intention erased

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame For some reason, Deimos hadn’t expected the question. Temptation to withdraw, to escape into shells, armaments, voids, veils, and armed reticence plagued against his mind, a recoil, a contortion of distortion. A few already knew the story, and some had lived it, watching as he immersed himself into exhaustion, into positions where his body simply couldn’t hold it together any longer, and he’d perished beside the favored lake, bones placed within the mountainside, a tomb shackled and tethered together. In a way, he had stayed there in physical form, until Helovia was blown away, until his soul found Isilme again, returning, reliving, reenacting, repeating the friction, the factions of war, the familiar curves and turns of revolution. So his hands stilled, eyes still on the aurora’s horizon, on the streaks of colors he’d never see again, gone and gone and gone; ravenous memories clawing into his mantle. The rumble of his tones were matter of fact, blunt, eternally stripped down and bereft of emotion – cold and hollow. “I died there.” The General couldn’t even really muster a shrug, composed, threatening to slip into apathy and nonchalance, because it was familiar and shielding, walls upon walls, a breath held in his lungs. “Helovia was destroyed not long after,” based on Hotaru and Kiada’s explanations, false idols, gods, and pariahs snagging, stealing, and demolishing. Whether or not the Reaper would’ve survived that either hardly mattered. “I was reborn in my homeland, Isilme, and was eventually pulled here.” A thousand other explanations could’ve lingered and struck between those phrases, but he didn’t have all the answers, and the simplistic lines, sketches seemed to suit best. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace