[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame These were the things he’d concocted as a boy, the wild, wicked chase, the silly, deceitful games, the mischief warped and twisting through his frame. They’d been innocent, to a point: snagging pastries from the window where they’d been left to cool, posturing diversions and antics where children hid and lunged at one another with great enthusiasm, kings and queens and knights for a day, hurling snowballs at each other, digging trenches along the moonlit tides and waiting for another to fall in, rescuing them moments later, laughter ensued amidst the iniquity. It’d been before they’d all grown up and chased after dreams of glory, chuckling and telling stories by campfires and ivory tents, cleaning blood off their swords. It’d been before they were all scarred and beaten, erased without a trace, dumped unceremoniously into wastelands and sepulchers, their dying echoes a constant refrain in the deepest, murkiest depths of his nightmares. But that’s not now; just a careful reminder of how far he could push and shove and flank the world in sin, in melancholy – he refused to have it slink down into his spine, curl against his cords, his flesh, his sinew. His mother would’ve rolled her eyes, his father would’ve encouraged and laughed alongside the rest of the heathens, and his friends would’ve been there in the midst, cheering them on, placing bets, throwing their drinks into the air and clinking cups together. Better days, he promised in the back of his mind. These would be better days because he defied the binding shackles and fetters warping the delicate intricacies, scaled rock walls and turrets, howled not in acrimony or vehemence, but amusement and delinquency, feeble fiends. It was wild and zealous, foolish and ridiculous, and that was why he liked it – no rhyme, no reason, calculation without true purpose except to drag the sun out of the clouds, except to melt glaciers, expect to accept. He took her boldness and applied it to the canvas, the tapestries, the woven veneers and annals; pressing his feet into the cobblestones with such a malicious, menacing decree, it was an oeuvre in Cheshire tactics and ruffian columns. The teasing curved, meandered, and snaked around him, urgent, demanding, subtle commands in their competition, and like a starved, feral beast, he ate away at it, grin widening, stare narrowing. “I will be fair,” his voice slid, acting wounded, as if she believed he’d act without honor; a subterfuge and pretense, considering the current circumstances. Lift me coiled at him, and before he can consider the reasons why, he adhered to her demands, hands winding along her ribcage, fingers teasing; his shoulders suddenly occupied by her might, reaching over him entirely, and he’s given a view of many things and it might’ve been enough to make his eyes widen in minute, curious fractions, had he not been distracted by the blossoms instantly in her grasp. Oh, so she wanted to play that way? It was a challenge, a call to arms, and he growled again, less sinister notes and more barbaric intonations, an eyeroll cast to the side, stare already considering the other factions and individuals lined on this poor brigade. The indignancy and shock cast by the victims pooled into the diversion, and he glanced down at her, his mouth drawn into an almost mocking, scolding line. “I was not caught,” gesturing to the woman still spinning around without her laurels and wreaths, and perhaps that will reward him with extra points, fine details and matters relevant seemingly only to him; there was an outcry of run giggling its way into the grounds. Not to be left behind, or frankly outdone, his massive form was a smoldering, seething bull again, arms reaching around to lift her once more, place her on his shoulder, hands wrapped around her waist for scarce, fleeting seconds so she could right herself, settle as what she craved, as they fled the latest branch of casualties in their wake. He also took the opportunity to grab two more crowns from random passerbys, their antics ignored by a scarce few now. The diadems rested along his palm, then maneuvered their way down his arm, so for an instant, he was trapped and snagged by flowers, by the sun, by absolute foolery. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Amalia