DEIMOS
“Wiser, perhaps,” he rumbled in return, a small smile beginning to form in the crook of his mouth. Amalia didn’t look as though she’d aged at all – but perhaps that could be said for all the ghosts in their vicinity – time never quite pressing the interludes of experiences upon them. In peace, rather than out amidst the rest of their encompassed multitudes, battered and bruised. That he seemed whole though caused a furrowing of his brow; he’d been running away from the hovering embodiment of leadership for so long, that when the responsibility called and carved its niche into his spine years ago, the only thing that allotted him some calm was knowing he’d be able to make a difference. That there was no choice in the matter. Halo had deserved more than that.
Maybe he had been lost initially. Most of them much the same – taken and snagged from other worlds with no framework but the bitterness of Naturals and the need to simply understand. Trying to find their footing and watching as it was pulled from underneath them time and time again. “Thank you,” he uttered instead, half-inclined to push those self-deprecating fixtures outward once more, and then choking them down. “I do enjoy it, when we do not have wars going on.” Which had happened twice in his interim.
Her own selfless accords, then punctured, pierced notions, hovered too – and he found himself bothered by how it had simply happened. So many perished in that same mannerism – there one day, gone the next – but the expectations that Amalia would have fallen victim to it, despite her prior actions of racing into battle, of being crushed by falling temples, of rampaging into libraries, seemed to nettle at him. He kept it tied and tethered for her sake, a lesson in all its multitudes, his eyes on her fingers as she reached for him. Only after a slight pause did he let his grasp interlock over hers, gaze on the ground again as the apology came through.
He'd mended those wounds on his own long ago, but gods he didn’t want to look at the primordial lacerations, their silver scars, their devastating capabilities again. Since then, he’d learned he did deserve aspects of love and devotion, that it could be received and granted in far more encompassing ways. To not be mired in the sea of ruin, only looking at the depths and ignoring how far he’d traveled. The road ahead was an unwinding, promising thing, and he wouldn’t be placing any more damaging fixtures on it. So he accepted it with a nod, of trying to forge wider, discerning paths, of not rushing headlong into decay and destruction, the emotional toil and wreckage, the bleak downfalls and collapses upon themselves.
The Sword hadn’t expected her next words though, and he grinned, tilting his head despite the bewilderment and surprise, prying for amusements first, a balm and a salve. "No statues of you in the Hollowed Grounds then?" Taking care of himself had never been the forefront – it’d always been everyone else. “I will try,” he honored. “I certainly hear it enough.” That eventually it might sink in. That maybe this hesitant little pocket of peace would stretch into something like sanctity, serenity, and sanctuary again. They’d carved little niches for themselves though, in between the terror and the trepidation.
He figured Evie would crop up eventually – a brow arching again as she teased. He did have a type – strong, passionate women with convictions at least a mile long – it’d only been a coincidence in family ties, and years in between. “We do – Erebos. He will be two in Deepfrost – but he is outgoing, bubbly, happy, mischievous – seems to like everyone.” Pondering over the peculiarities, he glanced at Kiada along the stretch of people roaming from place to place amidst the myriad of phantoms and souls. “Kiada recently married. And Evie was given a sprout from Rae that grew a demigod,” at which he laughed, because it still sounded a little out there. “So we have Amhran as well.” Even if the Raeling didn’t consider Deimos his father, he’d still raise the younger man, notch him into the lines of their family.
Maybe he had been lost initially. Most of them much the same – taken and snagged from other worlds with no framework but the bitterness of Naturals and the need to simply understand. Trying to find their footing and watching as it was pulled from underneath them time and time again. “Thank you,” he uttered instead, half-inclined to push those self-deprecating fixtures outward once more, and then choking them down. “I do enjoy it, when we do not have wars going on.” Which had happened twice in his interim.
Her own selfless accords, then punctured, pierced notions, hovered too – and he found himself bothered by how it had simply happened. So many perished in that same mannerism – there one day, gone the next – but the expectations that Amalia would have fallen victim to it, despite her prior actions of racing into battle, of being crushed by falling temples, of rampaging into libraries, seemed to nettle at him. He kept it tied and tethered for her sake, a lesson in all its multitudes, his eyes on her fingers as she reached for him. Only after a slight pause did he let his grasp interlock over hers, gaze on the ground again as the apology came through.
He'd mended those wounds on his own long ago, but gods he didn’t want to look at the primordial lacerations, their silver scars, their devastating capabilities again. Since then, he’d learned he did deserve aspects of love and devotion, that it could be received and granted in far more encompassing ways. To not be mired in the sea of ruin, only looking at the depths and ignoring how far he’d traveled. The road ahead was an unwinding, promising thing, and he wouldn’t be placing any more damaging fixtures on it. So he accepted it with a nod, of trying to forge wider, discerning paths, of not rushing headlong into decay and destruction, the emotional toil and wreckage, the bleak downfalls and collapses upon themselves.
The Sword hadn’t expected her next words though, and he grinned, tilting his head despite the bewilderment and surprise, prying for amusements first, a balm and a salve. "No statues of you in the Hollowed Grounds then?" Taking care of himself had never been the forefront – it’d always been everyone else. “I will try,” he honored. “I certainly hear it enough.” That eventually it might sink in. That maybe this hesitant little pocket of peace would stretch into something like sanctity, serenity, and sanctuary again. They’d carved little niches for themselves though, in between the terror and the trepidation.
He figured Evie would crop up eventually – a brow arching again as she teased. He did have a type – strong, passionate women with convictions at least a mile long – it’d only been a coincidence in family ties, and years in between. “We do – Erebos. He will be two in Deepfrost – but he is outgoing, bubbly, happy, mischievous – seems to like everyone.” Pondering over the peculiarities, he glanced at Kiada along the stretch of people roaming from place to place amidst the myriad of phantoms and souls. “Kiada recently married. And Evie was given a sprout from Rae that grew a demigod,” at which he laughed, because it still sounded a little out there. “So we have Amhran as well.” Even if the Raeling didn’t consider Deimos his father, he’d still raise the younger man, notch him into the lines of their family.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
