Hang hallowed halos

Deimos The intention hadn’t been to mire the conversation down, away from the frivolities, the halcyon moments, so few and so far in between everything else. There’d never been a very careful balance along the repose, sanctuaries, and serenity; always a fine line, narrowed down to perils and precarious attributes, some he could simply rattle off his tongue now, with the weight distributed from shoulder to shoulder, person to person. Deimos probably should’ve sunk into the peace and let it remain, let it live, instead of drowning, suffocating, and choking it beneath the fathoms and depths of the other treacheries and pending disasters. He could’ve have merely allow it to exist, warm and indulgent, beatific without the quandaries, without the footfalls, without the tribulations nettled and thorned into their sides. But he’d ruined it, like so many other things (an emblem, a banner, of destruction and strife; waving his fiendish flags as he glided across the earth, savage and savage again, cold and hostile, a belligerent piece of the scenery). He’d taken the opportunity, afraid (and when had he become so afraid? When loss started to hold meaning? When broken bodies could’ve been his own people, his own brethren, his own comrades? When he dug graves for the masses who’d laughed and joked beside him the evening before?) the chance would billow away, that the instance would recoil, and he wouldn’t be able to summon the strength to deliver it again. After all, he might not come back. It was a distinct possibility, when he continued running into danger, when he inclined towards havoc, when he twisted along the boundaries and fringes of menace. He’d gone there before, when it was unknown, when it was mysterious and enigmatic, and now he willingly chased into the ramparts because of what lurked inside. The warrior was confident in his abilities, knew and understood his comrades were capable beings too – but there were always moments stark and desolate, vivid and isolated; where blood ceased, where breathing stopped, where upheaval and vehemence sang, and it wasn’t the same chords he was used to. At some point, his luck would run out. At some point, his frame, his figure would have enough. It already had before. She reached out and he wasn’t sure what to do or how to respond; not a cretin of comfort by any means, and less likely to receive the gestures. He sighed again, content that she was strong and stalwart, and maybe he’d taught her something about it after all those years in the winter, in the chill, in the tough, enduring world. He’d just have to remember those pieces too. He raised his hand to hers, fingers lightly squeezing, before letting go; apprehensive to get too lost in the agony, in the anguish, hoping it was all for naught. Her promise was a blessing though, a loose end tied and knotted. “Thank you,” he proffered and extended, steps heavier as they came closer and closer to unwinding paths and apertures. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime