Beauty In Death [DreamNotFound]

chapter six

George sighed in relief at the loss of touch and sunk down back towards the grass he had been laying on. He took a blade between his fingers and twidled with it, the jew dripping onto his finger tips. He watched, mesmerized, as the opal liquid glistened with a thousand constellations, twinkling under the sunlight.

Birds sang over head, their uplifting melody a tranquilizer to the heart, George felt completely at peace in their solidarity.

Looking around for the first time, George was finally able to take in the beauty of this horrible, tourcherous place. They had made it to the centre of the terrain where the trees had ironed out into a wide grassy plain, the only thing in sight was the presumably empty boxes of weapons still laden in the middle. The grass was a luscious green, dripping with precipitation, gleaming in the light.

Over the canopies of the trees in the distance, came the sun.

She shone her angelic rays over the whole arena, washing them in a golden light which sparkled with glitter, sending a kaleidoscope of colours erupting from any reflective surface. The water droplets on dreams skin stood out to him the most, the way they slowly ran down his forearms leaving a trail of sugar in its wake, seeping into his olive skin. The water left a wet gleam over his previously matte skin, giving the illusion that his skin was made of glass instead of the chain mail it really was forged out of. George was sure that dreams body was flooded with ichor, a man so skilled and pristine must have been chizled out of Zues's bones himself, sculptured to perfection, an artist in complete control of his work. His God-like muscles would make any damsel weak at the knees and any warrior beg for mercy, the mere taste of his name would send fear rioting through your body, the word forever repeating on your submissive tounge, completely washed in his power. He was made of harsh and soft lines, all intricate and precise, a work of an artist who's life was dedicated to painting the most beautiful portrait possible, soft brush strokes accurate and skilled, moulding together colours with a perfect balance to portray his essence. Any glance stole from him was worth a multitude of sonnets written in his honour, his spirit captured between beautiful words, creating an image in your head which was not half as good as the real thing as no words could explain the beauty of such a creature.

Behind every exquisite thing that existed, was something tradgic.

The golden light was soft against dreams skin, kissing at his nuckles and nuzleling in his hair, an oil painting of a warm summer's day, calm and collected. Strokes of yellows and oranges littered the canvas, the paint gentle and kind against the sheet, and slowly unravelling threads of gold that spun together to create his hair which tickled at his eyes occasionally, a hand coming up and swiping them away. It was as if the sun was made only for him to bare upon his skin, George felt unworthy to even be sat, basked in it. The iridescent glow sparkled on his ivory skin but George didn't think he was shining half as bright as Dream was.

A myriad of voices pulsed in his ear, the small hairs on the back of his neck standing taut.

Like a cat processing a high pitched noise, he cringed with uncertainty, springing to his feet and joining Dreams side who was already perched in a defensive stance. George fumbled for the dagger in his pocket as he gathered a bow and arrow wouldn't be effective for close range combat. His slender fingers wrapped round the handel with a sterdy grip, perspiration intertwining between his nuckles. His heart thrummed like a humming birds wings, sending palpitations across his chest.

From the edge of the trees flooded more players, drenched with water, seemingly having gone through the same tourcher as George, stumbling into the centre of the arena. Stiffening from the sight of Dream and George, they also reached for weapons, insinuations flooding through their veins.