i fell in love with a war
Icarus' eyes shine when Deimos mentions joining the Wild Watch, not necessarily out of the ambition for fighting out monsters, but for the ambition to get out there and help. The Wild Watch has always seen grand and untouchable to him, wild heroes of untamed bravery and prowess, and though he never envisioned himself skilled enough to join their ranks, a possibility of a future unfolds in front of him and sparks under his skin. He doesn't dare respond, his throat thick with something he can't quite name that feels a little like hope, so he gives another short nod instead.
The crowns in Deimos' hand are thick and lush, stuffed thick with intricate weavings of leafs and colors Icarus has no doubt corresponds to each family member's personality and interests. Even in his substantially-sized hand, they're a blooming garden, and in his fingers, the singularity of Icarus' one flower crown sends a shiver up his hands. A family of one, a sole member of a dead tree, is a stinging wound on a good day, nothing more than an ache in healed scars like the one on his chest. On other days, days meant for families and sharing the bounty of love, it was like he was dying all over again.
The pain landed somewhere in the middle at the sight of those carefully crafted crowns, and he rips his gaze away from them before he can descend onto a sharper knife.
"I'm sure they'll appreciate them," He says levelly, a hand drifting out to absentmindedly linger on a plant growing next to him. He's overcome with an awkward feeling of intrusion, suddenly missing the tumbleweed for the sake of having something to do with his hands. Idalia seems settled, and doesn't want to make another grievous injury like he had before, so he keeps his hand safety on the flowers. "Do you remember your first festival, sir?"
He's not fishing for stories about his commander getting drunk, but he is curious. He can barely imagine the man out of the battlefield, much less at a festival.
The crowns in Deimos' hand are thick and lush, stuffed thick with intricate weavings of leafs and colors Icarus has no doubt corresponds to each family member's personality and interests. Even in his substantially-sized hand, they're a blooming garden, and in his fingers, the singularity of Icarus' one flower crown sends a shiver up his hands. A family of one, a sole member of a dead tree, is a stinging wound on a good day, nothing more than an ache in healed scars like the one on his chest. On other days, days meant for families and sharing the bounty of love, it was like he was dying all over again.
The pain landed somewhere in the middle at the sight of those carefully crafted crowns, and he rips his gaze away from them before he can descend onto a sharper knife.
"I'm sure they'll appreciate them," He says levelly, a hand drifting out to absentmindedly linger on a plant growing next to him. He's overcome with an awkward feeling of intrusion, suddenly missing the tumbleweed for the sake of having something to do with his hands. Idalia seems settled, and doesn't want to make another grievous injury like he had before, so he keeps his hand safety on the flowers. "Do you remember your first festival, sir?"
He's not fishing for stories about his commander getting drunk, but he is curious. He can barely imagine the man out of the battlefield, much less at a festival.
Icarus
and nobody told me it ended
