[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Reaper would never consider himself a beacon. He was a shadow, blocking out patterns of light and waves of rectitude, marble monolith sculpted by lines of loss and vehemence. He was a black hole, swallowing, devouring, and consuming the wayward souls daring to stray along his path – long since admitting to himself he was ruined. He’d sunk into the mire and tread forward, aligned himself with the mud, the earth, the rocks, the rubble, maneuvering Colossus meant to stay in the pits and pendulums, to breathe animosity, to seethe, to ripple, to eventually wither and decay. The latter had been his plan all along, when everything fell apart, when everything scattered into demise, when he had nothing left to hold, to cherish, to give. Before the portal took him, snagged him, thought him ideal for this world, he’d wandered down a steady path of heartache and shambles, a damned mess assigned for desecration and annihilation. He’d hung his head and snarled, growled and smoldered, waiting for the next opportunity to send him straight into hell, eternal suffering on the cusp of his ambitions. Maybe he could pick a fight with a demon, lose his head, see naught but ash and the river Styx. Maybe he could become wholly diminished, bleached bones, forgotten traces of a life torn apart by loss, loss, and loss. Maybe he could flicker apart, drink himself into a stupor, lie down and wait for the inevitable to claw out his insides. Everything else already had. He’d had beacons though, beautiful flares and commanding voices, his father’s flames, his mother’s sagacity, his commander’s efficient demands. He’d followed each one of them, not siren sonnets, not beguiling measures or calculating lures, but intonations meant to instruct, to comprehend, to ensure there was more to life than the endless barrage of suffering coiled in his chest. They’d eventually gone out – beatific banners and flares, reaches sputtering before his eyes, no matter how loudly he called out, how much he begged, how much he pleaded, how much he dared to defy the rest of the kingdom. But as Amalia’s light sparked, scintillated, back to life, Deimos considered following this one too. He smirked at her response, amused, content, to be stirring her away from the shades and apprehension, a tease, a barb meant to rankle but not distort its way further. The warrior thought about pushing her wholly into the sunshine, along the light, into the blooming radiance and watching it all play out – an unfurling of strength and dominion, absorbing grandeur and warmth. He was no one’s savior, no one’s hero, emancipator, or champion; a soldier garbed in erosion, finally starting to peel away the apathetic layers clinging to his skin. At the very least, he was ready to stare at the sun, at the stars, at the heavens (his eyes didn’t leave her). Maybe he owed this realm a lot more than his disdain and contempt. Caution and optimism, an intriguing blend, reached forward and gazed back – the mischief emboldening him surrounded his presence in waves, no longer so stoic, no longer so dispassionate, a nestled den of devil-may-care and wickedness blazing in return. He’d coaxed the sun to come out again, and that was enough – everything else was pure amusement and satisfaction, tranquility bristling along the incoming storm. The beast lowered his head, the same iniquitous grin still chiseled along his mouth, before billowing a whisper against her ear. “Game on.” His right hand curled around her proffered palm, and his left grabbed hold of her other hand, far more gentle than his usual, barbaric movements, and placed it on his shoulder. If the height difference was too much, she could always lower it along his ribs or his waist, a balancing act; and with a rumble in his chest (a roaring laugh, it boomed and echoed from his lungs with hardly a thought), he moved. Deimos could embody and coil hundreds of different motions – from savage, sinister steps,  quiet, hushed, unholy denizens, to a thunderous wake, a mercurial ricochet meant to warn, foreboding and ominous. Today’s was like that of a rampaging bull, full of merriment and ridiculousness as he led the gilded baker towards an ignorant crowd. “Ten points for slow dancing couples.” He nodded towards some who clearly didn’t care about the beat or time of the music, lost in their own little world, incapable of perceiving the wild tempest brewing before them. Thoroughly savage and entertained, he wound them towards the closest pair, bumping the edge of his hip into their plodding frames. “So sorry,” he proffered, before bounding and carrying them away, intonations clearly not apologetic in the slightest. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Amalia