DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
If you say so echoed, and his brows furrowed, as if a dare for more arguments and refrains. He wondered if the youth wanted advice at all, if he was tempted to merely quarrel with whatever sagacity was bestowed upon him – but then there were sighs, and he seemed to either accept the notions, or found no use in alleging further claims. Perhaps that was fine too, since Deimos would likely have proceeded in the same venue.The next question though claimed an arch of his brow, a further leaning back into the table, supporting his weight while he processed, mused, and pondered. He could only guess or surmise what Oliver had experienced – several seasons and cycles of Caido could warrant an assemblage of trauma, successes, failures, triumphs, and everything else scattered in between. His own had been a set of meager glory and embittered entanglements, family found, loved, and cherished, and power, devastation, and ruin battering at his fringes. The depths of his gaze peeled away from Oliver and onto the walls, onto the maps, onto the pieces and portions of this world they’d helped him create, orchestrate, to defend – and then anything else he’d learned over these particles and regions, from portals, to barriers falling, to warnings listed, to falling sovereignties. Had it only been a year? Eventually, his fathoms returned to the younger man. “Be prepared to listen, learn, and grow from your mistakes. Because you will make more, and so will the rest of us. But if you refuse to do anything about it, then nothing will change.” And the revolutions would continue, on and on and on – if they all kept their heads buried in the sand.
