our terrible story of survival

Deimos the Reaper master of nothing place, of recoil and grace Second chances; something they’d all been given, and he didn’t want to squander it, to waste it, to allow it to flicker apart into nothing. There had to be more than hatred, than war, than abhorrence, but sometimes it was all he knew, how to grasp, how to hold, how to clench. Familiar and routine, to seethe and reassemble his efforts into wrath, to part the seas with his dedication to violence, but his eyes lingered on hers, the way things altered, maneuvered, and strained. Ru’in never had any of those opportunities. Perhaps she will live for him too, shards not forgotten, children not entirely absconded, if he was still tucked away in her memories, if there were still fragments existing in Kiada’s munitions and Hotaru’s mind. Like all of his ghosts; letting go of none of them, granting them unbidden access to his skull, to his senses, when they loitered along the corner of his eyes, in the stanzas of poignant songs, upon the fringes of defining moments. Sometimes it was the only way they continued to exist – the rain and the storms, the fire and the water, comrade after comrade, soldier after soldier, and the mountains themselves, the ice, the rime, the snow. He nodded again, thoughts an imperceptible ambition, incapable of uttering any of those nuances collected behind his furrowed brow, the darker threads maneuvering and coiling in pieces, in shells, in glaciers. Food, however, was something shared without preambles or preludes to disaster or sedition. He smiled at her acceptance, turning towards the counter, puttering around and gathering what was available. He listened while he worked, adapting a vague smile along his lips as she discussed leading, the press, the need, the way in which titles swarmed to her shoulders and lined her collar bone; crowns made to sit upon her head, thrones furnished for her essence. “You would have enjoyed the latest chaos of ruler roulette.” He shook his head, nearly snorting; Basin politics aside, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen or heard anything so ridiculous, instigating rebellion amongst all the others when they battered against the seams of Zariah’s reign. Thereafter was a following, flickering debacle on both sides, tyrannical seams unfurling, and then more dramatics brimming, brewing, quelling, and several fallouts in between. It might’ve played like Aurora theater, with all the stages and monologues represented. Deimos acquired a few still warm lavender-infused scones saved from Amalia’s latest batch, turning from the counter, placing them on a plate in the middle of the table. He tilted his head vaguely at the notion of settling down; mostly because Hotaru hadn’t seemed the type in the time he’d known her, though not to the extent of Rexanna’s ploys and antics. “Worth a try,” the beast smirked, nearly winked, before meandering back to the food stores, searching, drifting, for something else, not diving into the subject entirely. He wasn’t falling into that particular snare – Oh, there it was. He made sure not to round back towards her on the second inquiry. From behind, where she sat, the monolith might have appeared reticent and stoic all the more, broad back and form, despite his features ambling into widened eyes, a rosy hue across his cheeks, and a stumbling about, pretending to look for mugs in case Hotaru wanted tea. He’d be damned if she caught him blushing, so he settled, breathed, waited for the ax to fall from his own mouth. “I met someone. Amalia.” It was a simple statement – coasting over the shores, a lock barely turned, barely indicative of the devotion and ardor underneath. No current goals except survival, and no toddling children, keeping track of Kiada’s antics were enough currently, and the way they ran around nearly dying half the time, in either the Spire or some other unknown faction, that was probably for the best. He didn’t shrug the statement or cast it off though; Amalia deserved far more than that – he just wasn’t certain about where to begin. By the time he’d turned around, he’d rendered some sensation of composure again, but there was a light smile resting on his lips, content. “She made these,” indicating the scones, as he pilfered one and broke off a piece, waiting for the inevitable inquiries.

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