DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
Her words punctured somewhere in the midst of his chest – and perhaps it was good that she couldn’t see the slightest widening of his eyes, the surprised, bewildered expression brewing over his face, uncertain what to do, what to say. Perhaps that had been her inclination, to thwart and shock, to peel away lacquer, layer, and enamel, an effect to render his reserve and nonchalance into the midst for half a second more; he breathed, eased the tension in his shoulders, and fought the statement. “You would find a way,” with or without him, as she’d always done, in the depths of the cold tundra air, or in the wake of mountainous upheavals, departures, demises, Rexanna the Penumbra ever capable of adapting. Deimos wasn’t a necessity, not for anyone, not for anything, just one more calculating demon and infidel in the midst of many, a monster in the multitude. But then they were ready, and the thoughts had to slink back into his mind, into his soul, for later, later, later (or never; because then he might be forced to believe her statement was true, and habits, routines, told him to fight, to defy, to unravel). He said naught along her reels of excitement, but understood the notions, the slide of enthusiasm and eagerness; the worm was a necessity for new eyes, for the ability to see once more. At her notion, his hands went down along the net, palms tucking over and around the worm, felt it thrashing, annoyed and irritated again at its inability to escape. “Hold it still,” he instructed, quietly, gently, not so much a command but an indication of prowess, reaching upwards, then over, and finally intending to descend along the top of the tank, where he could unfurl the netting and release it into the vessel.
