Levi was a poet, and he was dying.
He lay there; his breath was heavy, he couldn't move his limbs, he wanted to close his eyes from the sun, but he knew if he did it, he'd shut them close forever.
He tried so, so hard to move his hand—he could move a finger, and then two, and then his hand altogether. He brought it close to his eyes. The sun hurt his head, and it made him think of water, and how dry his mouth and throat.
Oh, right, he was dying, after all.
Then, a thought—We are nothing but speck of dust made of blood and bones—crossed his mind. He wanted to laugh at the irony; you are dying and all you want to do is to write poetry before you die.
He couldn't hold it anymore, he closed his eyes. Maybe if someone comes by, I will ask for a piece of paper, instead of a glass of water.
And he heard it; footsteps, slow, steady, but it stopped. Then the footsteps become louder and louder, and more rushed—as if the person was running toward him.
They did, because he could hear their rapid breathing, he could feel someone towering above him, and—
They grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking him, and asking, "Are you all right?"
What, can't you see, was on the tip of his tongue. He was a poet, but he was also a snark; using his words and letters like a knife to pierce everyone who intend to hurt him.
But he couldn't voice his thought, and he opened his eyes instead.
Above him: a woman, a young one, with a creased between her eyebrows, with golden eyes that reminded him of honey, with thin lips that had opened, and repeated the question, "Are you all right?"
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wanted to reach out to her hands that had conveyed cold through his clothes—
"Here," The woman handed him… an apple? Its skin was gold, and glimmering under the sun. Levi eyed it warily, afraid if he bit it, it'd taste cold in his tongue, or he'd break his teeth because it certainly looked hard.
"Here," she said, bringing it closer to his mouth, and Levi opened his mouth, just slightly, wincing at the hurt from his dry lips that had been clamped tight.
He bit it, just as much as his mouth could allow him to. The apple was sweet and full of water that he had no difficulty in swallowing it all, without nibbling it. It was as if he had been drinking a glass of water; his throat was not aching anymore, and his mouth watered from the sweetness of the apple, and he opened his mouth wider to nip some more. He heard the woman sighed in relief, and moved to put Levi's head on her lap, as he ate and chewed the apple.
After there was nothing left from the apple but the core, Levi could sit up and face the woman properly. The crease between her eyebrows had gone, and her eyes had been brighter than Levi had seen them first.
She asked, "What's your name?"
"Levi," he answered; his voice sounded strange and low and his throat throbbed a little.
"Levi," she recited, with a smile that made Levi think of sweets vanishing in tongue. "My name is Petra."
Levi was a poet, and Petra was a youth.
From what Levi could remember, he was old; all wrinkles, grey hair, and muscle pain. Petra was not; she was a lively creature with functioning limbs and all smiles and glinting eyes. The only wrinkles she had is from her smile lines, but they always disappeared quickly before Levi could look twice.
When Levi had been better, he'd asked for a paper, and she'd given him a stack of it, a wooden table, a bottle of ink, and a quill.
The first thing he wrote;
We are nothing but speck of dust
Made of blood and bones
The skin shrivels
The blood vanishes
The soul becomes the sun
Petra had read it over his shoulder and, "Aren't that a bit sad?"
"When you're old like me, Petra, you'll understand."
She had laughed; a clattering sound that had his fingertips itch to write a poetry based on her voice. "I'm older than I look, Levi. I might be older than you."
"I don't believe you."
"You don't have to," she replied, but she had that smile again on her lips, like she had some sweets in her tongue and she wouldn't tell him what it tasted.
"Enchant me, then," he wished.
And she told him.
Levi was a poet, and Petra was a goddess.
She brought her apples everywhere; they radiated under the sun, flaming gold with her hair and eyes, and glinting along with her eyes when she handed one of the apples to other god who wished to be eternally young.
Her house smelled like apples, and not even once did Levi ever felt queasiness to the sweet, rich smell.
Levi was a poet, and he let Petra taste it.
The first thing she'd ask when she arrived home was to have Levi recite his poetry he wrote during the day. Then, she'd brew tea as Levi pulled a stack of papers to his arm.
At first he'd read it slowly, feeling the words and rhythms in his tongue, and then he'd recite it louder, with each passing and pause become lyrical and he'd get lost in it.
He'd tell her about the giant who built the wall around them. He'd tell her about the goddess of love. He'd tell her about the wicked Erwin.
And she'd listen, with the round eyes of her staring right at him, unmoving, with a hand under her chin, with her elbow leaning on her knees. Sometimes she'd laugh, or sometimes she'd click her tongue to disapprove.
Levi felt words more coming out of him; from his throat, and his fingertips.
Petra's hands were always cold.
