Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
“Mm, next time you are in the library, have a look around.” Pointing upwards to the cozy nook of shelves, lamps, and couches they had on the next floor, Deimos wouldn’t give away any of the works – far more inclined for Amhran’s curiosity to take hold, looking for certain signatures, etchings, subjects, or details that might showcase more of the Evergreen. He offered naught more than a smile thereafter, angling Erebos again so that he might have minor control over the infant’s fingers, dabbing them in the gray paint while the baby giggled along.He maneuvered the youth carefully, avoiding the work Amhran was doing so as not to ruin anything, towards the top of the paper. From there, Erebos was permitted to touch his little digits to the parchment, fingerprints taking form of some symbolic little snowflakes flickering down the page. And a few touches of his flailing palms, for good measure.
Tilting his head vaguely at the demigod’s question, he snorted, pondering if he’d been listening in to a conversation he’d had recently with Evie. Trying not to recall the last bits of those motions, because then that overwhelming feeling flickered right back to the surface, he wiped off Erebos’ hands again, listening to another squeal resound and reverberate. “I suppose that depends on if you want one or not.”
