the shape of shrapnel

Deimos

before bones, before dirt, before even light
this is who we were

Vox in their heads didn’t help; the threats, the warnings, the reason why they’d been targeted. It nearly made him laugh, all these nuances and feats. Instead, it lit a fire, stoked and damned in the cursed, infernal portions of his heart – determination contorting in all the rage beginning to build and build, kindled, incensed, stoked. Rhiannon’s question kept him from stepping further into the midst and carving himself out like a knife. The adrenaline, rage, guilt, and trepidation all blended him together in a line of rigid capabilities, wondering just how far he could or would go.

For now, it was the sky.

“I will check.” And with a flourish he shifted, spiraling upwards in a motion of eagle feathers and liberation, searching the ramparts of their home. It gave him something to do in the blows and tirades – but gods, to witness the stretch of it, all purple infused with the ice, rime, and snow, raked a cold, cold nefarious edge into his soul.

this untamable expanse
churning proof that we have always been deep, restless souls