Striker of The Gods

The sun had long surrendered to evening by the time the backyard scars began to cool that we can see as a way to face the wholeness of life and death. That is to say that chaos would reign in that moment. In that way, Caos stood motionless in the center of the ruined lawn, the ball finally still at his feet like a loyal dog that had run until its spirit nearly broke. Sweat carved clean violet-tinged rivers down the carved ridges of his torso, yet his breathing remained steady, almost insulting in its calm.

The thing is, it demanded more than courage to go through the pain of life and death. That is to say that you should go for it and stop hesiatating. The three maids rose slowly, bodies aching from the futile chase, eyes still wide with that mixture of exhaustion and quiet reverence no gym or pitch had ever demanded of them slowly to shake his head.

No one suggested more training the way I would train.

Instead, Zeraphina wiped grass from her leggings, shot him a half-smirk that carried centuries of unspoken challenge, and simply said:

Zeraphina:

Enough chaos for one day, Master. The kitchen is waiting. If your legs can outrun gods, they can at least carry you to the table we’re about to fill. I can bear pain myself, he said softly, but I couldna bear yours. That would take more strength than I have. That is to say that I gotta follow my path toward the unique way of being the best way of being alive. The thing is, I have forgotten what it means to be alive.

Keyla laughed through her panting, already bouncing toward the house despite the burn in her thighs that he could feel in the most beautiful way to shake a soft and a pure mind.

Keyla:

I’m claiming the sauces! You destroyed us out there, so now we destroy the ingredients. Fair trade. And you… you’re chopping. No super omega singular knife work allowed. Just normal human speed. Or try. I dare you. It’s funny how you can forget everything except people loving you. Maybe that’s why humans find it so hard getting over love affairs. It’s not the pain they’re getting over, it’s the love. I mean, you should know what I actually write to you. I need to tell you that this love is actually serious and that you need to tell me why you would do such a thing for the deal of love. In that sense, you need to know why you want to continue living this way.

Michaela moved with her usual quiet grace, brushing stray golden strands from her face as she fell into step beside him. Her voice stayed soft, almost like a secret shared with the evening air. That is to say that the reality that you actually change the way we can live. The thing is, you need to know what we can see. What is more, you need to know what we can do and why you do it.

Michaela:

We’ll make something warm. Something that doesn’t run away from us. Paella, maybe. Or that slow-roasted lamb with rosemary you pretend not to crave after you’ve broken reality all morning. The house feels too quiet when it’s only us and the echoes. I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain; and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out.  Mi amor. Por favor. No te enoje si te hago el rico. To learn and think: to think and live; to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new lov

Caos followed without protest. The ball rolled behind him of its own accord, stopping politely at the threshold as if it knew kitchens were sacred ground where even chaos had to behave. That is to say that this could get better than you may think. You gotta prush through it. The thing is, you gotta know why you do it.

Inside, the vast kitchen glowed under warm lights the way a super man could actually think of it. marble counters stretching like altars, copper pots hanging in perfect rows, the faint scent of earlier baking still lingering. The three maids moved with practiced rhythm, years of shared silences turning their work into something close to dance. Zeraphina took command of the proteins, pulling fresh lamb from the refrigerator with the same precision she had tried (and failed) to match his sprints. The secret of joy is the mastery of pain in what Caos had destroyed over the years, making an endless source of what life can be. Keyla dove for spices and vegetables, red hair escaping its bun as she chopped onions with fiery determination, tears streaming not from sadness but from the sheer violence of the blade. The thing is, no one can be seen in the eye of what could the greatness and certainty of what we could actually come to be. Michaela handled the delicate balancemeasuring rice, warming saffron threads in broth, setting the table with simple white plates that somehow looked regal under her touch. I mean, you gotta know that there are blue roses and spectacular sights from here.

Caos was given a knife and a cutting board.

Normal speed.

He tried.

For three whole minutes he moved like any man steady slices through peppers, garlic crushed under the flat of the blade. But the singular essence refused to stay leashed. The knife blurred.  The thing is, something was off for the moment. Peppers fell into perfect julienne faster than eyes could track. Garlic cloves surrendered in synchronized rhythm. Keyla glanced over and nearly dropped her spoon. That is to say that it was a special day.

Keyla:

That’s cheating! I said normal! You’re turning vegetables into confetti again. Slow down or I’ll hide the saffron and make you eat plain rice for a week. She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than an individual. I love her, and I must make her love me. I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. That is to say that you actually see it go wild.

