Deimos
suns for bones and constellations for eyes
Natural progressions, perhaps; the Sword already giving and granting her space in his own for seasons, churning and turning until it became over a year. Slower though, despite what others might have said, for solid structures and fortifications, so when something went awry it wasn’t a calamity, so when there were conversations, discussions, they weren’t abrupt and clawing. They’d warded and waded through multitudes together with steadfast maturities despite what mischief might’ve managed; dimming shadows and casting light. His eyes rolled at the next notation – though mostly because they hadn’t been keeping anything a furtive measure. If no one knew or realized, perhaps they had no intention of prying, kept to themselves, or were busy with other nuances. He wouldn’t blame any of them. A roll of his shoulders followed, taking the advantage of keeping her tucked beneath him, while snagging at a few of the remaining logs and watching the Air magic whisk them onto another doorstep. “I did not realize we were a secret,” came on a smirk and a snicker, if she happened to glance his way.
