DEIMOS
Any other time Sah might’ve been commended for his valor and intrepid nature; now it just seemed as though he’d be walking into snares and manipulation, cloaks and daggers, all poised and lined up, ready to strike. All that seemed needed now was a spark, a match, incitements on either end or side before the rest took up arms – no matter the cause, the case. They lived in a time where neither Wraith nor Hailstorm had been put up on trial for their crimes, but those like Ru and himself were being measured for burning empty buildings. Cause and effect; bitter and rancorous edges were no longer fraying, straying ends, but fringes of something to come. They embodied consequences and repercussions, and after settling into his, Deimos couldn’t see what good Sah’s march towards the Voice was going to bring. Knowledge and information were fine – but they already had all they needed, all they required.He had nothing to say on the first statement – continuing to listen to the scrape of the sled as it slid through ice and rime, to the modest movements of Belial as the game had long since lost its oeuvre, to Zuriel’s vivid silence, that might have said more than his own. It was the second one that drew at him though, like a knife stuck between ribs, and his eyes narrowed, staring out across the tundra, as they rose over a knoll, as the Citadel began to make its first appearance.
Did the world see him like that? As a beast who labored in his contempt, who rallied in his wrath, where one stupefying move enacted his abhorrence? The Sword nearly paused in his steps, nearly turned his head over his shoulder, so the piercing eyes would land on Sah, and the Abandoned would be able to see how anguishing such a statement could be. There were times, there were moments, where Deimos could be exactly that. This wasn’t one of them.
So he didn’t shift – refused, clenching his jaw, and wandering further ahead. “You have not earned my loathing.” That had been reserved keenly for those like Sunjata, like Wessex, who hurt and bludgeoned and held little care for all the damage they’d done, for the Voice, who consistently maimed and mauled. Quietly, into the wind, he justified the slow, lingering breath cast off into the clouds and into the snow, distorted by it all. “It is tiring, to lose people all the time.”
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
