of his very being. If one looked closely they could notice small, precise incisions along each side of the cut. Stitches, one would presume. The lesion was delicate but deep, a butterfly on a sword's edge, and Elder Faerie inwardly grimaced at the thought of what could have caused such an injury. A blade, perhaps, striking downwards as the Salt of Solidarity moved to protect his face. It must have reached muscle, the hypodermis at least struck. Such a wound was debilitating, walking the line of permanent nerve damage and failure.
He stroked the mark gently, tracing around the edges softly. The Salt of Solidarity, who was previously watching Elder Faerie intently, broke his stare to conceal his face with his right hand. Elder Faerie, upon noticing this, brought the Salt of Solidarity’s other hand up to his own face slowly. He planted a kiss onto the top of his hand, an attempt to reassure him of his absolute adoration.
He trails kisses down his hand, flipping it over to his palm and inner wrist. Peppering kisses down his skin, Elder Faerie flicks his gaze up to the Salt of Solidarity. The latter refuses to meet his gaze, head bowed and turned away. His hair cascaded over his face, obscuring his features in a waterfall of dusty mint. It flowed in waves, the pale coloration turning darker as his hair lengthened. Released from its usual confines, it fit his stature perfectly.
Elder Faerie watched him for a few moments, something that must have felt akin to a lifetime of scrutiny to the other. However, his hand still remained in Elder Faerie’s grasp, lying still. Sensing his reluctance, Elder Faerie withdrawals his lips, bringing the Salt of Solidarity’s hand back to a resting position.
Turning it, he examined the equally - if not more - scarred skin of his wrist. Here, the wounds told a different story, not just of violence, but of inner turmoil as well. While the other injuries told of both physical and emotional suffering, these were worse, graver. They had alternate connotations, something that Elder Faerie had prepared himself for.
But hours of thought could not prepare one to be met with the sheer mourning that blanketed one’s self at the sight of their lover’s suffering. Elder Faerie was met with a quiet static, and the world seemed to slow ever more. It was as if snow was drifting down, falling noiselessly down next to the two men. It blanketed them leisurely, softly muffling all senses. His vision seemed to center on the other man, the rest of the world meaningless at that moment. All that he saw, felt, heard, was the Salt of Solidarity; His scarred skin, his clammy hands, his faint, shaky breaths. And everything was a result of him, of his close proximity to the man he loved, of this intimate interaction, of the sheer trust the Salt of Solidarity had put onto him. And it was overwhelming to both parties.
This type of intimacy, this close trust and vulnerability that came with it, had happened only once before. While both men had observed each other, and had seen the other’s body, they had only once before this truly set aside a moment to focus solely on it. That time, too, had been equally awkward, equally silent, and equally liberating. It had not been planned, but upon seeing the naked chest of his lover, and upon seeing the shame in his eyes, Elder Faerie felt as though he could not ignore the inevitable. And so he sat, quietly, letting the Salt of Solidarity choose what to do. And he sat next to the Fae King, a mutual understanding unfurling between them. It told the narrative of birth, growth, and acceptance of one's own body, of a type of pride, dignity, and peace shared through the twin scars on the Salt of Solidarity’s chest. They flowed like a river, spanning from one end of his pectorals to the other. One could imagine a soft current, ebbing and flowing alongside his heartbeat. And the two men sat, quiet, just letting the world flow around them, just letting currents take them wherever they must go. Now, for a second time, they did the same.
Noticing the change in tone, the Salt of Solidarity turned his gaze back to the other man. Mutely, he studied Elder Faerie’s gaze, searching for any sort of thought, any sort of verdict, judgement, resolve, or presumption. He stared into the man’s pale blue eyes, soft, subtle mirrors into the endless expanse of winter that had overcome his lover. His own eyes, a bright, vivid green, surveyed his lover’s face, picking out the minute details one might miss in the heat of the moment: the faint wrinkles adorning his face from decades of use, the slight crookedness in his nose, presumably from a conflict, and the slight downturn of his eyes. He memorized, because, he too, wondered if this moment might be but a fleeting dream, a wish for something better.
From the small, stolen parts of your life you have spent with another comes the ability to recognize those minute, diminutive changes in expression that someone makes. The slight incline in their inner eyebrow when they are puzzling over a thought; the small crease underneath their eye; the solemn frown they subconsciously develop as their mind is wandering.
Elder Faerie knew of many of these mannerisms that both he himself and his lover had. And with this came the ability to keep his own expression calm, reserved, his emotions concealed and hidden from even the most trained eye. And he knew when the Virtue was distressed. And so he remained tranquil.
He lingered with him, the seconds fading into hours. The snow piled around them, blanketing their senses, stilling the world around them. Holding the man gently in his arms, they sat in mutual silence, an agreement: Now was not the time to discuss what was troubling the two; now was the time to linger in this fleeting moment of trust and intimacy, for it could be swept away in a heartbeat.
They knew someday it would, that someday their bodies would be laid to rest, caskets closed with a sharp, all too real conclusion to their lives. Perhaps they would die next to each other, their final breaths shared between them, their gazes memorizing one another’s faces for the last time. Their hands locked together tightly, as so when death came to take them they could not be separated. Perhaps rigor mortis would allow them to remain together in death, one final reunion. Perhaps their blood could flow alongside each other, merging to create one stream of painfully beautiful love. Their bodies, lying, bleeding, grasping one another’s hands in a desperate act of devotion. With each dying pump of their hearts, with each futile attempt to move closer, to share one last kiss, one last hug, one last embrace, with each shuddering breath, they were one shared soul. Each new surge of blood mirrored, dying in tandem. Perhaps their chests would be torn, gaping, marred, a painfully real sign of their loyalty, of their commitment to one another. And perhaps, once their bodies were laid to rest, and once they would start to decay, and once their insides were crawling with bugs, alive, would their adoration for one another be known. For they knew that when death overcame them and when they would become food for another, when their hearts and brains were consumed, all anyone would taste was the thought of their lover. For the greatest pleasure is licking an open wound.
But for now, it was hidden. Concealed in the cage that their hearts beat for.
And there were three instances of that sense of pain, the kind that threatens to rip your heart out of your chest, displaying the gore through your ribcage, displaying your inner idolizations. Displaying the movement of muscle, still moving even after severed. Begging to escape, to breathe and live once more, to become one with its vessel again.
However many times it could happen, the pain would never be stifled. For there is a certain agony that comes with death that nothing can replicate.
How strange it is, to mourn someone who is still alive; to be haunted by the living, the breathing. How strange it is to grieve what is all but a beating heart.
The first time came during the spring season, where everything was bright and festive. The sun shone through the trees of the Faerie Kingdom, and the euphoria of the season was just beginning. Flowers adorned all structures, acting as brilliant, natural decor. Faeries danced, sang, mingled, enjoying the life they had been given. The air smelled of paradise, not a worry present for the joyous kingdom.
And then came the Devil, blanketed in ash, blood, and guts. His presence was commanding, filled with superiority. Until he took a step, knees buckling, and he collapsed next to the Fae King. And suddenly, he appeared insignificant; small. The faeries seemed to freeze; the air felt as though it had turned to winter once more. Ash and blackened salt drifted in the Devil’s wake: snowflakes falling onto the once-blooming flowers, now withered by salt. With each shaking, desperate breath he took, he grew smaller, collapsing in on himself, clinging to the legs of the Silver King.
The citizens backed away, murmuring amongst themselves quietly. Some moved to remove the intruder from their vicinity, but halted once they saw their King kneel next to the Devil. He remained calm, but small features gave him away: the slight tremble of his left hand, his iridescent wings tucked protectively behind him, his normally at ease antennae rigid and alert. Reaching out to the fallen Virtue, he embraced him, unworried about the death staining him.
The Fae King cradled the Devil in his arms, setting aside the sword that the demon had offered him. A silent reassurance of his love for the other. A refusal of death. And the two lovers cried together, exchanging soft words. Until they stood, and the only thing that remained was a trail of blood and ash. If one were to follow it, they would be led to the Silver Tree. They would have been virtually blinded by the light emitting from the fallen Virtue. If one were to follow it, they would be met with the sounds of dough being pierced by Divine Forks, with the sight of a wordless goodbye between two lovers. And then it would be silent, dark, and only the cries of heartbreak would be left.
Decades, lifetimes would pass, and the Fae King would idle by the Silver Tree for generations, whispering soft nothings to it. It was the embodiment of friendship in some eyes between a faerie and commander, but the embodiment of love for two. And the Fae King would die for it, in the arms of another.
The Devil would never learn of his lover’s demise. That knowledge would wait. And it did, to the Devil’s own passing. Pierced by that he created, shattering that which was his soul, he died in a desperate attempt to fix what was broken. Because he would not ever stand in solidarity with his fellow Virtues ever again. And he would die for that.
Perhaps in death the two could find each other once more. Or perhaps, their souls would rot, never receiving the message that their beloved too had succumbed to an endless slumber. And perhaps they would never find each other, lost in the endless void of death. They would never search for the other, never knowing of the other’s presence there too. And perhaps their memories would dwindle, until all that was left of their mind was the suffocating expanse of silence; of snow falling around them, snuffing out their senses one by one, until all that remained was the sense of I. And perhaps that too would cease, and all that would be left of them was the overwhelming sense of suffocation, lost in the velvet depths of solitude.