[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

He didn’t expect the nods of encouragement, the quick grins once he’d finished his lines, the nod of sanctions and regard from the bard, and he immediately deigned to stare back at the ground, lest a small smile be found tucked along his mouth. The first round completed, and he hadn’t been forced into his own self-made tomb, bludgeoned out onto the streets, or laughed into the woods; the tiniest notion of confidence beginning to form in his chest. It still wasn’t rapiers or daggers; the perfected hold of a knife, stiletto, or sword, but if they hadn’t mocked him now, then there was a possibility they wouldn’t do so in the future. At the notion of instruments, he turned back to where he’d left the drum in shadow, uncertain of how to perfect its beat. He hadn’t been the drummer boy along the midst of cliff walls and surrounding fog, where the labyrinthine confines had torn their defenses to shreds; he’d been the follower, counting strides, decibels, and intonations, one after the other, waiting for an opportunity and assault. He might be able to mimic the booming, resounding decibels, but only just so; a poor student in musicality and song. The Reaper’s hands, calloused, worn, and meant for bloodshed and annihilation, grabbed hold of the instrument, placing it within his lap. But first – he shifted towards Amalia, remembering age-old dings for dinner and refuge, a comforting decibel shrieking over tantrums and upheavals, tempestuous layers of chaos for boys not yet men, for juvenile delinquents thrust into their lust and temptation of glory. He enfolded his palms close together, the sizzle and singe of magic gilded and glowing between them, coming to form a metallic structure: a triangle, complete with its own tiny baton – handing it to her on a wink and a ruffian, rogue’s grin, a clasp of fingers quickly, promises buried and uplifting. Then he was to go again, shifting once more to the lonely little drum in his grasp, bringing one hand down at a time to begin a beat. It was an ancient one, a call to arms, to munitions, to soldier pursuits and ravaging, rampaging across dais of terror, tyranny, and treachery – but it worked for now, as he strived to follow Jigano’s lines, blatantly glancing at Amalia through the stanzas, then crossing back over into the midnight landscape, on the breeze, on the wind, molding his contortions. “Affection made to last, More ardent than the past.” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate