[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame At some point, Amalia must’ve seen beyond all the dense walls he’d so carefully constructed, masks and shrouds, veils and fortifications, built up and up and up until he thought it was a grating fortress, lined with thorns, nettles, and barbs. His nonchalant expressions, his apathetic gaze, his dark, distinguished demeanor with its hollowed interior and intimidating factions – the sting, the ferocity, the savagery sculpted over his figure – was enough to drive many away. Yet, here she was, perfectly capable of instigating and inciting the absent attributes stuck to his bones, rarely seen, rarely viewed, rarely exposed. He wanted to bite down on the challenge, on the borders of her boldness, savor it, relish it, pull it farther and farther into the luster so it was a simmering, smoldering boil, in reach, on the tips of fingers and strokes of skin. But it wasn’t the provocation bellowing in his veins – the notion of fear yanking at his chains, on his tethers, on his shackles, a snare brutally winding itself along his skull. He was one of the many who’d like to spout and shout that they weren’t afraid of anyone or anything; far from the truth. It wasn’t death. He’d experienced it enough, taken his last breaths in the cascading foils of the rain, sank into purgatory and the endless darkness, broken timelines and path lives along the trail of barbarity. It wasn’t sieges; he’d been made bloody over and over again, scarred and blemished, lacerations cut into his sides, the bellowing, vicious roll of pain stuck into his skull. It wasn’t violence; he embodied it because for a time, it was all he knew or ever understand, a comprehension and balance of how to strike another being down in meticulous, scrupulous strides, how to devastate and obliterate and ruin everything in his path (because of anger, because he’d watched enough of them fall apart at the seams, begging for absolution and deliverance; nothing given, nothing granted, no gods coming to save them now). It was always the after, not the before, when tranquility lulled and curiosity was piqued, when the listless whims became tempestuous storms, the art chaos twisted and turned in his soul – not the during, when a part of him awakened, yawned, and clamored, became more than just feral beast and withdrawn rebel. It was the agony following the rush, the fervor, the exhilaration – eventually it ended, it succumbed, it crumbled and withered and died, and Deimos was only left impaled on his own faults and flaws, on the torment and torture strung into his heart and lungs. Loss was a pattern, and he wondered about the tread, the fault lines, the rubble – and if he should’ve wandered down them again because he yearned to savor again. This trail seemed sketched in sunlight and luminescence, in fire and embers smoking, waiting, for one more inclination, for one more touch. He’d always meandered along the drowning emblems, into the currents, into the streams, into the lakes, pacing on the embankments. It beckoned and allured. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. Surrender - as if he’d ever conceded, as if he’d ever thought about submitting and backing down. She knew. Was he so easy to read? He tipped his head and leaned back, leaving her without his hovering shadow, his looming presence, steadfast gaze back on the crowd, show me fuming on his skin, on his mouth, on his tongue. He could show her a mass of things, more and more and more, between the growls, the roars, the howls, the brewing conflagration behind his senses. But before him was a crown, not of thorns, but the flowers blended back together, back and forth, back and forth, so the hues were no longer faded remnants, bright, illustrious blooms like her, and he thought he should’ve looked away, undeserving of its fervor and sagacity. His eyes rivet edback on her face instead, and the circlet failed to compare. The Reaper had been ridiculously silent, listening and learning, a brimming monolith waiting for its moment to strike, a canvas of composure and calm despite the inward vexations and anomalies. At her laughter, because frankly he’d forgotten what the next task even was – distracted, deterred, fascinated, and beguiled by smiles and charms – he nodded, agreed. “I accept your terms,” but not for the crown, for he once wore one, glacial and icy, heavy and cumbersome, a weight along his shoulders that he didn’t miss. “One boon,” he echoed and concurred, though a brow raised again, segmenting into blossoms still curled and coiled on the edges of his wild mane. These seemed to be tenuous foils, and he reached into them because he appreciated the savagery of danger, well-accustomed to interludes of uncertainty and peril, crossed and bordered right on the fringes of his form. Push and shove, push and shove, no retreating, no withdrawing, too far gone now to even mull on the consequences. He took her hand. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace

Amalia