who we are and all that we're trying to be
Deimos would have liked to believe himself an unreachable, unattainable portion of granite or marble, a slate of carved monstrosities and behemoth vows, incapable of being wrought or torn apart by things so meager as emotions. Except this land had pierced all the ramparts he’d ever hoisted or built, and before he’d ever realized it, more than one person had managed to siege into the walls. Family, friends, cherished ones, beloved individuals – while still few and far between – had managed to sequester themselves into his withered, blackened heart. The Reaper would’ve seen them as vulnerabilities, weaknesses, and flaws, a driving point to shatter him with, a blade to finally break and tear apart a formidable foe. But here, the Sword found acceptance, tolerance, for his few words, for his tenacious, stubborn complexities, for his need to safeguard and obliterate in one fell swoop. In that same turn though, the moment something splintered or fragmented, fractured or broke, within that tiny sanction and sanctuary they’d arched around him, the pain and anguish soon followed.
He swallowed it down, gifted in utter nonchalance, a silent, stalking preamble in the intertwining of twigs and leaves. Nose to the ground, he continued following Adam, who might’ve discovered something there, and as the snake pushed its way through, a massive paw came to the forefront, offering to dig into the soil.
The conversation took an intriguing turn, and he tilted his tiger skull in a degree of curiosity and pondering. He’d never been told that he didn’t do anything by halves; though perhaps it’d always been such a way. Assaults, rampaging, slipping into vehemence and violence as if it were common-place, instinctual persistence and precision. Training is training with an almost perceptible shrug. Sunbathing, basking in the glow of the solar rays, seemed like an unachievable thing – not now, not when there were too many other things at stake, responsibilities and tasks mounting and weighing, scalding and persisting. In another time, in another place, he might have a chance to do more than breathe. Relaxing had never been his strong suit anyway. Sounds nice he proffered instead, claws pending to clutch at loam and loosen granules. Including dropping a bucket, for pure amusement purposes.
As for the entire myth and charade, he could only shrug again, a ripple of feline shoulders. Last year it was a way to mingle and understand the Fae. Perhaps we are just continuing the tradition now. Why they did anything at all could always be inquired and asked – but the slightest amount of apprehension curled its way through his being at the notion of some other festivities bound to be annihilated or destroyed, simply because of Fiat Lux’s demise.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
