[PQ] [SE] Sing Down the Stars

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

The Reaper had only come face-to-face with the gods of his previous origin, and they very rarely looked upon him fondly. Here, in the midst of many worthy individuals, he hadn’t been given a cursory glance (abandoned and forsaken, right in the telling of his titles, right in the hooks of his magic, right at the very core of who he was); they didn’t entertain his presence when he begged for loved one’s absolutions, and so in turn he didn’t bother to entertain them either. The only reason he’d even wanted to attend Jigano’s impending get-together were the people presiding in it (and even this seemed odd, so foreign, so new, but it beat against his heart anyway, and he reveled and rejoiced in it, even if he’d never openly express it). In preparation, he brought some deer meat he’d frozen and salted over the winter, tucked in his bag, bits and pieces already caught, so that they might have some fresh venison roasting over the fire. Unfortunately, his voice would have to take part as well – he was infinitely more comfortable in silence, in vigilant, hushed corners, and the only others times he’d ever sung had been more drunken parties by campfires and makeshift, ivory tents, triumphant, ridiculous stanzas eventually waning into the night and absurd stupor. Poor Samuel and Amalia had bore the brunt of his incapable singing talents later with his attempts to lure the Luxere closer to him; thankfully they’d either taken pity on him or preferred another’s harmonies and melodies to his deep vocals. An instrument was also an unlikely thing; he greatly preferred weaponry to any artistic talent, but had managed to barter a drum, something his hands could beat upon and feel a little more comfortable and familiar with. At the sign of firelight beneath the evening, twilight sky, Deimos ventured closer and closer, carrying his wares and supplies effortlessly, listening to the strings of Jigano’s harp waver back and forth. He didn’t think he’d be the first to arrive, glancing along the woodline and glade for a sign of Amalia, of Rory, but only caught the gryphon hunting, stalking, and bounding for fireflies. “Jigano,” he implored, a nod of his head granted and given, respectful and polite when he didn’t have any other measures to convey, the slightest of smiles resting on his mouth, and then bringing his sack to rest upon the grass, pulling its contents out one by one, allowing them to glow in the haze of firelight while he grabbed the rest. The venison would require some sticks to cook, sizzle, and roast over the inferno, but otherwise everything else would be fine – the little drum was placed a bit more in the shadows, as if begging to not be utilized at all. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate