DEIMOS
He listened – a familiar custom, wrought from days spent calculating and pondering duplicitous, seething, or tormenting efforts. It wasn’t the same now; he was just an outlet, a catalyst she could instill memories and bygones upon, and much like a curious scholar, he tilted his head, took everything she had to offer. He wasn’t surprised at all to hear she yearned to rip him to shreds (because that was Kiada, through and through, pieces of shrapnel and fire and not requiring much ignition). The Reaper expected it, just as the world likely predicted him to safeguard or wound, brutalize, terrorize or defend. He hadn’t known the other twin well, Kianzo, furious on his sister’s behalf, and not shocked to hear Ashamin had attempted to be the responsible adult in the ether, even if he likely hadn’t been much older than the rest of the mischievous cluster. At some point, things must have turned – the sparks and instigation flickering off into other fathoms and contortions.
He watched as she withdrew something from her pocket, and he stood as a monolith, a portion of marble and stone, shield and sword in the evening throngs, eyes lifting only for a few moments at a time, before his attention deviated back to her. The boy had made something, bronze, a contortion instilled from his own frame and figure, enchantments riddled along his veins, for the Basin had always proffered cloth from its crafters (strikingly odd; even by Deimos’s standards, bartering with other kingdoms for metal or glass). Perhaps what he’d spoken to the King had been undoubtedly true – eternally capable in his creating abilities.
Fire magic – he recalled the shapes, the twists and turns of her animals, shaping the roots of her persona, her temperament, the ridges informing everyone and everything when to steer clear; warnings brandished along embers, ashes, and coals. He wondered where all that had gone now, if it was lost along portals and beacons, chased away by ghosts, and if she missed the burning remnants at all.
He took the charm when she offered, gazing at the pinnacles of skill, artistry, and competence, watching lights flicker off the alloys. The beast held it with a certain reverence, careful, attentive, mindful of all the things it embodied. “He was right,” his gaze descending upon hers – incredibly talented in his engineering wiles. Then he gave it back, diligent and scrupulous, meticulous in his approach. Deimos didn’t ask about the note, felt it was likely something for her and her alone.
He watched as she withdrew something from her pocket, and he stood as a monolith, a portion of marble and stone, shield and sword in the evening throngs, eyes lifting only for a few moments at a time, before his attention deviated back to her. The boy had made something, bronze, a contortion instilled from his own frame and figure, enchantments riddled along his veins, for the Basin had always proffered cloth from its crafters (strikingly odd; even by Deimos’s standards, bartering with other kingdoms for metal or glass). Perhaps what he’d spoken to the King had been undoubtedly true – eternally capable in his creating abilities.
Fire magic – he recalled the shapes, the twists and turns of her animals, shaping the roots of her persona, her temperament, the ridges informing everyone and everything when to steer clear; warnings brandished along embers, ashes, and coals. He wondered where all that had gone now, if it was lost along portals and beacons, chased away by ghosts, and if she missed the burning remnants at all.
He took the charm when she offered, gazing at the pinnacles of skill, artistry, and competence, watching lights flicker off the alloys. The beast held it with a certain reverence, careful, attentive, mindful of all the things it embodied. “He was right,” his gaze descending upon hers – incredibly talented in his engineering wiles. Then he gave it back, diligent and scrupulous, meticulous in his approach. Deimos didn’t ask about the note, felt it was likely something for her and her alone.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
