[seasonal event] arise from the dust

Deimos Deimos snorted as she managed to find her way to the ground once more, the statement likely true, and he had no means to refute it. Because that’s what he’d been trying to do from the very beginning, since crowns had been thrown upon his head, since he’d taken up mantles and thrones and scepters, since he’d had to be more than military might and oblivion. The Lord of the Basin had fought with every minute, complex, or malicious motion in his body, attempting to protect, to guard, to hasten danger away from those beneath his wake, his prowess, his power; and old habits, despite lifetimes separating the Reaper, the Sword, never quite died. There he’d been a monster, breaking down ramparts and fortifications, breathing demise in every inch of his form, of his existence, until the day he breathed his last. Here, he wasn’t quite sure. His gaze drifted back over to her, the arch in his brow returned, the smirk clambering back along his mouth, even amidst the ridiculous amount of mud clinging to his face, clothes, and everywhere in between. “I try not to.” Was all he could derive and answer, quip in return, because she’d known. She’d always known. Then he leaned back, arms stretched out behind him, glance lifted briefly to the sky, permitting them a chance to catch their breath before some other ridiculous thing occurred. It seemed to saunter back to the alpine flowers they’d planted though, still alive, still whole, still well, despite the antics, the mischief, coiled and unfurled around them. “What is the first thing you want to do when we reach the mountains?” The question reeled from his mouth with convictions, with rich, absolute certainty, that they would touch the tangible summits, the unattainable peaks from pictures and portals, its call, its pull, far too strong. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime