Militiae species amor est

Superbia often spoke of its homeland; the barren wasteland laying out flat for eternity; dark clouds raining acid and lighting hot enough to melt the ground it strikes, leaving it pocked with lakes of fire and plasma. Wind heeds no direction as it cuts and serrates, letting your blood splatter and scatter for the rocks to feed on. Silence is free to howl and shout and chirp and roar from the top of its lungs; all would listen. Truly, It would say, if everything is a blessing, then all this is nothing. This, all of this, only this, and nothing but this, is Superbia’s kingdom.
But, surely not, right? This can’t be all, can it? Is this all it can offer? Is this what all the fighting is for? Is this what justifies the despair and hopelessness that floods the Pit?
Zyth’s mind floods with unanswerable questions and insufferable memories as he stands upon the surface, looking across the Eightfold Pit, into the endless nothing he must call home. The galeforce beating down on his back pauses for the briefest of moments as pebbles suddenly scatter from his blindspot. A thought enters his head, as he ponders on the reality in which the being behind him was anyone except who he expected. He’s not allowed above the pit; well, no one is allowed outside the pit, to be specific. Would that rule apply to him? Does any rule apply to him? Should they? Have they ever? If the hand that has gently placed itself on his shoulder belongs to anyone except who he expects, no trouble would accompany it. His eye twinges at the thought. A trivial irk, he believed it to be, in light of the grander complications down in the Pit. After all, what war could be won when wallowing in such mundane doubts and bothers? Bother him it did, nonetheless; and mundane it did not appear to him as. He stares down into the darkness of the Pit as the hand on his shoulder gives a comforting squeeze. The darkness staring back up at him forces him to look rather inward; into the deepest crevices of his heart and scour its vastness for the answer to the question that has been an ever festering thorn in his side: What is the point?
He gently folds his arm upward to lay his hand upon the one clutching him so gingerly, “Do you love this world?”
“Hmm… Perhaps…” That delicate voice, that soothing sound. The moment that gentle breeze perches within his ear, those beautiful vibrations loosen his muscles and his shoulders drop slightly. The crashing thunders and those crimson gales became no more. In a breath and a half, the horrendous vision of his homeland is smudged away and they find themselves within the confines of a loving heart. “But if I do love this world, it is only for that which the world has given me.” Embedded in the vicinity of their company, words spoken with devoted truth show their true meanings; in this heart flooded with love, that tender voice illuminates their souls with rosy passion, “That is: my position, my name, and of course, you, my treasure.” Embedded within their intertwined ardor, a seed of doubt is planted. Feeling this, that sweet voice cannot help but inch back with concern. “Surely it is the same for you?” As time passes in silence, the light of pink adoration begins fading to reveal that seed of doubt as rather a gray sproutling, its roots strangling their full hearts. “…My treasure?”
“Our world is sick, Libidine. This war is draining our land, and its people are infecting it with hate and resentment.” The unbridled truth of his words water the sprout, and as it grows taller and thicker it begins blooming red roses of rage and leaves of black fear. Its dark glow overshadows the shine of their rosy infatuation. “I wonder if I could ever love this world. This world or the next one or any other. So long as this resentment drapes around me and drags itself across the ground behind my feet, how could love ever manifest itself within me?”
“What of our love? So long as I walk alongside you, could our love not shine brighter than the fires of war that you say plague our land so? In this world or the next or any other, the spark of our love will ignite the very skies. Is this not so?”
Moments pass in thoughtful silence; a slice of time, finely carved from itself, stands by itself, unbearingly eternal. It feels out of place, it feels wrong. This is a realm of love, even more so a realm of heart. The heart can never flourish, nor its emotions blossom, without timely irrigation. Even the arboreal doubt requires a constant flow of time. Eternity has no place here. How foolish of him then, to bring up a topic as eternal as war; everlasting struggles mean nought here.
“Our love… Yes, our love will burn a hole through the heavens themselves, and we shall transcend any reality.” The pink sun began to rise and shine again. So brightly did it shine, that towering tree of doubt that had been snuffing out their light was reduced to no more but a monstrous silhouette of what it stood for. “I wish to depart. I shall provide neither my family nor my land with warning. Only you. I share this only with you so I can ask only you: Will you join me? Even if--”
“You needn’t ever ask.” So bright did the color of their love shine, any open eyes would be blinded. So bright did it shine, that brightness turned to warmth and from that warmth a comforting pressure wrapped around them. Bliss, a truly rare sensation for their kind. If only this sensation could last, but alas even this realm of love must dissipate to make room for the cruel reality pushing its way through.
Before long, the bloody winds and blazing waters surrounded him once again, and once again he found himself alone for the brunt of it.