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?

Gods. It is a rejoicing sigh that chimes through the halls of his mind like a hallelujah chorus; a million voices raised in invocation, appealing to the protean goddess. Thank you. He watches the fire extinguish from her skin like the sun setting over mottled earth, leaving darkness and smoking sand between them, illuminated now by his moon-core and the blind, venerable pulse of his mimic stars.

But he does not say it, it releases from between his lips in a thin wisp of a moan that bends towards her (always) finding berth where there was but unbearable heat seconds before. It says enough—it is glad and mournful, at the same time; it is thankful, for the way she disrobes herself means prospect.

Truth be told, he has never been fond of fire—(except, of course, of that which burns a quintillion miles away from here, gorging itself on gas and atmospheres of outer space)—because it always seemed antagonistic. What chases the dark away? What covers the stars, selfishly, in the bloom of its own flamed heart?

Alight had been daylight!—bright and binding him to the drift of indiscernible, blue skies. He could not navigate it, had lost his way in it. Then, of course, she had brushed noses with the sun and caught like a match to kindling. But just as the sun she had come too close to had been the stuff of dreams—an imagined thing that had managed to blow some truth into her waking reality—so had she been made lacking in comparison to Spark, who simmered wholly, from the sockets of her eyes down to the tip of her tail.

(Alight would be jealous. But he doesn’t say this, either.)

“Why fire?” Giver asks, soberly, unable to contain the dull ache in his voice that betrays his dismay, “what happened?” It had, slowly but surely, seeped into his life like a heavy, quaking divine—one of vindictiveness and judgement and cleansing—locking horns with his own quiet, desired duskiness. Gloam snorts into the darkness, expressing either interest or a grand showing of impassiveness, curling his wings around his body and shifting is weight.

Stars and fire—and thus it will always be.

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