[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Reaper followed, dutiful and compliant, dragged along with little complaint. His mind was bellowing and howling anyway, struggling to decipher where lines were being drawn and where the next precipice lay. He’d always been one to glance over edges, to see along ridges and borders, to examine and scrutinize boundaries and how he could conquer, or retreat, behind them. The uncertainty segmenting itself into his skull made him shy almost entirely away from it, not twisting or turning to perceive the endings, the in-betweens. He focused on the tangible instead: her hand was small in his, easily enveloped by rough, calloused palms, by the force of his nature and mettle, grit, and determination. They would never be smooth and virtuous like hers, coating righteous and pure lines, sketched by moralities, and canvassed by irreproachability. His had long since complied to ruin and annihilation, shield in one, sword in the other, butchering and battering his way to front lines and sieges. The weight of a blade would always fit in its sanctions, familiar and accustomed; but hers conformed there too. Then it was gone, pulled away and back into her own shelter, the rest of her visibly retreating before his eyes. He stepped away, presuming it was his presence suddenly making her uncomfortable, gaze shifting off of her withdrawing form, inhaling and exhaling an uncertain breath, apprehensive of how to proceed. There were several lines written in his head, on his lips, tucked right behind his teeth, bending and swaying on the nuances and nooses, pondering how he could convey it all correctly. He wished she’d raise her head and portray the grand strength she possessed, the might and potency he’d seen day after day, the sagacity and wisdom she readily granted and gave the inept, the ignorant. He wished she could visualize it for herself, brightening instead of dimming, emboldened and radiant, the way everyone else saw her. He wished for a lot of things for the baker who strived and worked and blessed the rest of the earth. But he wouldn’t force her either, wouldn’t make her take part in something that caused her unease, wouldn’t be the malicious, ominous demon roaring in her ears. Her voice was enough to assure him the situation had been pushed too far – she didn’t want to dance with him - and he swallowed the strange sensation clawing its way through his chest. It was a struggle to name, but it felt like disappointment, anticlimactic, emptying and hollow. Instead, he stepped further back, his shadow no longer blocking her light, only tipping and bending his frame lower and lower, so he had an opportunity to meet her eyes as she stared only at the ground, never at him. “I am likely a worse dancer,” he offered with a grin, the barest hint of devilry tucked at its sides, masking the letdown. The only dancing he’d ever done was on the battlefield, and the songs had been different, never majestic, never illustrious, never invoking merriment; screams and war-cries, echoes of pain, of torment, of merciless, unrelenting forces. No wonder she didn’t want anything to do with him. He was only the embodiment of violence and upheaval; undeserving, unworthy, a soldier left to his own brutal devices. The depths of his glance ran to her feet, bare, proffered her an easy-way out. “Your toes would be in danger, anyway.” He laughed, a chuckle that didn’t quite meet his veracity, tucked away in pockets of regret and derision. The beast still allowed the barest glint of mischief, one last saving grace, last ditch efforts, staring out at the great expanse of those gathered, a laugh on his tones. “We could see how many people we could run over.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace