There could be shadow galaxies - any

[Giver]

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

Things die all the time. 
Stars die beautiful, long evolutions. 
 
They feast on their nuclear cores until the weight of that glut destroys them. 
 
They become giants ‒ hot, red behemoths ‒ turbulent and bright. In this senescent period, they get a second life as gods. Then, they burst. Slayed into a whirl of biting gas and hectic debris ‒ orange, teal, purple. They become pretty, fossilized things, like so many jewels hung across endless, beautiful astrophysical chains.
 
(Chains.)
 
“Gloam,” he calls to him, through the heave of darkness that holds secure all the things Giver understands best (like stars and short, ugly atrophies), and he comes. He was, once, like a torchbug in the night, flitting and flickering; now, he is more like a meteorite, loosed from his gravitational course. He is jarring and dangerous, though he chooses to keep his wings tucked up against his invulnerable ribs. 
 
Gloam chooses, smoldering.
 
He is moody. But he is always moody. He grunts in response, like he did when he was a boy and the way his mind tastes is as bitter and wordless ‒ stymied, nervous, scared. These shores remind him, perhaps, of lost things. Of unpleasant but needed things. “We will find…” Giver begins, watching the boy-turned-man consume oxygen around his body and spit out sparks into the darkness.
 
He grunts and marches on, sparking and flitting and woosh-ing, into the heavy night. “...Right,” Giver sighs, shaking his head and turning back to the cluster of watery constellations, seething away in miniature around his luminous skin.
 
Something's die well-earned, indignant deaths.
Nobody had cried when Pangea ate its own grim core. Except, perhaps, Giver and Gloam.

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