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?

It never really mattered to him that they were not really his sisters, brothers; nieces; father and mother. It hadn’t been an avalanche for him, but a trickle. A slow unravelling, so it had been tolerable. As years went on, he had played the knots loose himself—slowly, as he grew up and began to better understand the things he was reading from their souls.

As a baby, he could understand (or misunderstand) only a few things: he knew, vaguely, when they were sad, scared; when they were hungry and when they were hurt.

All the complicated things were beyond him, for a long, long time.
All the important things.

When he was a young man, he could understand (or misunderstand) a little more: when they were resentful, when they were distant, lonely or when they trusted him and Alight to not wander too far from the Chamber. He could feel that they were more attached to Alight. Even if they would whole-heartedly refute it. Even if, in practice, he would have never known the different had it not been so easily tasted, for all the care and love he had received was in equal measure to her.

It is a deep down, genetic thing, he supposes. It is the animal makings of parturition; it is the important silk that stitches young to parent, that makes the whole organism of their species work.

And then, he began to wonder where the stars came from…

He turns his soft, brown eyes to her as she sidles up to him, smiling. No. It matters so little that they are seeds from different trees. They had, by mischief and madness, landed in the soil side-by-side each other. Close enough for Exist to grow in the shade he, and so many others, made. As the tale tells it, he and Alight are the eldest of the children. Exist and Leliana, the first seedlings of a new generation. Their coming had been a joy, if a bit curious.

The tickle from her whiskers makes him shiver, he leans his head lightly into her touch to bump her back. “Hello.” He is not even perturbed by the ease with which she guesses he is discontent. Giver has always been the serious one (at least, when taken in the context of Alight—not difficult) but not particularly adept at erasing the lines from his face. Besides, he had come down here for the exact opposite: to untangle and stew.

He only wonders how he can explain it all away.

“Girls,” he replies, with a wry grin and a wink, giving her a jesting nudge. He shakes his head. It is only a half-truth. “Sisters,” he adds, and his voice contains a sigh, some frustration and worry. “Luckily for me, you are a good girl,” he, too, watches the water grow bright and fiery with dusk, “just what I need to restore some sanity.” He tries to keep the full extent of his concern from his voice, to avoid worrying her over-much.

That has never been his aim;
He has always sought to protect them all.
(How could be possibly do that if ever called upon?)
He likes to make them laugh—keep them diverted into the shallows of happiness.

(Where had it gone wrong with Alight?)

The soft brush of feathers against his side elicits a chain reaction of confusion in his brain. He furrows his brow and turns to her again, but before he can ask her about them, she speaks his name in such a way that brings a hush. “Mhmm?” He watches her, the anxiety resting so heavy in his bones rattling in the quiet pause before she says, ‘I have something for you.’ He waits.

That fairy magic passes without sound and with only the slightest touch, and of course, what leaves her empty fills him. That he does feel. His skin prickles; hairs stand on their end, reacting to the electrical nature of the ceremony. Above, the stars begin to unfurl, their unsettled reflections glittering away in that liquid galaxy. They reach for him—with powerful, old hands—and their contact leaves miniatures in his body’s glowing atmosphere.

‘We can all be whole again.’  

He inhales—holds it—takes a few trotting steps, until the ocean laps just below his knees with its cold tongue. He looks down and looking back at him is no longer the faded reflection of a sick moon, but himself. Tiny cosmos and all. He smiles, throwing in head back and yells across the pitch-black water in chaotic, all-encompassing glee. “RRRR-AAAH-AH-HAHAAA!” The sounds magnifies over the ocean and echoes rudely. He turns, quick and nimble, and leaps back to Exist. “How did you–? I,” he ruffles her forelock his his lips, “thank you.” His breath comes heavy, his heart pounding, “have you learned to use those, yet?” he motions to her wings, smiling.

He can only imagine what flight means to her.
If it is anything like what these stars mean to him...

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