[se] between two lungs

Deimos

we are all b r o k e n
that's how the l i g h t gets in

Perhaps he was biased, but he revered her because of those virtues and flaws that she didn’t seem yearning to express. He had half a notion to air them all out to the forefront so she could see, so she could know, so she could catch the emblazoned stars for herself. Maybe she wasn’t ready though, had yet to visualize or comprehend the light bending and swaying from her form, how when it caught in the right context or conjecture that it filled the room with sunbeams and radiance. He smirked at her blush, and kept the Cheshire grin aloft, mischief entangled in most of their encounters; a convergence and confluence of boldness and audacity otherwise cloaked and hidden. The beast allowed her shroud, her veil, but arched his brow at her regardless, made her all too aware of his preferences and thoughts on the subject, even in the hushed, tremulous ventures of silence.

The discussion of companions seemed to knock away the flush from her cheeks, and he wondered if he should attempt to paint the rosy edges back on for the simple sake of amusement; but he listened too, the scholarly intentions still there while the rest of his attention were riveted on gilded highlights and onyx hues. Bondeds sounded as though they were two halves of the same whole, souls guided together in a stalwart, enlightened path, combining and intertwining to share similar sojourns – to blend, to merge, to impart those either forsaken, desolate, or craving those parallels. He nodded his understanding, but knew he wouldn’t be able to place it altogether without his own experiences or comprehension of the subject – the world was so vast, so overwhelming to his ignorant follies, but he strived just the same. It was better than drowning or sticking his head in the muck and mire, waiting to be snagged and torn apart, fettered and withered, decayed and reborn again in his next mess, unless the realms decided he wasn’t worth a third shot. Amalia always appeared to make the most out of everything – no matter the situation: caught and abducted, but in place, capable of sharing memories and connections she otherwise wouldn’t have forged. What an ability to have; more than sheer perseverance, endurance, or fortitude, because he could do that for eons and decades based on nothing but spite or vitriol. She glided to it naturally, with faith and fortune, with virtue and exuberance. Deimos stifled a bitter laugh; pondering what on earth she was doing here with him, stuck beneath boughs and roots, pillars filled with books, wisdom beyond their wildest imaginations, and he so thoroughly ensconced and entangled amidst inadequacy. “What emotions does she convey?” It was half a tease, but also genuine intrigue, watching the gliding little whale pulse her way along edges and fringes, harmonic and mellifluous.

It was his turn to be mocked thereafter, the revolution and twist of his formidable, stony nature, the walls he’d so carefully carved and molded around himself. Very few had ever been given the keys towards entry, and even fewer still had bothered to try. He kept her hum though, tucked it against his chest, and lifted his smile slightly, as her finger brushed his nose, as he breathed in unison, the calm well after the storm. “I was concerned,” was his subtle, barbaric reply, but it held the weight of too many losses, ghosts, and devastations rattling around its deepened tones. It was amusing now, with everyone safe, sound, and seemingly no worse for wear; but there’d been all those instances of sacrifice clawing and rampaging its way down the length of his spine, and he’d believed her gone, just like everything else in his life. He was too little, too late, a pattern lacquered in eternity, emblazoned and scarred across his flesh.

Her movements and strokes traversed, sketched an outline of his beard, jaw, and ear, and he leaned into it much like a cat, turning so the depths of his piercing, puncturing stare were placed vividly into hers once more, blue and black, savage and gentle, teasing and encouraging, allowing her to find her way along his frame. Deimos thought to roll his eyes at the mention of Jigano, because that was full of foils and trials he wasn’t ready to face; he only agreed to it for her. “I will try to make amends.” Try being the operative term, when apologies and atonements had never been up his alley; kingdoms had known what it meant to cross the Reaper cycles ago. He glanced at her frown and intended to smudge it away with fingers, grasp and pull her back, away from the specters and wraiths pulsing within the refrains of so many unexplored, unsaid quandaries. She fell into his shoulder instead, and then he was just a bastion, a guide post again, sighing, believing, in all the big and little things she’d become and would always be. His hands were escorting pieces of the darkened threads, where the moon laid in wait, pulling her towards him as he finally sat amidst tomes and grimoires, absorbing and uniting amidst the columns of history.

Her experiences were all the more, and he was content to know that beyond even the beatific whale, there were pieces and slivers of this world that weren’t haunting or poignant, but remarkable, and she’d discovered their traces. “And what was your favorite?” A great contortion to his mind wanted to hear more of the tallest tree, but also the creature with the world on its back, who hungered for memories and lives lived; how she’d flown, how she’d opened her arms wide to catch stars. All he’d ever done was rebel and seethe; these stories were more favorable, more enchanting, more alluring and beguiling.

keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word