[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He couldn’t imagine being anyone’s light in the darkness – if he was anything at all, it was the cloaks, the daggers, the Stygian mantle, obscuring beams of serenity and tranquility, not a sanctuary, not a beacon, but an incoming herald of danger and regret. He’d forged himself into a nonchalant weapon for so long, for the soldier, the general, the king he’d once been, molding his breaths in union with the dance of a sword, sheathed and silent as the grave when necessary, a foreboding beast when the world called for his arms, his munitions. The crowns had long since been disastrous and tumbled, fallen from his skull in the first death, granted a second chance and muffled, muddled, just as easily as the one before; given a purpose in swinging rapiers and cutlasses, to cut the world down, to break it apart in his bare hands and feed it into the infernos, watching as kingdoms disintegrated and his outlooks were destroyed. Time and time again, history repeated, and the shadows bounded off his frame and absorbed them into their threshold, an aperture, an opening, of swallowing, consuming voids, promising winter in their glacial formations, and he stood in its ramparts and marveled at the fortifications, drank from the peak’s ravines, scalded and died and withered and decayed – no, there was no light there, only the depths of Amalia’s grasp bringing him back to the surface, ensuring he didn’t drown in the din and throng of his ghosts. He hadn’t given her anything, nothing she hadn’t earned and claimed for herself. Deimos thought about drifting through the denial with a vehement edge, with an asinine shake of his head, inept and ridiculous, no port in the storm, no vessel in the harbor, just hollow and empty, stretching out into sunbeams and becoming blinded by their splendor. He cherished the flickering flames and coiled them into his palm, made her gasp, smirked, snickered at the noise; too far gone to tell her to run and retreat, that he was an absolute disaster (and why couldn’t she see that already?). The warrior followed the tide, probably asked for too much, permanently fixated on her and her alone; grasping on what she’d allow, taking all the wanton, intimate interludes and soaking in them, reveling in them, riveted and exposed, no longer caring, no longer hiding behind the knives and nonchalance. Apathy was a forgotten, idle thing, tucked behind the other stone pieces and fortifications. He was young and stupid and ancient and asinine; blended lives seemed to matter very little here, when he had so much to learn and understand. Maybe that’s what his purpose was, here and now, down in the depths of the unknown, fading from the darkness, stepping into the sun. The beast permitted her exploration, continued his, made maps of the paths he’d already encountered, circled back to enjoy the ones he’d already relished and savored. She was an oeuvre, a masterpiece, and he only dared for the lightest of caresses now, afraid to damage the artwork, lips carefully pressed along her brow, delicate, airy, ethereal, so far away from the nefarious elements, reaching out for stars and heavens instead of hell. You’ve given me everything was a shake of his head, a chuckle from his throat, raw and real, a snort, a guffaw, and she became bolder and bolder still, so he returned the favor. His mouth stroked over hers, reverential and devout, loosening a growl from his throat. “Not yet,” because he had a lot more to grant and give if she’d let him, if he could even figure out the answers and proclamations for himself. Her lips were on his knuckles then, and he leaned into it, eyes widened, consistently, constantly surprised and befuddled, but deliciously so, incapable of predicting the next motion, where his calculations ended and instinct pulsed. Just be patient, and he laughed again, suddenly seditious gaze raptured and only for her – the resigned, the tolerant, the enduring, the persevering, biding his time when plotting, when devising, when ensuring wins and losses. When loving. “I am always patient,” the Reaper promised, a brow arched, daring her to challenge it. Did she want him to retreat? Did she want him to continue? Tell me, his hands stayed, hovered along her waist, mouth at the ready. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace