This night, the breath of need and desire enters into their room underneath the sliding door of their bedroom. Ghosting along the alabaster-like stone floors, the remainder of clothing they once wore, scattered and placed within its wild embraces, gathering strength from their released life force. Pausing to look at the frames of those they hold dear. The smiles, the faces, the eyes, the descendants, the ancestors, the glory, the love, the lives of those that inhabit each of them take place on the stage of life. The night echoes their heartbeats, their yearnings are repeated in a call and response, and their tears overflow from the well of joy, sorrow, need, passion, and anger to turn it into a thing of beauty. The breath enters into their nostrils and energizes their limbs so that they become bound in a universe all their own.

Outside the air is not yet the entity it is inside. It sways the trees, walks in and out of the palms, causing their fingerlike fronds to touch and tap it as a poet touches and taps a piano's keys. It ghosts the sands, gazing upon their shared footprints, listening intently to their whispers as they are even taken up into the clouds, the ones that fall underneath the moon's spell, the silver wolf. It is showing his glistening hair as stars evolving into the cosmos.

His chest rises and falls with hers. His hands softly stroke and mindfully caress her body underneath the silken sheets of their bed.

She that pleases me.

He smiles as he beholds her, her eyes fluttering. He holds her tight, realizing it has been too long since he touched her.

I wish I could say all that my heart desires. You are the wind that speaks to the leaves that stir up stories of love that belong to you and me, lover.

As his hands ghost over the small of her back, he remembers their earlier days when he was being introduced to her family. He went along with what his father had wanted. His father wanted a stronger noble lineage and their line was being held tenaciously, with a jaguar like hold, yet it was unraveling, strand by strand. While the pure Germaneness of their blood was ancient, strong and pure, their nobility was not, swiftly diminishing with every birth.

There was a night that we were standing before tents that had seen better days, to see her father. I waited outside while father went inside to speak to hers. I was barely twenty, finishing my masters and going on to pursue my doctorates in physics and advanced engineering when father had called me home. At that time, the family was spending increasing more time in Malta, but I was to go home to Germany to undertake my place within the house.

Our house, he sits amongst the tall pines and low hills, the shorter or taller mountains, the wider and narrower valleys. Our house that dawned its origins in the centuries that the rivers carved out its settlements, when the world was soft and new. Perhaps the air was clearer then.

He bought me down, past its many rooms. Rooms that remain fixated, with time not knowing whether anyone came or not. There was no rot, nor dampness; all swept clean, timbers fixed, walls coated, but no life was there. There was no soul there. Just whispers, soft and deceitfully invisible energy that ghosted its hallways, luring the someone to stay. He took me past all of this to the ancient undergrounds where past winters were spent, huddled together, banded and bonded by fires and where cattle, flock, herd and human dwelt. The roots of the trees covered the surface, siphoning the secrets held deep within these bowels, growing strong, thick, powerful, majestic. The secrets of all the people are held within their many veins, wooden, spongy flesh, green lungs, knarled feet, bones and muscles. They react with a sentience that is palpable. This is why Germany is, to a certain extant, in love with her forest. For Germany knows this and knows that the soul of the people inhabit not just the houses that they build, but the air, sea, land and that the Gods walk, run and light themselves upon us. I saw the levels of civilization, my own people, remembering all the times, time and half a time ago, perhaps.

I saw a kernel of corn here, a piece of broken vessel there, a shredded piece of rope here; time showing itself as it was, here and there, placing markers for me to remember. And he held it up for me to see, deep in the throat of the body of this peritoneal space, my true age, my true self, my true nature, my people promised me to never allow me to forget. The dull metal caught the fire of the torch that my father held in his hand, the reflected runes centered on the shield was symbiotically related with the same ones on the walls and rocks. "Do you know what you are seeing", my father's low voice echoed down into the pit. I nodded a dull acknowledgement, an understanding of sorts, unknowing to myself; I must have always known. I did not need my father to even tell what they were; for while I did not know the names, their meanings my bones knew full well.

"These are the symbols of your ancestors, these ravens." "But, we are not followers of Wodan." "No, but he is Aesir, so we must give our worship to him. Though, we are followers of Donar, Sif and Balder." He then held up another thing, an old necklace with a piece of old skin. "The skin of the wolf. Your mother was a lover of Loki and his son." Though I was not aware of this, it explained much. "Then you understand your name of Beowulf." At that instant point of time, I remembered what could have been forgotten if I allowed myself to be lost in the surreal world of non-experience above.

One of the Gods allowed a drift of air to shape itself into a form before my eyes. My father did not see it, but I did. However, no one can accuse me of being seiomaor. But he did see that I remembered a fact, because he said, "Yes, war wolf. That is what she took it to mean." And by that he meant that is what she wanted for me and possibly, now that I think of it, for herself. Although, I am not sure that I can admit that to Gabriella, even though, I am sure she knows far more than I can even permit myself to see...who could possibly want to admit that your own mother was in love with...I cannot.

I want to think of my beloved here, sleeping so soundly, nestled in my arms.

Indeed, his eyes catch sight of the relic of the night's passion disgarded. The thing that makes him think of starless skies, of moonlit desert sea drift, of glowing spirits from the warmth of fires, of cool breezes, of mysterious fog, of limitless stardust, of the time he chose to accept his father's decision to marry this divine entity in the flesh. His chest feels her breast, the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, the fire in her spirit, burning him tonight and every night, radiating from her and warming him. He feels the nakedness in between her legs; his manhood rises to meet it. She stirs.

No, my love, my mother hated you, and in the strength that I can credit my father with, he chose you over her protest and for that I am eternally glad and grateful. I can give you diamonds, gold, platinum, money, but you chose me, and I chose you. I live for my life and my soul.

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