who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos wasn’t a beast known for great, grand revelations of his skills or prowess. He permitted actions and reverberations to do the talking for him – oeuvres on their own, best left to devices of capability or flaws. He had the latter in spades, and his lack of discourse and discussion was a pivotal point in a majority of them, but at Remi’s gentle, quiet insistence, he pondered how to tell it. With Amalia, he’d simply flown, with Kiada, he’d been split apart by the notion of keeping secrets from her, and then, along the Spire with its planted roses, he simply hadn’t said anything at all, to anyone involved. It could’ve been preamble or preludes, had they’d had opportunities to discuss or say anything at all – but danger and treachery struck too quickly, and there’d been no time for reeling into easygoing airs, alterations, or adaptations of Swords. Strung together by silence for too long, he inhaled sharply, suddenly reserved, diffident, and hesitant again. Perhaps he shouldn’t have brought it up. Perhaps he should’ve kept it tucked away and hidden, where the rest of the world couldn’t find it, couldn’t find him.
Because that’s how he’d played the vast lines and scenes; furtive, shadowed, cloak and daggers, streamlined for desolation and isolation.
And for all their efforts, for all their acceptance and tolerance of him, was it fair to fade back into the scenery? It was comfortable. It was familiar. But it wasn’t moving forward. It wasn’t progressing. It wasn’t anything at all but fault lines and fissures, the rut he’d always moored and mired himself within.
“It might be best to show, rather than tell.” Resolution made, he swallowed down the barbs and nettles threatening to suffocate him – and because it was Remi, he shifted easily from man to eagle, a ruffling of feathers and talons scraping against wooden chairs, golden plumage extended for a few moments, outstretched wings and all their proud, incandescent prowess. He didn’t know if Remi could even see the morphing, the newfound glory, now that he thought about it – and with some sinking feeling maneuvering in his form again, he aligned himself straight back into man once more. “It has taken some getting used to,” he murmured, uncertain on how to proceed any longer. “But I relish the freedom.” Perhaps the alchemist would understand, and he shrugged, striving to harpoon himself away from the attention he’d wrought.
More discussions about Long Night could, and would distract and detract anyway. The notions of leaving those out amongst demons had crossed his mind, another notion to bring to the Wraith. “Last year was a mess,” he agreed. How many times had the door rattled on its hinges, and they had no idea whether to further secure the threshold or leave it wide open? How many had been sent to their deaths because of the guards inside, uncertain of the unknown? “I thought about creating some way for us to look out, through the doors. To see if we can identify friend or foe.” So others wouldn’t be tricked or deceived by monsters, or left to be consumed, devoured, by the very creatures they ran from.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
