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?

He is always happy to see her. 

But happiness isn’t always perfect. Sometimes, after the bonfire of that night, it felt safer and gentler to spy her from a distance—all earth, breath and wild—where he didn't have to suffer the dregs of her mind; where he could not feel her aspect weave itself into him, pressing into all the places his guilt had rooted. Where he did not have to suffer the shame of his own inadequate peace-making. It felt safer and gentler to leave, marching across the ragged and unwashed countryside in search, though it brought him no happiness to do so. Gloam had begged him to, needy for the separated skin of his sister (and, perhaps, his mother, though he did not say so)—and how was he to deny the boy that? How was he to deny himself that?

He could not be sure what would be worse, to find the girl had spit loose from that blazed hag, or to find them together. 

He could not be sure what would be better—to not have to see Alight, or to have her close enough to earn his pelt a few more burn scars from her wings, just enough to snuff them out with finality. He had braved them once before, in a frenzy of stars and fire, after which he had emerged with the boy trembling behind him, yelping and groaning in anguish and she (woosh-ing and cursing their heads, all) had the girl, tucked under a flaming wing, yanking her back into the dark, starred ocean, threatening to drown her if he took another step.

It didn’t matter. Because they had not found the girl, nor the fire-hag. They had found Pangea, razed to nothing—a stitch of earth where once there had been grim canyons and caves. Gone, and no sharp, puberty-toned calling of ‘sister!’ from Gloam, nor begrudging, hard yells of ‘Alight’ from Giver, had stirred them, stars and fire, from the waste. 

Gone. Giver let it settle in his belly with some sad gladness; Gloam had been devastated.

“Spark,” he says, softly and cautiously, as she joins him. Gloam, still keeping space between them, follows her flaming body with some curiosity before snapping back to the front. Marching on. “Spark...” he repeats dumbly, his gold-brown eyes watering from the heat, unsure of where to look as her body shifts and snaps brightly. He doesn't say he is sorry, though perhaps he should have (perhaps she waits for it—that flamed goddess, like an offering for her mercy), because it feels too obvious. And he is a stupid, stupid man. “We didn’t find… anything…” he trails off at the end, wincing as he considers the idea that she might not care. That it might not be why she came.

That she might want to hear something else entirely free of their shades.

“Does it hurt?” he sighs, finally, braving the heat to stay near her, knowing the best thing he could do is take a step aside and save his smoking whiskers. He finds her eyes, black and red, rimmed in fire, and he means not just for her—for her own once smoothed, patched skin—but for him, as well. He is keenly aware of the smooth, hairless creeks of grey skin on his sides and neck, how their branding had seared and bubbled before he could find healing.

Stars and fire.

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