[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He’d never thought about escaping, hadn’t given it any consideration. He’d wanted to stay, back in the beams of sunshine, turning his face towards the skyline and horizon without any rumination of returning to the shadows, drawn back into veils and shrouds of encroaching darkness. The beast had been there enough, molded out of its walls, painted in bestial brushstrokes, maligned and scarred in its blackened blades, sinking and simmering, breathing and wasting away. The light was a welcome sanctuary, a haven he hadn’t immersed himself in for lifetimes, stretched in the basking glow, in the enamored radiance, well and truly beguiled by the striking, bright figments blinding his vision, persisting throughout the barriers, the barricades, the specters, catacombs, and sepulchers. In the sanctum, he wasn’t a monster, he wasn’t a heathen, he wasn’t a fiend; mischievous and wanton, chaotic and wicked, but not drenched and soused in the bewildering sense of constant iniquity. The sins he’d committed weren’t gone or erased, forgotten or abolished, but pushed aside. He inhaled freedom and exhaled levity – the burdens chased off, the encumbrances sunken into some other port or mire, muscles warmed by an exposure to something other than vehemence and villainy. The Reaper wasn’t a complete fool; when she didn’t chase him off into the Stygian warrens, he stayed, foreboding, ominous, and impudent just the same. Insatiable, gluttonous, and voracious, taking, taking, and taking, never quite sated or satisfied; the slyest smirk embedded into his lips. He’s victorious, in one way or another. His gaze slid back upon hers – the boldness resurfacing, scorching, enticing, captivating, and he found himself leaning into it because he lived for daring and audacity, wanted her to see the courage and pluck stored in her obsidian gaze, wanted her to know and understand and feel the power, the might in its hold. She shouldn’t duck or hide, shield or retreat; lift her head, defy and instigate. He didn’t admit that he’d always done the same thing – tuck and shutter himself off, watch and watch and watch until something pulled or pushed him into nefariousness, into action. Without warfare, without barbarity, without viciousness, Deimos hadn’t been forced into motion, into anything but a frigid, damned glacier; chilling and calculating, coldblooded. He didn’t say Amalia was the catalyst this time. He probably didn’t have to. She didn’t recoil, she didn’t flinch, she didn’t draw back into the ether: provocations rumbling in his chest, inciteful in his mind, waiting for the inevitable, assured and certain to take part simply because she was there and mischief was to be had, finessed, fine-tuned into devilish perfection. He listened as she mulled over possibilities, more blooms and blossoms tossed in his direction, sticking to his beard, his face, his hair, until he shook his head like a lion, and they fluttered around him in withered, paling disarray. She even snagged and took from him, one of the more maintained crowns that hadn’t been crushed and mauled in their escapades; a part of him wanted to tug it back simply for amusement, but the other contortions to his form allowed it, sanctioned it, because he’d rather see her audacity spark and sizzle than be condemned. A brow arched in response, however, so she knew he was aware of her actions. His gaze ghosted down to her fingers, making quick work of the hues and colors, uncertain what she was creating, curious nonetheless, leaning closer to spy and examine. The children’s games sounded diverting – especially since they’d been acting around that particular age range – he nearly told her of all the things they’d played as boys, racing around, hurling rocks amidst their slingshots. There hadn’t been much dancing, except warfare and blades swinging around their heads, wooden swords well-equipped to design bruises across their skin instead of lacerations. It sounded like something he was about to lose merely because of height differences – her smaller stature would be more devious and underhanded. His presence, Colossus that he was, would be noticed within a moment, too menacing, too malicious. Perhaps it was entirely on purpose, so she could claim victory, so she could triumph. He snorted. “Sounds like you will be at an advantage.” His glance focused on the crowd, swarming again in the rush of music and beats, urgent rhapsody making them forget their woes, their trials, their tribulations, or the rush of their prior antics; accepting and tolerant of mischief because they hadn’t been exposed to it within Longnight. Could he deceive them? Or would he be fighting upstream once more, constantly against the current, lacquered and varnished in his ignorance? And would it make any difference, when that was how he’d lived most of his life? “Show me.” Deimos turned back to her, his turn, his opportunity, to be the inciteful, the provoking, demanding instigator, piercing eyes seized in goading measures, the depths of his smirk deepening. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Amalia