DEIMOS
Wary was not the same as guarded, and guarded was not the same as ready; for anything, everything, calculating enmity, hostility, and acrimony at any instance of interactions with strangers, no matter the name, no matter the face. He was a warrior through and through, a predator, a carnivore, a beast who carved up adversaries, foes, and enemies because he protected, because he shielded, because it was all he’d done for a multitude of his lives. It wasn’t fear, so much as the beckoning unknown, if he would have to assault and siege, if he would have to remain the rampart, the bulwark, the breathing weapon.
But then there were scars shown, and his gaze flicked away from the marks, for he had plenty as well, understood there were layers to those intervals, stories for each line, pathways carved into skin and flesh. “Very well,” he uttered, as if to appease Loren, as if to ensure he understood only the barest brush of Launcelyn underpinnings, that there were more dastardly deeds in the background, that worlds and families were not always so wonderful. What did you do in return? he wanted to ask; if there were series of vengeful cycles in their blood, in their noble houses, if anyone ever dared to raise a hand back at the Merciless, or if she merely continued growing in power, in prestige, in menace.
But he didn’t – for it was not his business, and some portion of prying meant he’d gain some in rebuttal.
The Reaper could feel a narrowing of Loren’s gaze back on him, studied upon, his turn to be speculated against. It was a fair assessment, eye for an eye, inquiry for inquiry. “I do.” He thought about leaving the answer there, just to be an irritating, nonchalant, apathetic jerk, but ghosted a smile on the bridges of enduring silence, before giving in. “Life drain and creation.” He didn’t say the whims or malicious exploits of their powers, or the altering schisms and catalysts they brandished: how one had always been in his blood, how the other had only been signified here, in this land, in this realm, for reasons and multitudes he couldn’t fathom.
Then there were memories, and Deimos was half-content to consider his not of that particular realm – not yearning to traverse down notations of suffering again, tragedy upon tragedy upon tragedy, failure and failure and failure, barring enough scars to last lifetimes. It didn’t answer his question though; because these visions couldn’t possibly be past or present or anything but some sort of nonsense. He could’ve surmounted them as parts of Isilme – with his father’s fire, with his mother’s water, but then the feathers made no sense. The beast took an opportunity, leaning over another one, eyes catching the slide of paws, dark and black and brutal, before they disappeared off to the side, glimmers of pretenses and naught. “Perhaps it is different for everyone then,” he shrugged, either tired of the calculations or assuming it was another lost cause, no one out in the woods to explain the formations to them.
But then there were scars shown, and his gaze flicked away from the marks, for he had plenty as well, understood there were layers to those intervals, stories for each line, pathways carved into skin and flesh. “Very well,” he uttered, as if to appease Loren, as if to ensure he understood only the barest brush of Launcelyn underpinnings, that there were more dastardly deeds in the background, that worlds and families were not always so wonderful. What did you do in return? he wanted to ask; if there were series of vengeful cycles in their blood, in their noble houses, if anyone ever dared to raise a hand back at the Merciless, or if she merely continued growing in power, in prestige, in menace.
But he didn’t – for it was not his business, and some portion of prying meant he’d gain some in rebuttal.
The Reaper could feel a narrowing of Loren’s gaze back on him, studied upon, his turn to be speculated against. It was a fair assessment, eye for an eye, inquiry for inquiry. “I do.” He thought about leaving the answer there, just to be an irritating, nonchalant, apathetic jerk, but ghosted a smile on the bridges of enduring silence, before giving in. “Life drain and creation.” He didn’t say the whims or malicious exploits of their powers, or the altering schisms and catalysts they brandished: how one had always been in his blood, how the other had only been signified here, in this land, in this realm, for reasons and multitudes he couldn’t fathom.
Then there were memories, and Deimos was half-content to consider his not of that particular realm – not yearning to traverse down notations of suffering again, tragedy upon tragedy upon tragedy, failure and failure and failure, barring enough scars to last lifetimes. It didn’t answer his question though; because these visions couldn’t possibly be past or present or anything but some sort of nonsense. He could’ve surmounted them as parts of Isilme – with his father’s fire, with his mother’s water, but then the feathers made no sense. The beast took an opportunity, leaning over another one, eyes catching the slide of paws, dark and black and brutal, before they disappeared off to the side, glimmers of pretenses and naught. “Perhaps it is different for everyone then,” he shrugged, either tired of the calculations or assuming it was another lost cause, no one out in the woods to explain the formations to them.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
