[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Drawn and drawn again, along the snare’s den, courted and thwarted, his attention solely on the riveting contortions, on the secrets uprooted and laid aground, on the shoreline beckoning him home, on the rain echoing past his ears (stitches in a thousand seams; a tranquil smile lifting out of the corner of his eye). It was sun and oblivion, tracing over the foundations of his heresy, of his irreverence, and lacquering them with gold; he thought to resist, to shy away, because that was all he ever did, because it was ingrained from a lifetime of learning to let go. But instead his frame, his figure, his presence remained, moored by the rays, by the ebon tides, by the unknown beckoning him time and time again, descending along the pinnacle of the threshold and watching, waiting, flesh and bone consumed by enticement, by appeal, by allurement. Maybe that should’ve have been how the world worked, for he’d procured his chances once – had them slide through his hands, through his grasp, through those clenching, tightening fists, struggling to deny the trials and tribulations death coiled against his manifestation: a behemoth, undeserving, unworthy, an unrelenting force meant to take but never to give. Hadn’t he used up his opportunities? Hadn’t his flaws and defects caught up with him? How was she still here? The lure was irresistible and he chased it down with his unrelenting intrigue, with his proclaimed curiosity, with all the nuances, notions, and sentiments the realms had once pulled from him, pulsed and pushed back into fruition by patience, understanding. But that didn’t explain why she bothered with him - and he nearly asked her what he had to offer, the irreverent blade, the ruthless, conniving warrior, the soldier who slayed his own ventures, who wallowed and grieved and tore against the strands instead of daring to look beyond the traps and bindings. Her fingers slid along his hands, and he inhaled, chest heaving, expecting her to dash away; it was an instant where she could be free of him and he wouldn’t chase her down, wouldn’t try and convince her otherwise (he knew very well what he was – why anyone would shriek and scream and flee). Instead though, she simply placed them together with hers, and he stared down at the combination, large and small, rough and smooth, releasing the stolen breath, feeling his chest heave with a relieved, contented sigh. She traced over divots and callouses, palms made for swordplay and devastation, tucked between the segments of creation and renewal, as if they were not murderous wakes and bestial shards. He allowed one bemused snort before the tales continued - his story wasn’t finished and neither was hers, but she’d yet to turn and escape, to hide, to liberate herself from the beguiling strands. The Reaper might have been satisfied with the darkness shrouding, with the incoming of ruin and demolition (was this when they’d all arrived, shuffled through portals and falling through air?); the way she’d feared change, the way life slipped and curled off into the catacombs and crypts, the way she retreated – similarities between the pair. Deimos didn’t expect the catalyst of change to be him however; it went beyond his pursuits, his endeavors, his beliefs. He’d been the broken, stoic man, the blending of shadows, the immersion of hatred and wrath, the slate of contempt. He’d been the judge, jury, and executioner on the battlefield. He’d been the graveyard keeper, pushing dirt across his friends, prone, still forms. He’d never been the one to inspire alterations or change. He’d been the heathen, the fiend, the demon (beware the Reaper, they say he loses everyone), the pinnacle of demise, ushering souls across the void until it was his turn again. At first, he thought to shake his head, crumble all those confirmations back into rubble, contradict all the affirmations, the tales. Instead, he unleashed a deep laugh, a broken, choked, strangled hold of amusement and beneficence long since buried, turning her hands over, biding his time while he struggled with what to say, what to do, how to commit to anything without falling apart. “The boy went home to find it destroyed, everything gone, the village smothered while their soldiers were gone to fight another crusade. He buried his friends, his neighbors, and his family. Then he met a girl out in the rain, who represented everything he was not.” He swallowed down the bile smothering his lungs, took her hands and pressed them along his mouth, his breath ghosting over smooth skin, tethering them in place, reaching out for a lifeline he’d missed long ago. “For a time, he thought he had conquered those demons, and then she got sick. He went from village to village, looking for healers, for a cure, for anything to help her. Nothing worked.” The specters were in his eyes and he expected her to be aghast at the sight, to wither away, to reel back, so his gaze shifted downward, along the sprigs of grass and the beams of sunlight still casting on their frames. “So he kneeled and wept at the shrine, begged and pleaded for the gods to fix her. He would have done anything. But they didn’t answer, and there was naught he could do.” The warrior exhaled again, brushed his lips against her skin, her knuckles, her digits, billowed kisses and strokes, allowed them to muffle, to absorb, the rumble of his voice, the echoing pitch of despair again. “He buried her by her favorite river, and then thought he would eventually follow her. He took his time, biding away the seasons, trying to find different ways to join the ones who’d left him behind.” Darkness, hollow and empty, had surrounded and swallowed and consumed him, and he’d let it, embody his essence until he was a damned, cloaked mess, brooding and drinking, waiting for the world to take him apart. “Then he fell into a portal.” Deimos moved her hands to his chest, where his heart was wild and erratic, beating maddeningly, afraid and cautious, tender and devoted, so she could feel it, sense it, actions over eloquence, faithfulness over the fragmented, shattered beast. “Try as he might to evade everyone and everything, there was this girl who kept coming into his life. He tried to find books about lifelines, and she was there. He tried to help others, and she was there. She told him stories about this world and did not fault him for his ignorance. He tried to repay favors and debts. He held her when she died and thought everything simply happened all over again, and that was the pattern he was doomed to repeat. He watched her come back to life. She brought him back from ruin.” His eyes flicked back to hers, softened sighs passing along his nose, his mouth, uncertainty blinking in the outline of blue. I do not deserve you he tried to echo, tried to proffer, buffered, tied, and fettered for an eternity in his gaze, in his mind. Then he released her hands, gave her one last escape route, as boldness and audacity took hold, as the determination held him steadfast and strong, as he reached for her warm, soft cheeks, as he stroked one hand beneath her chin and raised it to meet his gaze. There were entirely too many things to be read in his heart, in his soul, in his stare, and he’d let her see every single damned one of them; then he closed to fixtures and gently brushed his lips over hers, featherlight and soft. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace