Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
He’d gone back and forth over that nightmare of an evening close to a thousand times; picked upon nuances and changes and what might have beens. None of it had ever eased or erased the guilt. What if he’d chosen something else to protect their threshold with? Would Rexanna still have perished, simply under different circumstances? What if he’d done naught at all? But that wasn’t him – all those notions of a listless man weren’t in his entity. And try as they might, so many had strived to give him that permission to leave it behind, to sink it into the past, to cast blame not upon himself, but the Voice, LongNight itself, or any other semblances – and he’d refused. Let that shame and iniquity claw into his bones until he could speak to her again, either in Mort’s Realm or through other circumstances. Luck had prevailed amidst the Festival. “Yes,” he surmised with that quiet and small smile, the gradual tilt of his head as he glanced down at Erebos, the infant’s eyes beginning to close. “I needed to know from her.” If she’d detested, loathed, and abhorred, forgave…Then he permitted another long, deep breath, ignoring the roll of her eyes at distinctions. He hadn’t expected semblances to immediately go towards Ru’in, but all of them had so many heartaches, perhaps it should’ve been a given to roam back to her first. “He would likely be proud of you.” For so many things; but namely the amount of obstacles, even death, that she’d overcome. “If you really want to know though, I heard Remi could bring messages to and from the dead.”
