[KQ] i wanna give you back the open sky

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Reaper was already accustomed to the chaos foreboding in ridges along his spine, devil’s backbone, lingering in the facets of his countenance. He shared a glance with Amalia but said naught – wouldn’t have known what to say anyway, how to share his consternation without revealing how ridiculous, inept, and ineffectual he was, the depths of his piercing eyes all the more unattainable in the moment, as he dove back down into glaciers, ramparts, and unreachable walls. Ronin arrived, and the mood shifted. They began their descent, and the timing was off, the instant gone, his stupid, stoic enterprise and intervals locked in place, in accordance with all the other monotonous, irreverent things that make him whole. The instant they maneuvered downward, his senses could tell something was off; he hadn’t experienced the smothering oxygen, the callous, warped ways in which breathing could kill and demolish, wither and decay, and lifted the mask over his mouth and nose immediately. In the midst and middle of the crowd, he could hear Amalia ask Delah for the same masks as her Fae brethren, the hiss of irritation rippling through; he lifted his eyes to watch and wait for further reactions, for the disapproval to cut them off, but they’re apparently worth more to her alive than dead, and earth became a tangible object in her hands. His brows lifted in impressed accord, then regained their rigid, stoic components when Amalia handed them to each, fingers briefly reaching for hers, brushing over as moss and earth shifted, a connection, quiet and hushed, in the dark-laden dust, a wayward sensation perhaps both of them needed. Then he took the mask, allowed it to slip over his features, to render his breathing capable and distinct, instead of contorted in poison and decay. “Thank you,” he spoke to both Fae and baker, and then began to pick his way over the rubble, over the ruin, cast in the crimson light of Amalia’s staff. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace