DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
Belial loosened another screech before sailing upwards, skimming deliberately over and around several braziers, lantern posts, and kiosks; difficult to tell if he was challenging the dragon or merely making things chaotic by default. Deimos shook his head at both peryton and Dragoon, permitting the small smile to remain, trying not to avail them of the lighter, jovial aspects – perfectly aware of how it could be rankled over the coals next. Pocketing the small stone, figuring he’d inspect it later, he turned towards the tea canisters and carafes, refilling his own cup.
Tilting his head vaguely at the proffered plate, he only took a small cheese bun on the side, breaking it in half and watching as the warm plumes rose from its sanction. The answer wasn’t a surprise; if Koa hadn’t settled into the reel of his emotions or the binding tethers, then it made sense that he’d yet to configure where he’d go thereafter. Deimos favored compartmentalizing too – if he could tackle this, then he could go to the next, then the next, on a rapidly spinning wheel – then he wouldn’t have time to examine the feelings trapped behind bones. Then he wouldn’t need to do anything more than wander into the trepidation and apprehension, feel that settle well before everything else. Take action before consequence.
But the Sword also favored roots. A place to put all his alms and sacrifices and blood into. Purpose. Reasons. Shelters. Homes. He believed Koa did too; one didn’t become soldiers for their region for the entertainment factors. “Fair enough,” he granted for a moment, and perhaps he’d give Koa an opportunity to thread through those lines; not a push, not a shove, but a second to think. Because the Warden didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t force another into a whim they’d yet to trace or crave, but he figured, sooner or later, the younger man would have to face the crumbling portions. A dreadful, agonizing plunge, but with lifelines nearby, if he was willing to grab them.
Taking a bite and granting all the pretense of casual intentions, he snorted at the pastry comment, saw the snare. “We do have more than baked goods. The hot chocolate is hard to beat.” He wrinkled his nose, extending a wave to some passersby, but then persisted, continued, gaze flickering back to the Dragoon, words weighted, never wasted. No pressure, just truths. “But you would be welcome here too. You could fit right in.”
Tilting his head vaguely at the proffered plate, he only took a small cheese bun on the side, breaking it in half and watching as the warm plumes rose from its sanction. The answer wasn’t a surprise; if Koa hadn’t settled into the reel of his emotions or the binding tethers, then it made sense that he’d yet to configure where he’d go thereafter. Deimos favored compartmentalizing too – if he could tackle this, then he could go to the next, then the next, on a rapidly spinning wheel – then he wouldn’t have time to examine the feelings trapped behind bones. Then he wouldn’t need to do anything more than wander into the trepidation and apprehension, feel that settle well before everything else. Take action before consequence.
But the Sword also favored roots. A place to put all his alms and sacrifices and blood into. Purpose. Reasons. Shelters. Homes. He believed Koa did too; one didn’t become soldiers for their region for the entertainment factors. “Fair enough,” he granted for a moment, and perhaps he’d give Koa an opportunity to thread through those lines; not a push, not a shove, but a second to think. Because the Warden didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t force another into a whim they’d yet to trace or crave, but he figured, sooner or later, the younger man would have to face the crumbling portions. A dreadful, agonizing plunge, but with lifelines nearby, if he was willing to grab them.
Taking a bite and granting all the pretense of casual intentions, he snorted at the pastry comment, saw the snare. “We do have more than baked goods. The hot chocolate is hard to beat.” He wrinkled his nose, extending a wave to some passersby, but then persisted, continued, gaze flickering back to the Dragoon, words weighted, never wasted. No pressure, just truths. “But you would be welcome here too. You could fit right in.”
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
