[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame For a miscreant so firmly, methodically, in complete control, teeth and tongue simmering on the bounds of precision, he wondered if he simply pushing too far. He was never quite sure how much to press and where to cease, desist, because both seemed enraptured and beguiled by the other, because he ached and yearned, and was as wanton as she. She coaxed and instigated, she provoked and goaded, and he rose to the challenge every time, bestial and barbaric, acquisitive and mercenary. She asked and he provided, unrelenting and fervent, pacing the corridors like a wandering predator seeking, stalking, its next meal; never quite sated, never quite satisfied, never quite having enough. The sun would coax the moon and he’d see stars, he’d vanquish demons, he’d conquer foes, and then he’d dive into the flare and settle himself amidst the beams and rays, inveigled, allured, deeper and deeper still. Then he’d wait, wait, and wait, thinking, believing, she’d eventually tire of him, of the stoic, monolithic figure, of the quiet, of the violence and vehemence searing beneath his skin, to and through his heart. So many others had (alone and adrift, on top of his mountain summits with crown in hand and frozen bones fused together, a vacant vessel, a weapon for the world to utilize, to ignore when it suited their fancy, to let him storm into realms and kingdoms for their protection and defense). She’d gasp beneath his ministrations and touches, a cajoling, a ruse, a nuance of so many damned, unsaid sentiments, and he’d remember his name sung on her lips for a lifetime. But then – was it wrong to take and grasp hold of it? Was it too much? He wanted and craved, desired and coveted, simmered his way through movements and motions long since trapped beneath sullen brows and savage arts. But it wasn’t fair for him to demand, for him to command, for him to lead them down a road she didn’t care to traverse, not now, not ever. He breathed and coaxed the meticulous efforts behind his eyes, heartbeats intertwined and murmuring boundless, infinite connections, and he swallowed down the luminous beams and the molten infernos, keeping them close to his chest, to his soul, ablaze and vast, a sea, a conflagration. Patience he’d promised, and the Reaper had never been one to back down from a conviction, from a vow, even when it cost him; he inhaled again, justifying the brief distance, the wild expanse, to calm the thunderous ambitions of his avaricious mind. It wasn’t an escape or evasion, but just a moment – so his hunger didn’t gnaw or tear away at her, so he didn’t scare her, so he didn’t frighten, terrify, or dragoon. He was used to intimidating tactics and broadening horror across battlefields: he wouldn’t ensue the same abominations and abhorrence on someone he cherished. Wants and needs were two different things: and though he wanted her in so many ways, it wouldn’t matter if he was only a menace, only a beast, only a fiend. If he was without her acceptance, tolerance, or beneficence, he wouldn’t even be standing there with a crown of blossoms on his head, amidst fields and music, within walls of elms and pine, conjuring up different, alternating dances to the rhythm of their own tunes and intonations, their laughter, their mischief, their version of tranquility. He didn’t want to lose any of that. Restraint, he reminded himself; he knew how, he knew why, but hadn’t conjured a reason in so long, that without the urgency of treachery or deception, it felt new, it felt foreign, it felt like madness crowded amongst the divine. Deimos settled himself beneath a massive oak, leaning against its trunk, arms folded, mouth widening to a feral, reckless grin, never quite giving way to her mockery or pretend exasperation. If she were truly irked and irritated with him, she’d likely would have left along the hundreds of other opportunities, and he’d be wild and bereft, abandoned and forsaken, just as predicted (a pattern, you know the world kept telling him, and he wondered why now was so different, so calming, so distinct). He had half a mind to reach for her again and bring her shaking hands to his mouth, to breathe and whisper over them with more composed efforts, but then the whole mindset from before would’ve been useless and ineffectual, and they’d continue fighting a battle neither seemed intent on winning. Perhaps this was the true nature of the game they’d been concocting, more rules, more diversions, more antes at stake, building until the intensity was too much, or spiraling along the middle, waiting for the other to burst. Then she fled after her proclamations (ruler of the Fiat Lux indeed, as if he could ever be a monarch again, brutal and unfit, hollowed and inept, meant for demons and monsters), and he tilted his head, listening to the wind and the laughter, absorbing it with the smallest of smiles. His eyes touched along the ground and didn’t move, waiting again, forbearing and still, inhaling and exhaling with the fathoms, with the coils, with the contortions. Her hands found him moments later, brushing along the tip of his nose, and he raised his skull like a proud, majestic beast, instead of the wounded, twisted warrior he’d become. His gaze was all quiet mischief again, witnessing her mocking bow, the temptation embarking across her face, and he knew he didn’t deserve any of it – was unworthy to fall apart in her hands or in her presence, an unqualifying behemoth to the rest of society. But he stayed because he felt safe and secure there, a sanctum, a sanctuary, amidst the twists and turns of the sun, never quite daring to leave him in the shadows too long. He didn’t long to ask anything of her that she didn’t dare give. The strong, persistent edge of his stare riveted solely on her again, and his grin dimpled, boyish and mischievous, what he could’ve been without all the follies, all the disasters, all the ruins etching their way across his wake. She was no servant. She was no attendant. “Kings serve their people.” Deimos didn’t wander too deep into that particular threshold, for there’d been days and decades, snippets and seconds, where the sovereignties and his mindset came together, collaborated, for the sole purpose of terror and infamy. They lost and sank their teeth in. They drove wedges. They exploited information. They devised menace to their advantage. Not here; the cold winds blew into his membrane, into his memories, and the quiet, delicacy of the moment didn’t make him falter. Not anymore. “What can this one do for you?” What do you want? was a bastion, was a rampart, was a munition, simmering behind his gaze, in his immobile, tenacious stance. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace