intention erased

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos’ words were measured; had to be, from the thresholds he’d grown within. Assortments of vulnerability, of mistakes, of mishaps, in the art of their precision, were swiftly snagged, caught, and a gnarled noose around one’s throat. Speaking bluntly, plainly, keenly, with facts and veracity, or simply not revealing any information at all, had worked for him – though they were often riddled with misunderstandings too, for the absence of emotions or not being enough. An arch to his brow at the inquiry also hastened the tiniest of smiles and smirks. “Sometimes.” A thousand things left unsaid in those syllables; lifetimes of anguish, despair, and then seditious, irreverent spades, the cycle of vengeance and vehemence sprung from ashes in their wake. He paused, momentarily, from creating and contorting the realms of Helovia’s cinders and snow, replacing the glass jar (already filled from Samuel’s flowing wounds), with another empty container. Then the Sword returned to the beacon of power and prestige, to a world he craved and yearned for and couldn’t have again. “We followed his call, and he asked us what we wanted.” Standing there, amidst the summits, with the peaks rising above them, clear, potent, and supreme; and he’d been the first to step forward, despite Psyche’s rage at the insurgency (maybe that’d been a sign all along, well before he understood or pondered schemes behind DarkEmpress’s reigns and falls). “We asked for land. A home.” A shelter in the storms, in the fragility of their mass, of their stronghold, a surging, seditious multitude without a world to call their own. After, the beast inhaled, a sharper inclination, as he spread the figments of the cliff, the eminences further, so they reigned like towering palisades over any of the other figures he’d created. “He gave us those mountains, called the Aurora Basin.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace