no plan survives

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The General could hear the lengthy sigh through the shell’s enchantments and incantations, might’ve understood the gesture had he simply not wandered from problem to problem, with little time in between to think, maroon, or harpoon his ruminations into anything other than fixing and solving. The past few days had been a constant surge of calamity after calamity, a ripe expectation throughout LongNight, but he’d allow himself the quiet, the suffering, the melancholy to permeate and infuse his senses until after, when his Machiavellian mind could ease and the acrimony could surge, when the apprehension ceased, when reality pierced and lacerated. He was stuck in the realm of constant movement and motion; after was something for later, something for the future, something he promised they’d somehow manage to crawl, stumble, or falter their way towards. Perhaps it was more of his heartlessness, more of the detachment, more of the things he wasn’t close to – he’d allowed Wessex, Phoebe, or whoever else was involved with the children to figure things out amongst and amidst themselves. “Likewise. Thank you,” he offered back, grateful for the information, noting they’d probably have to do this again before the eternal evenings were through. “Until later. Keep safe.” As much as they could – which sounded ridiculous, really, on the scale of things that had already occurred or were due to escalate. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace