Hang hallowed halos

Deimos The beast had always listened while the world moved on, tilting his head to take and grasp and clench from all directions. It paid off in stories, in tales, things his mother often proclaimed that he could recite by rote, things his father explained beside glistening embers, and then later, along instructions, in intervals of war (lacerate here, lunge there), and ways to utilize and manipulate. Individuals frequently enjoyed talking, sometimes enemies, sometimes adversaries, sometimes those he valued and cherished; the former could be tools of later means and measures, and the latter could just be to learn, to devote, to dedicate all over again. Kiada’s unraveled history explained much of who she was, who she’d become, the things he’d missed while beginning a second life – and he appreciated that she’d bothered to tell him at all. “Thank you for recounting it for me,” and the slow smile slid across his mouth again; because it couldn’t have been easy, to live and dive and be swallowed, consumed, by the layers and lacquer once more. He had multiple lines, patterns, and endeavors to revisit, multiple ghosts and phantoms, wraiths that never really left. The mountains – it called in his heart and stirred those savage, nefarious chambers, pulsing, beating, unwinding, his gaze following the streaks of lantern lights and midnight oils, as if the summits would suddenly rise out of the canopies and boughs. “I was told they were in Safrin’s books,” a map; and he hoped it was true, that somewhere far beyond these borders were summits gesturing to the heavens, treacherous and mesmerizing, home away from home. “One day, we can see them again.” It was a heavy, heady promise, but no more overbearing or overwhelming than the rest he wielded, shouldered, and burdened. Deimos didn’t cover his snort at her next intonation, making sure she could see the lengthy eyeroll that followed. “I did not have many.” He quirked a brow but then said naught more, suddenly filtering through the lives scattered from the Basin valleys and pinnacles; D’art, their poisons master, Mauja, an enigma, Psyche, the asp, Huyana, a portrait in the rain, Thranduil, thief and spy and trickster; and perhaps there were more, more, more, too far gone and deep rooted, left to his dreams and nightmares. He hadn’t been among the list of anyone’s favorites. Then her last reverberation lingered, and he snatched, caught at it, pondered and mulled for a time, stretched out the silence to the wild, nocturnal eaves. “You have the chance to learn and grow from it. Sometimes we pay for those opportunities.” The sanction of his piercing gaze wandered straight back to her, serious, determined, a conviction in his fortifications. “I trust you will not waste it.” Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime