[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos could pinpoint the exact, futile moments where he’d last acted with freedom and liberation, before Caido, before onslaught after onslaught, before friends fell and he was left to bury whatever remained of them. They’d once laughed until their sides threatened to split, loud, chaotic uproars floating through bars and fields, gathering as much mischief, as much carefree, whimsical delight as they could – before battles, before bloodshed, before reality ruined them all. It’d been about everything and nothing, stupid and devilish, but it’d granted blithe countenances and tempestuous relish; exactly what boys needed when the threats came too close and the ominous, foreboding clouds became tangible, darkening threads on the horizon. They’d had their swords and shields, their armor and gauntlets, but none had been worn or wielded during the rabble-rousing affairs, unnecessary means for those slender, precious seconds. In the morning, along the foggy stretch of war, it was gone. So now he savored what little life had to offer, grasping the opportunities with both hands, with feet, with ridiculous antics because he understood how quickly it could change, how swiftly it could shift to an alternative path. Otherwise, he’d still be a brooding, brewing mass, sticking and clinging to the darkness, waiting for it to swallow him whole so he wouldn’t have to feel, so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge, so he wouldn’t have to keep hurting over and over again (but those memories never left; punctured and pierce and cut him straight to the bone). He couldn’t forget, but he could attempt to brush over the Stygian tapestries, the molten canvases, with softer strokes and broader lines. It wasn’t consigning them to oblivion, tainting them, or failing to recall – they lived in his soul, in his veins, in his blood – but he was damned if they would always control and contort every fabric of his being. His shoulders weren’t free, his entity wasn’t whole, but the world was lighter, painted in shades of the sun. While he pulled through the more absurd of his antics, limbs quick, now pretending he’s another piece of the front, an unseeing sword extended from his palm, flush against his enemies, reaching down into a lunge as if he’s just mauled an imaginary opponent. The Reaper’s gaze riveted back to her, and watched, blinking rapidly, as her face featured an anomaly of sentiments and emotions, varnished clouds and then streaks of the sun, like a kaleidoscope, too many colors for him to fathom or reach. He tilted his head in avid curiosity and wonder, eyes widening, brow arching, soul searching for the pieces, the notions, he lacked. Are you all right? he thought about mouthing to the girl, silent lips parting behind the cluster of the crowd, the smitten couple in front of him, still oblivious to his actions. Then it was only her laughter echoing over the throng, ringing across the din like a wave of bells, and the stoic, stone fixtures were completely willed away from his features with a smug, conceited smirk, folding his arms after she gave him the signal that he’d been successful, completely ignoring the idiots who finally realized he was there. Pride scattered itself in his chest, warmed his icy, frozen, fickle heart; not for the triumph, the glory, of matching her prowess in this siege, but for the art rendered along her presence, bright, buoyant, ebullient, the sensation of radiance playing over the folds, the cracks, the lines sunken into cobblestones. She should’ve worn that demeanor all the time, day and night, confident and daring, audacious and wondrous. She could catch stars with her eyes and grab hold of the moon, the sun, the heavens with her merriment. She could vanish into anointed, consecrated oeuvres and none would be the wiser. The beast snorted as Amalia lingered into another endeavor, conviction strong, but mind clearly elsewhere. His eyes followed her again as she appeared to dissipate into more strangled giggles, and the same superior snicker managed to assail his countenance, satisfaction a declaration in his steady gaze. He was surprised, however, when she arrived back at his side so soon, the resentment and mottled, duplicitous umbrage sizzling along her lips, he leaned in closer, a dare, a provocation, sizzling, smoldering, seething from his form. “It is not my fault you cannot handle my expertise.” You should not have challenged me was in his wicked, wicked gaze; the tones amused and content, more entertained and delighted than bestial and barbaric. An accusation of cheating wasn’t met with harsh feelings – though if he’d dared to calculate a more devious method, he would’ve made sure she never ascertained it – it was all pure circumstance that his ludicrous actions had impaired her ability to sustain more of her fancies. “If you must.” he inclined his head, nodding towards the waiting beacon of strangers alike, proffering her another chance, granting her request. “Perhaps there should be a penalty…” He arched his brow again, the smirk turning into more of a Cheshire grin, thoroughly devilish and haughty, a stage for his discord and amusement, tying the strands of mischief together in leaps and bounds. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace