DEIMOS
It ceased, but only on the surface. Tears were no longer shed, but Deimos knew far better than that, tilting his head vaguely to peer down at her, face a solemn rendering of statuesque figures. The words caused his jaw to clench and tighten, because there was half a moment where he realized he’d lose her too if this became something truly insurmountable again.
And then it’d just be that vicious cycle, doomed and damned to repeat.
How much longer would she stand and labor on? The Sword wouldn’t ask, but it stuck behind his teeth and down his throat like a barb or a thorn, lanced and laced with its own vicious toxins. And while panic didn’t settle, the sense of apprehension coiled its way back down into his ribcage – and all the trepidation that had built before the war and surmised some segment of relief when everyone was alive merely returned in another revolution.
The words he emitted became a litany and list of sorts, of things she had and could still cherish, even if it always felt a little bit thinner year after year. “Flora. Remi.” Family she’d constructed – despite some haphazard wakes. “Halo.” A world, a land, where the people were hardy and the memories of the Basin clung together in the press of footfalls across snow and sometimes when one stared at the angle of the Sea of Glass they could see their old friends. But he couldn’t impart those designs with ghosts and wraiths and phantoms alike; so he persisted, striving to cobble something together that she could hold onto. “Your own ambitions.”
And then it’d just be that vicious cycle, doomed and damned to repeat.
How much longer would she stand and labor on? The Sword wouldn’t ask, but it stuck behind his teeth and down his throat like a barb or a thorn, lanced and laced with its own vicious toxins. And while panic didn’t settle, the sense of apprehension coiled its way back down into his ribcage – and all the trepidation that had built before the war and surmised some segment of relief when everyone was alive merely returned in another revolution.
The words he emitted became a litany and list of sorts, of things she had and could still cherish, even if it always felt a little bit thinner year after year. “Flora. Remi.” Family she’d constructed – despite some haphazard wakes. “Halo.” A world, a land, where the people were hardy and the memories of the Basin clung together in the press of footfalls across snow and sometimes when one stared at the angle of the Sea of Glass they could see their old friends. But he couldn’t impart those designs with ghosts and wraiths and phantoms alike; so he persisted, striving to cobble something together that she could hold onto. “Your own ambitions.”
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
