fracture patterns

Deimos He shrugged at the inclination of spooky thoughts; it could’ve carved and caved worse, but he kept the rest of the speculations to himself. His wandering brought him closer to another puddle, and in it he could see his father beckoning a band of small children, hands ignited by fire, out in the twilight, heralding them by the waves, likely off to some other foolish, ridiculous orchestration. His jaw clenched and eyes fell further, back to roots, back to things less painful, but also less understood. Prophecies and speculations; fortune tellers without their talents truly embedded and infused. He raised his eyes back to Ronin, considered, arching a brow, and on the final statement, nodded. They were alike in those ways – soldier formations, sovereignties they likely didn’t want, placed into positions bristling, grating on their semblances – Deimos was only comfortable now, at helms of things that were familiar. A place to sculpt, to sketch, to outline, to refract and reflect on motions that were echoes of his sentiments, and no one else’s. “That will always be my preference.” Not under fate’s thumb: following his own wayward, thorn-lined path, capable of saying his actions weren’t dictated by anything, anyone, but his own damned soul. Out of sight and out of mind Make everything alright So let the sky and sea collide Just not in our lifetime