And Levi knew this when his fingertips accidentally brushed her fingers, when she handed him the teacup.
The slight touch made Petra pulled her hand away quickly—and almost made the teacup fall, but thankfully Levi's hold was firm. She stammered an apology, but Levi was too fazed to brush it off.
The touch made him want to know if Petra's skin in other place was just as cold. His fingertips ached, not from yearning to write, but from yearning to be on her skin.
The sun is dripping
Drowning the trees
Levi stared at the back of his hand; the skin was tight and plump, no wrinkles. He looked up to the window and saw at his reflection; his hair was dark, and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth had also vanished. He also realized that he had been sitting for hours, yet his muscles had not been aching.
He saw Petra had been watching him. He turned around, as Petra stepped closer. The footsteps were slow, but steady.
"Petra—" He stopped, what would he say?
"Levi," she called, reaching out to stroke his cheek. "Look at you, you're young again."
"The apple—"
"Yes, it was because of the apples I've been feeding you. One apple is not enough, because you were dying. One more to regain your strength, and one more to gain your youth."
Petra's hand was cold, but also soft. He grabbed it without thinking, and he leaned more to the touch. Petra became rigid, but said nothing. Levi could see it in her eyes; wanting, and desire. She swallowed.
"You've been alone for so long," stated Levi, standing up. He was taller than her just barely.
"I am," she replied. The wanting turned into hunger, the desire turned into lust. So Levi gave what she wanted. He leaned down to press his lips against her, hesitant at first, but then Petra opened her mouth and Levi deepened the kisses. Petra tasted like her apples, and she smelled like the sun, her hands were cold but her body was warm, her skin was soft and plump and Levi was lost in her.
The sun is dripping
Drowning the trees
The world was gold mine
Levi was a poet, and Petra was a poetry.
Levi would scoot closer to her, pressing his body against her, as he whispered poetry made from her hair, or her smile, sometimes her eyes. But mostly her eyes.
He'd whisper them as he traced her spine.
He'd whisper them as he grazed her collarbone.
He'd whisper them as she fell asleep.
Levi was a poet, and Petra was a poetry itself.
One day, Petra didn't come home.
Levi waited anxiously, a poetry was already at the tip of his tongue and his fingertips. All he needed was Petra who would listen to him.
But Petra had not come home.
For days. Then Weeks. And Months.
Later, years.
He had gone out to ask many people who had maybe seen her, but he always received a head shaking, or a mutter no, or even people walking away quickly out of his reach.
The sun vanishes
And the world is black and white
Until he realized the skin at the back of his hand had wrinkles. He looked up to his reflection in the window, and saw he was getting older.
Petra had brought her apples the day she was gone.
Levi was a poet, and he knew words didn't come out by themselves.
There were whispers; the gods had been getting older day by day. And the name, Erwin.
Levi had met Erwin before; a cunning god that had always got Levi into trouble itself. Levi had been avoiding the god but he was certain Erwin had something to do with Petra being missing.
Why didn't I think of it before, was what Levi had thought.
Pixis—another god—had told Levi, If something happened, I always assumed it was Erwin's doing, it saved lots of time and energy to think.
"Well, well, look who's here," was the first thing Levi had heard. Erwin didn't look any better than Levi; his shoulders were slumped, his eyes were tired, and the blond hair was replaced by grey hair.
"Where is she?"
"Who?" Erwin mused.
"You bastard," hissed Levi, grabbing Erwin by the collar and the god was taller than Levi, but Levi didn't let it intimidate him—if all, he had become angrier. "Where. Is. Petra."
Erwin huffed, "I don't know what are you talking about."
"She's the reason you become this stinky old god."
Erwin was about to respond that he was not stinky old god, but cut by a voice.
"He's right, Erwin, we're all getting older if it were not for Petra's apples."
Darius.
Levi turned around to meet the god who—oddly—didn't look old. The beard and the grey hair made Darius look more mature and wise.
"I—"
"Save it for later, Erwin, I know it's your doing. Come with me. Now."
Levi wanted to ask, to scream, But what about Petra? But he knew better to stay silent, watching them both go before him.
Levi was a poet, and he was dying.
He had been dying once, and this time it was more painful as his chest heaved and hurt, his fingertips yearned to touch another thing—a quill, a paper, her skin, anything but the sheet underneath him.
Levi closed his eyes, and he heard the door creaking open. Then, the footsteps. It was slow and steady. And a voice calling his name.
It couldn't be—
The footsteps approached him closer and closer, and he could smell it: the faint sweet of apples, as he opened his eyes and found a woman, a young one, with a creased between her eyebrows, with golden eyes that reminded him of honey, with thin lips that had opened.
In her hand, was an apple, the skin was gold, and glimmering.