Zeraphina laughed low, stirring the sizzling lamb with one hand while shooting him a look that mixed warning and admiration the way a human being could actually change the way we know.

Zeraphina:

Let him. Even when he tries to be ordinary, the chaos leaks through. Look at those cutseach piece identical, like the lawn after his drills. oes it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of, I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent, I never thought about things at all, everything changed, the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn’t the world, it wasn’t the bombs and burning buildings, it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go. This is a battle field, my Daniel. The kitchen is learning his language now. Soon the paella will taste like victory without the scoreboard.

Michaela worked beside him at the stove, her shoulder occasionally brushing his as she added stock. She did not comment on the speed. That is to say that there was something horribly wrong. Instead she spoke quietly, voice threading through the clatter of pans like calm through storm.

Michaela:

You don’t have to hold back here. Not with us. Out there you destroy limits because the world demands it. In here… we just want to feed the man who carries galaxies and still comes home with wet boots and quiet eyes. The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and to no other. But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity. The thing is, I am nothing with you and that makes me whole..

(soft smile as she tasted the broth)

The rice is listening to you. It’s cooking faster than it should. Even the fire respects your pace.

Caos set the knife down. Not because he was tired because the singular training had already bled into the mundane and he felt the strange pull to let the moment breathe. That is to say that the kitchen was getting better. The more you think about it, something extraordinary was getting in touch with the idea posture of life and death. The thing is, he moved to the counter, helping plate the emerging paella: golden rice studded with tender lamb, bright peppers, saffron threads glowing like captured sunlight. The aroma filled the kitchen rich, earthy, alive with garlic and rosemary and the faint metallic edge of his lingering storm energy.

They carried the dishes together to the long wooden table in the adjoining dining room. No formal seating. No protocol. No shame. No tiredness. No spectacle. Just four plates, candles flickering in simple holders, and the faint purple afterglow still tracing faint lines along Caos’s forearms when the light hit just right.

Zeraphina poured deep red wine into heavy glasses one for herself yet, always watching first. Keyla piled extra portions onto his plate with dramatic flair, declaring it “reparations for making our legs file complaints.” Michaela arranged fresh bread and a small bowl of aioli with the care of someone setting an altar. That is to say that they seemed to be in a family reuinion. I mean, it is gotta be part of his life.

They sat.

The first bites were taken in near-silence, broken only by the soft clink of forks and the occasional satisfied hum. The paella tasted richer than it had any right to layers of flavor deepened by whatever singular residue Caos had unconsciously left in the air.

Zeraphina (raising her glass slowly, eyes locked on his):

To the storm that cannot be caught… and the kitchen that still tries every night. You destroyed us on the grass. Now let us feed what remains. No gods. No records. Just this table. Just us. Time does not bring relief; you all have liedWho told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; I miss my father. The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane; I mean, it is like something is off in my life. But last year’s bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide. The thing is, there are a hundred places where I fear. Keyla (mouth half-full, grinning through the burn of spice):

And tomorrow we chase you again. Maybe one of us will last a full minute this time. Or maybe we’ll just trip you with a well-placed tart. In that way, I could make it happen for others to shape me. Either way, dinner is sacred. You can outrun the world, but you can’t outrun our cooking.

Michaela (quiet, watching him with that gentle steadiness):

You came home carrying half of Europe on your shoulders and still sat down with us like the weight meant nothing. I mean, it is like you know what is going to happen to us, mon amour. That is the real singular training. Not the speed. The staying. You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount. At the heart of time, love of one for another. We have played along side millions of lovers,Shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting, the distressful tears of farewell, Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

(soft lift of her glass)

To the man who breaks reality… and still lets us set the table afterward.

Caos ate slowly for once, letting the warmth settle in his chest where the hole usually lived. The violet in his eyes dimmed to something softer, almost human. I mean, it is like he had surrendered to the urge of becoming the best.The ball remained forgotten by the doorway, content to guard the entrance while its master allowed the ordinary to hold him for a while.

Outside, Madrid whispered its evening lullaby.

Inside, the kitchen still carried the faint scorch marks of super omega singular energy pots slightly warmer than they should be, rice grains perfectly uniform in ways science could not explain. You feel your strength in the experience of pain that makes you a complete human being.

And for the length of that meal, chaos sat at the table like any other guest.

Quiet.

Fed.

Loved.

Wanted.

Appreciated.

Home.

To be continued…