fine in the fire

Deimos The Reaper wasn’t sure what to expect upon inspection of his wounds or chest; but it certainly wasn’t a warm smile, gone in an instant, and the mention of her husband. Perhaps he’d also been a soldier, rampaging through scene after scene, cut and slashed and bruised against for whatever cause implored their companies to brutalize. “A warrior?” He inquired, head tilting, curious about how many others lived amidst this world that had gone through similar circumstances. To think his scars told a story was an interesting notation too – minor details in a series of tales, little niches and outlines of barbarity, never the whole picture, but a slender note in a book. He shrugged, but liked the nuance, the sentiment, instead of potential other things they could’ve described (monster, menace, inept, ineffectual; just one more barbarian in a sea of beasts). He didn’t expect a thank you either, for the minor role he’d played in trying to impede the spread of the flinthopper’s fire. “You are welcome,” he bowed his head, staring at the floor – thinking back to the inferno washing over, scalding, threatening to take, and how he’d always seen combustion as something else: fringes of his father, memories of embers, ashes, and cinders, but nothing quite like that. Deimos finally turned to watch her work, gaze flickering on glowing hands settling above his burnt shoulder, eager to see how the healing process was orchestrated and adorned here. "Thank you,", he implored, awaiting and anticipating mended skin, as if naught had happened. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime