Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Everywhere had all its undertones; enough to ensure a roll of his eyes and a snort for moments to come. “If you want,” they could make it possible – flickering or dimming lights for Erebos’ nursery, streamlined hues for the bedroom, mischief laden in between the place they’d made for themselves.But there were other multitudes and considerations, and beyond the notion of ridiculous colors were sentiments real and true and unburdened. Like breaths and gasps of air he’d never had before – pure and refined, sinking into bones and enamel like the gentlest muse, varnishing over blackened portions and lacquered, nefarious, wounded, marred, and fettered marrow. Deimos had meant every word; the incantations were inscribed in beauty and carved back into his skin in delicate but strong, unyielding, guidance; the cadence of a song or a sonnet, the whirlwind of gentle rain or the glimpse of a first snow. A beckoning of safe harbors and shallow rhythm, a place of promised semblances and where hurt, marred scales tipped away to the nurtured and divine. Zuriel had always been there for him, but he’d known the painstaking ordeal Evie had undertaken in watching, in seeing, how her measures couldn’t scorch and score into his aches and pains.
And for all the lightness of her incantations, Deimos knew his were mostly dark and blackened; capable and full of menace and nefarious properties. But not always – and maybe she’d see that too. “Of course,” he agreed, a promise of whatever he could extend, even with trepidation mounting and unwinding outside the wake of their world, sheltering her just as well in the shape of his broad shoulders, arms encircling and surrounding, Erebos’ little kicks echoing off the hardwood floor.
