DEIMOS
the ocean does not apologize for its depth
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
The Sword didn’t mince or waste words; each one extended had its own designated purpose. The inquiry caused him to snort – uncertain sometimes about the Dragoon, because for some moments he seemed absolute and confident, and in others, precariously dangling on ledges. Perhaps that was the edge most of them walked; striving to appear gallant and defined, while encompassing every contortion of misery inwards. “I would not have said otherwise,” he wrinkled his nose, juvenile and boyish for half an instant, taking another bite. “But I agree. It should not be an impulsive choice.”
Koa seemed to have found one of the crumbling sanctions though, and Deimos’ gaze went downward, following Belial’s movements suddenly near his feet, granting the youth space as he began to decipher and unravel the components. He’d started over more than once – from Isilme and war-torn states, to Helovia, losing lands and regaining again, to here and now, drifting from the Grounds and back into tundra conditions; digging in when it was all they had. He took a long breath thereafter, his head tilting a degree, so it looked less unyielding, dwelling further into the aspects of the known, of what it meant to be devastated. “That is understandable. Give yourself time.” No rush amidst the fractures. No headlong, rash decision contorted from loss. “And while it is not the same, the Shields are here too.” Soldierhood could be a definition – gods knew he used it for himself – but not the end all, be all either. “Were you thinking of anywhere else? Or looking for something in particular?” There was always Torchline (as Deimos was thoroughly, and happily, unaware of the dramatics bound to those shorelines for the youth), King’s End, or some aspect of the Wilds.
The compliment surprised him, but they often did. Granting a small, indulgent smile, he tried to accept it, rather than instinctually scrape it away, like it wasn’t a deserved aspect. “You are welcome.” Tossing a portion of the bun down to the peryton, the companion gobbled it down, loudly, while he still mulled over decisions.
Koa seemed to have found one of the crumbling sanctions though, and Deimos’ gaze went downward, following Belial’s movements suddenly near his feet, granting the youth space as he began to decipher and unravel the components. He’d started over more than once – from Isilme and war-torn states, to Helovia, losing lands and regaining again, to here and now, drifting from the Grounds and back into tundra conditions; digging in when it was all they had. He took a long breath thereafter, his head tilting a degree, so it looked less unyielding, dwelling further into the aspects of the known, of what it meant to be devastated. “That is understandable. Give yourself time.” No rush amidst the fractures. No headlong, rash decision contorted from loss. “And while it is not the same, the Shields are here too.” Soldierhood could be a definition – gods knew he used it for himself – but not the end all, be all either. “Were you thinking of anywhere else? Or looking for something in particular?” There was always Torchline (as Deimos was thoroughly, and happily, unaware of the dramatics bound to those shorelines for the youth), King’s End, or some aspect of the Wilds.
The compliment surprised him, but they often did. Granting a small, indulgent smile, he tried to accept it, rather than instinctually scrape it away, like it wasn’t a deserved aspect. “You are welcome.” Tossing a portion of the bun down to the peryton, the companion gobbled it down, loudly, while he still mulled over decisions.
for the space they take
and so, neither shall I
and so, neither shall I
