DEIMOS
Icarus didn’t seem to have any particular aesthetic, he noted, as the collection of colors and hues seemed to be one of odds and ends rather than any cohesion. Perhaps the youth didn’t have a preference, or this was it – for all the careful control, it didn’t seem to reach into the flowers, buds, and leaves twisted back upon themselves. Deimos quirked his brow in quiet consideration and perusal, but said nothing; wasn’t in his business.
So he weaved his own, layer by layer, slowing down to demonstrate, placing flowers distinctly around, contorting stems into more of their brethren. “You will do this many times,” especially dependent upon how much he’d gathered and utilized. “Sometimes you might need filler too, which is where some of your leaves can come in,” and one could knot and gnarl back amongst themselves, tucking them into bramble and stem.
At the sudden admission of mothers and their eclectic accumulations, he didn’t pause; simply listened, fell into routine silence as he worked. For whatever reason the lad seemed to have wanted to share – perhaps reminded, or given a reason, a pattern, to the pieces he’d snagged. Maybe they were a hallmark to the things she’d snagged and grabbed over a lifetime, richer than others. “Hopefully Mort appreciated the efforts,” he granted, imagining a shrine filled with objects meant to appease a god of death.
When he apologized though, the Warden snorted, shaking his head. Idalia giggled, maybe finding the motion funny as it rumbled through his chest, but he granted Icarus an easy leave. “No need to apologize for having memories. We all do.”
So he weaved his own, layer by layer, slowing down to demonstrate, placing flowers distinctly around, contorting stems into more of their brethren. “You will do this many times,” especially dependent upon how much he’d gathered and utilized. “Sometimes you might need filler too, which is where some of your leaves can come in,” and one could knot and gnarl back amongst themselves, tucking them into bramble and stem.
At the sudden admission of mothers and their eclectic accumulations, he didn’t pause; simply listened, fell into routine silence as he worked. For whatever reason the lad seemed to have wanted to share – perhaps reminded, or given a reason, a pattern, to the pieces he’d snagged. Maybe they were a hallmark to the things she’d snagged and grabbed over a lifetime, richer than others. “Hopefully Mort appreciated the efforts,” he granted, imagining a shrine filled with objects meant to appease a god of death.
When he apologized though, the Warden snorted, shaking his head. Idalia giggled, maybe finding the motion funny as it rumbled through his chest, but he granted Icarus an easy leave. “No need to apologize for having memories. We all do.”
think about this
you have the ability to survive anything
you have the ability to survive anything
