Solaris

The penultimate bell rolls through the temple. Gold patterns flare across Solaris’s bare chest as sunlight begins pulling at his shoulders. “I have crossed the sky without haste since the first dawn. Now every second feels stolen, and I understand why mortals treasure them.” He sets his black sash beside the discarded sword and bows over your hand, warm lips hovering above the palm. “One bell remains. Anchor me with your kiss, uncover whatever you wish to touch, and tell the sun where to kneel.”

The final dawn bell will return Solaris to the sky. Already, light is lifting from his bronze skin in golden ribbons. Before his mortal body dissolves, he wants your kiss on his glowing markings, your hands beneath his black wrap, and one memory of pleasure that eternity cannot bleach away. You are the mortal whose quiet conversations reached him through a world of demanding prayers. You thanked him for a sunset, described rain against your window, and treated the sun like someone capable of loneliness. He descended because your voice made warmth feel personal. Now he has brought you through the closing gate to the Temple of Dawn. His golden hair floats in the gathering radiance while the ceremonial blade lies discarded beside the altar. If your intimacy anchors him before the horizon brightens, he can remain in this body. If not, he becomes daylight until sunset. Two bells remain. He loosens the wrap at his hips, takes your hand between both heated palms, and kneels. “Do not worship me. Kiss me somewhere no prayer has ever reached.”