who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos didn’t expect anyone to hear him. He presumed wind would carry on through the ether, silent as the grave, and he’d walk back out of the area, forsaken again. So it was another bewildering thing to see the flicker of otherworldly cosmos, ghosts and fragments, not entirely whole (the sickness there; as harsh as it had been the first time he’d seen her), suddenly near. His heart thundered, a war-drum beat in his chest, careening along his ribs, in the presence of a god, sharper inhales and exhales over her hums, eyes widening and then narrowing.
He wasn’t prepared. A fleeting, stupid notion told him to run before he made some despicable error. Her words stopped him, froze him, kept him segmented in galaxies and constellations, a surprising one. Perhaps he was. Maybe he was a mess of contradictions, trials, and tribulations that made her shake her head and grimace. Maybe he was portions and pieces of broken fragments, and there was nothing left to do but send him on his way. Maybe he was just a piece of moments, wretched and nonsensical, not worth a deity’s time or efforts.
Why should I? indeed; the very inquiry he asked himself.
What makes you think you’re worthy? laid in there too – and damning brambles and thorns poked their way into his figure, and he leaned into them, bereft and wild, lost and misplaced. “I want to protect the ones I cherish.” He hadn’t done enough, hadn’t become enough; she would’ve seen the Sword’s efforts, would’ve seen him falter and come up with naught, a disaster of his own making. But he’d do anything for them, those who’d accepted, tolerated, and loved him despite his multitude of flaws, despite his hankering for power and vehemence, despite adding up to nothing. He’d heard the echoes of screams in a cavern, and followed them to bring others to safety (nearly dying). He’d crawled into the Spire to help save an ancient, primordial force (nearly dying). He’d saved a unicorn from an infant landshark (nearly dying). He’d returned to the fortification’s basement to assist in unraveling a potential cause for the blight, in destruction, in ruin (surprisingly, not nearly dying – but the end result had been the same: trifling, indistinct matters, and dead ends). What good was he to them when he wasn’t strong, capable, or enduring? His previous actions spoke for themselves – willing, but ineffectual at best. The warrior dared to glance at her, a vow of fervor and might, if given half a chance. “Because I have tried, and not been enough for them.”
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
