DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
Sullen, morose, straight back into melancholy – the brief intervals of happiness railroaded, forgotten, by the trembling nuances of his hands, his breaths, a shudder in the periphery. He spent a majority of the morning along the inward contortions of the house, wood in his hands, shaping and refining ramps alongside the stairs, for when, for when – His teeth clenched and mouth snapped shut upon the infernal scream he wanted to unfurl and unleash, consuming it down into his chest, burrowed and buried behind ashes, cinders, and the devouring unknown. There was half an instant where he thought about curling into a corner and simply forgoing everything, or drinking himself into nothingness, but Zuriel’s lingering movements around his form ensured he’d be doing no such thing – as much a guardian as a pest.
Eventually the Sword roamed out back, constructing much the same, the porch ramped off, the sound of the hammer in his hands ricocheting, the feeling of its weight smashing into nails somewhat satisfying (but not enough; the anthem, the theme, the staccato bridge of his life currently). Maybe no one would see him shatter out here. Maybe no one would come by. Maybe everyone would stay away and just let him brood, sulk, and quietly fall apart. Zuriel snorted and he hung his head.
Sweat clinging to his brow, muscles not worn but warmed, he picked up his stack of timber and maneuvered out front, only for Zuriel’s ears to prick, the call of his name blasting from entryways and apertures. He narrowed his eyes and advanced, arms and hands full, something threatening and overwhelming in his gut, afraid, uncertain, apprehensive that something else had occurred, and he wasn’t sure he could take much more. He maneuvered, swift and keen, long limbs taking colossal strides until he was there, an unattainable, sharpened presence, ready to fight, ready to surge, ready to collapse – advancing upon the familiar form, quietly dropping the timber at his feet, where he’d start on another ramp beside the steps. “Sunjata,” a rumble in the chest of the General, and then almost uncertain what to ask, what to face, his piercing eyes (ghosts, specters, and wraiths on their fringes, the dread clambering across their surface). His gaze traced over horns, arching a brow. “Something you need?”
Unite and spread the heart apart
