DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
The fields in winter were a sight to see – but perhaps only to those accustomed to the cold, to the stark, rancorous desolation, to the chill, to the rapacious edges of an endless vestige riddled in snow. He breathed in its ether, in the rush of nonchalance, in the harsh depravity of its ice, its rime, its machinations, and thought of it as relief; no pestilence in sight, no ramparts to impart, no Long Night indulgences there and ready to burn. The only thing that could’ve been better might’ve been the sights of mountains themselves, or the scattered lights of the aurora, glistening, blending, highlighting segments of glaciers and walls; the memories bounded, flickered, and never quite faded, alive and well in his monolithic presence. Perhaps that was where they’d stay, incapable of extending their reaches and entanglements any further – gone, gone, gone, the promise of precipices too much to bear. He sighed, and maneuvered forward, bag over his shoulder, gathering little remnants of kindling thrust and discarded on the border, and placing them within the sack. Reminiscing wouldn’t prepare them for anything except wasted time, but this season had all the elements of yesteryear, even the disasters, even the ruins, were like siren wails and triumphant calls, unearthing spectacles he thought lost, dimmed, gone. The bitter, Siberian void was in his bones, collected and nuanced and sculpted within marrow, tissue, and flesh; and he never could quite part with it. Even when there were ghosts, even when there were trappings, even when he should’ve been committing to anything else – his eyes took in the atmosphere, the sun pressing across ivory, the rush of wind over long stalks since-perished in the cold, and strived for something; action, motions, and maneuvers, in the tenuous grasp of worlds they no longer had.
Unite and spread the heart apart
