Zuriel</style>
I heard a whispered dream of you,
on the silver foam of the crashing sea</style>

Elegant lust and desecrated dreams, the devoured memory of a mother's son; is it there beneath the painted layers, the faceless mask and the names without meaning? Blood runs deep and the girl holds true, but how long has it been, how many shows and how many lies, how deep the deception which she clutches in her grasp? In the advent of reminder, is she able to remember, to lose the actress poise and assume a face of honesty, reclaim the breath of vulnerability exhaled so long ago? Frozen and still, she is trapped beneath the wavering sun and the sin of his voice, a dancer in the snow globe waiting to be wound back up, shaken and stirred into the desired shape that she might transfix her prey in the grace of her legs and the flute of her voice.

She is an image carefully maintained by an angel so bright her face is forgotten. Will it all fall apart in the name of kin?

Of course.

A million moments of lost time shatter and fall away, melting into nothing as the angel queen moves. Fluid, supple, the baubles shatter beneath her hooves as she leaves her spotlight in the dark, stepping into his shadows, letting them wrap her in a cold embrace. The blue of his eyes reflect her own; as the reaper's crown falls the angel's rises, daggers of crystal caught in the rising light. "My, baby brother, how mighty you have grown!" Her voice is water cascading down a stream, ripples of laughter interwoven throughout; no lies, no deceit, the angel is honest in her eager advance, and the glow of her gaze holds the warmth of her heart. "I am glad that even in your rise, you remember your betters." Teasing, tearing, she knows that he knows what emotions she feels- affection, pride, for though she knows not his tale she expects nothing but greatness from the blood of her blood.

The seraph yearns to touch, to pull Deimos deep into the coil of her embrace; but memory holds her back, the tendrils of darkness which play at his legs a warning that in time, some things cannot change. Instead she extends the white crown towards his face, pausing inches away from her brother in lies, the sea beneath her ice, the ocean floor to her white-capped waves, and, in an act of affection offered fiercely and scarce, exhales her scent into his mind, and takes with delight the weight of his.

But come now, this is not a sight for you. There will be plays in the future, stories and trials; now is a reunion fit for eyes of none but the heavens, a union of deception and cruelty and strength into something supreme, deep, dark, more than you can fathom. This is no show; this is her heart, and her blood. This is the future, and it is glorious.