One luminary clock against the sky - Exist

[Giver]

It's in the eyes; I can tell, you will always be danger
We had it tonight, why do we always seek absolution?

Tears. She had been crying. He could see it in the red, swollen look in her eyes and the dark, wet trails marching the slope of her jaw. Knew that it must be true when she blinked and errant leftovers spilled past her eyelashes; heard it as her voice cracked and caught in her chest, even then.

‘Alight…’ The skin around the places where those strange, fiery wings had forged their new, connective tissue with her shoulders had been hairless and raw. But he could see, even with the naked eye as he examined the burnt, pink skin, that she was healing.

Smooth, bright gold was sprouting up like springtime to mend the angry wounds.
Clean and perfect.

‘S-see. I’m like the sun and you’re like the moon. W-we’re, perfect…’

He thought they had been tears of pain.
He understood, now.
That understanding brought him further bewilderment.

He disentangled himself as quickly as he could, but he knew he had upset her in the process. Slowly it was making sense – as uncomfortable a sensation for him as dawn picking away at night to lay things bare and bright. He had, in the quiet moments with Spark and the louder moments with Alight, managed not to see it.

Men, they say, are capable hands at this.

He could never blame her for the jealous mutterings. He felt, at the time, that misplaced though they were, they made sense. It had been the two of them for so long. Not as long, perhaps, as Alight might still think. But almost so. So close, that it might as well be, so when she cast her cold, cagy glares at Spark, he thought it was a wrinkle that would smooth itself with time. A parting ache, like growing pains, only so much worse. Worse because it was like losing a half. On lung, one ventricle, one hemisphere of the brain. It had been a more protracted thing for him and so it had been easier.

He watched as illusion slipped from her before her bright, wild eyes and for a split second he thought he saw something he could not recognize in his sister.
Something that looked like animus, and then it was gone. Clean and perfect.

He could not find Malis to tell her what he had seen. How do you tell a mother her daughter is on fire? That she is, perhaps, broken in a way that he cannot repair this time? (That she is dangerous. He thinks. He thinks for a second and then he washes it away.) Nor does he find Spark among the many, brilliant flowering weeds. Perhaps it is all for the best. So, he waits for the sky to begin to darken in the east and turns his back to it, following the sun to the western shore, where he begins to fish his thoughts out of their muddied waters. 

Tries, desperately, not to recall the dark, flat gaze through narrowed eyes, so unkind to the pretty features it had taken over like a bloodborne disease.

It's in the eyes; I can tell you will always be danger